But all that is history. My point is this. As you might have deduced already, I’m fascinated by the subject of sex in general, and infidelity in particular, and have been ever since my father deserted my mother for another woman. In my one year of college, I studied some anthropology and some psychology in an attempt to understand this concept of monogamy and why most human beings will stake their all on one mate, will find themselves cruelly disappointed when that mate proves untrue, when most animals will happily mate with whomever they want. When a stallion, for example, will impregnate every mare in the herd because he has won the right to deposit his superior seed wherever he sees fit, and nobody blames him for it. He’s a stallion, for God’s sake.

Then I parted ways with college, as you know, and pursued my studies elsewhere, but when the fate of Samuel Mallory began to intrigue me, when I decided I wanted to learn more about this fascinating public figure, I couldn’t help searching for clues about his relationship with Irene Foster. If you plunder the newspaper archives for all the articles and interviews covering the Flying Lovebirds’ rescue from Howland Island—and there are many, believe me—you’ll find that neither Foster nor Mallory lets drop a single hint about the nature of their personal relationship, and yet it stands to reason that a healthy, attractive, red-blooded male would naturally want to fuck a healthy, attractive, red-blooded female, if they were given a chance like Howland, a chance in a million. Stands to reason Mallory would forsake the forsaking of all others and betray his wife; stands to reason Foster would be unable to resist a strapping young demigod like that.

But I want to hear it from her mouth. I want to hear from Lindquist what they did, and when, and how often, and whether they gave a damn about poor Mrs. Mallory, left at home with that innocent towheaded tot. I want a real answer. Because nobody’s going to read a book about Sam Mallory unless that answer lies inside, right?

Only Lindquist won’t answer the question.

She points to her ears. “Can’t hear you so well with this racket. We’ll talk after we land.”

“How long will that be?”

“Not long. It’s only about thirty miles away. I’ll have us there in a jiffy.”