“Welcome home, darling,” said George. “How’s the arm?”

“The arm’s just fine. I thought I said no press.”

“Just a few fellows. Hardy and Patrick from the Daily Review, Rogers from the Times. Ten minutes, tops.” He kissed her forehead. “Then dinner. You must be starving.”

“More tired than hungry, actually,” said Irene, but George was already replacing his hat, lifting her kit bag, taking her hand. They descended the steps together in a routine George had choreographed so long ago, Irene didn’t have to think. The newsmen gathered around at the foot of the steps and began their questions in the usual way, to which Irene answered in the usual way.

“How’s the arm, Miss Foster?”

“It’s all right.” (Lifting her left arm.) “It’ll be in a sling for a few more days, but there’s no fracture. Nothing to worry about.”

“You must be awfully disappointed, Miss Foster. Would you care to comment on the crash in Fort Worth?”

“I wouldn’t call it a crash, really. We just had a hard landing, that’s all. When a squall moves in just as you’re approaching the airfield, you have to prepare for the worst.”

“With all due respect, Miss Foster, should you have attempted the landing at all, with weather bearing down?”

“It’s a race, Mr. Rogers. Flying the Coast-to-Coast Derby’s a different matter from making an ordinary journey from city to city, carrying passengers. If you want to win, you have to take a chance or two. You can’t let a little weather get in your way.”

“But surely it’s not worth risking your life?”

“Any kind of competitive flying carries an element of risk. That’s why we fly these races, to push the airplanes and the pilots to their utmost, to push back the frontiers of what’s possible, so that the common man can get on an airplane in full confidence that the machine and the captain will get him to his destination in safety and comfort.”