It made Irene think of her own marriage, which took place in the town clerk’s office, and how she and George had flown away on their honeymoon from Rofrano’s Airfield in Irene’s airplane, while half the city’s press waved them off. Irene had been furious at this publicity stunt and George had promised not to do anything like that again without asking her first. They had spent their wedding night in Yosemite and started a lecture tour the next day, flying together from city to city to make the most of the newspaper coverage, and Irene had been so busy with flying and speeches and George had been so busy with the logistics and the glad-handing that they were bemused to realize, on the sixth day of the tour, that they hadn’t yet consummated the union.

After the Rofranos left, Irene made her excuses and went to bed with the newspaper. She read the article about Sam three times and learned that the accident had occurred on landing, just as hers had, although the cause could not yet be determined. The engine had gone up in flame and Sam had been burned, but not seriously because they had been able to pull him free within minutes of the crash. He was unconscious but had woken up in the ambulance. He remained at the hospital in a serious condition. That was all, except that it seemed he was now seeing some other film actress, a brunette, who gave a tearful statement to the press before going to the hospital to comfort him. Irene set the newspaper aside and reached for the lamp, just as George walked in, removing his necktie. He took off his jacket too and came to sit on Irene’s bed in his shirtsleeves. He laid his hand on her leg.

“I thought you’d gone to sleep by now,” he said.

“I was reading about Sam.”

“Terrible thing. We’ll send flowers.”

“Any news about Sophie?”

“Not yet.” He shook his head and whistled. “Five kids. That’s something. A real handful. I guess it’s a good thing you’re not the maternal type.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Who says I’m not the maternal type?”

“You?” He laughed. “Anyway, you don’t have the time for babies. You’re Irene Foster, remember? You’re leaving on a lecture tour in less than two weeks, and after that it’s back to flying. Planning the big one, that’s next. We’ve been planning that for years, the solo circumnavigation.”

Irene sat up. “What if I’m sick of it all, George? The whole circus. The lectures and the derbies and the stunt flights.”