He stared at her. His hand remained on her leg, just above the knee. He had unbuttoned his shirt an inch or two, and unlike Sam he looked fresh and unlined, enthusiastic for life. George had never minded being Mr. Irene Foster. Why, he’d relished it! A few days after the wedding, when the Los Angeles Times had referred to Irene as Mrs. George Morrow, he had telephoned the editor personally and corrected him. Irene would be keeping her name. She would be keeping her career. She’d gotten married, that was all, and her new husband had thrown himself into the business of burnishing her image, arranging her lecture tours and her flying schedule, her books and articles, her promotional contracts, her everything.

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you mean,” he said slowly.

“I don’t know. I’ve just been thinking I want a break, that’s all. I’m getting too old to be spending every night in a new city. What does it mean? What am I doing here?”

“You’re inspiring a generation of American girls, that’s what.”

“Am I? You’ve seen the crowds, what’s left of them. Aviation’s old news. All the frontiers have been conquered. The future lies the other way. Making flying ordinary, as commonplace as driving an automobile or riding a bus.”

“You’ve already tried starting an airline. That was an expensive bust, as I recall.”

“Well, we could try again, with a new team.”

He sprang from the bed and started to pace. “But not yet. Let’s get through this lecture tour first. I’m headed out to New York tomorrow, drum up some publicity—”

“Oh, George, no!”

“I’ve got to, Irene.” He unslung his suspenders and unbuttoned his shirt. “I don’t think we’ve sold a quarter of the tickets. Something’s missing. We need something fresh, we need to do something to get everyone’s attention back. We had the derby, and then you crashed out—”

“Crackups happen, George. It’s part of the business.”

“Well, the timing wasn’t the greatest.”

“Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe I should be quitting that game. Half my friends are dead or maimed. Sam’s going to get himself killed any minute—”

“His own damned fault. That fellow wants to get killed, if you ask me.”

“And why is that, do you think?” Irene snapped.