Now there remained only the final hop to Casablanca, where George waited for her in a suite at the Anfa Hotel. He had cabled her an hour ago to congratulate her on her safe arrival, her expected victory. The telegram slip lay before her now, on the desk in her hotel room, fluttering a little in the draft from the ceiling fan.

Irene rose from the chair and walked to the balcony, which overlooked some market square. At this early hour, just before dawn, the streets were empty and dark. Still, she sensed the echoes of the noontime bustle, the dust and heat and the smell of manure and hot, spicy meat, and it awakened all her curiosity. That was the trouble with these races, these stunt flights, with barnstorming generally. You sped along from point to point without any regard for what lay between. You cared only about the destination, about reaching some point on a map in the shortest possible time, and never about this vast, fascinating globe you sought to shrink.

At precisely five o’clock, a set of knuckles rapped on the door. Breakfast. Irene was specific about this meal: two eggs poached firm—you did not want to fall sick on a flight like this—served on buttered toast with a large pot of coffee. In some of the more exotic ports of call, these eggs might not necessarily come from what you’d call a chicken, but that was all right with Irene. The nutritional properties of the egg were more important than its lineage. She took the tray from the waiter at the door and handed him a tip, and then she settled to eat. She didn’t rush. She knew this was her last moment of peace until she went aloft.

As she crossed the hotel lobby to meet Mr. Fish, the American ambassador in Egypt who would accompany her to the airport, the desk clerk called her name respectfully.

“Another telegram has just arrived for you, Miss Foster,” he said.

Irene opened the telegram envelope with the tip of her fountain pen, which she kept in her pocket in case of autographs. It was from George.

GALA DINNER TONIGHT FRENCH AND AMERICAN OFFICIALS STOP FLY TO PARIS TOMORROW THEN RETURN HOME SS NORMANDIE 2 MAY STOP POSSIBLE TICKER TAPE PARADE ON ARRIVAL NEW YORK STOP WILL ADVISE STOP LOVE ALWAYS GEORGE

She stuffed the telegram back in its envelope and folded the envelope into her pocket. “Let’s go,” she said to Mr. Fish.