“Did you?” Mrs. Rofrano plucked a piece of chicken from within her sandwich and popped it into her mouth. “I guess Sam spilled the beans about that. Well, it’s still a prototype, but we like it just fine. Of course it would be ideal for Sam.”

“He says it’s too expensive.”

“It is expensive to build a ship like that. Heaps and heaps of money.”

“How much?”

“Thousands. More than he can afford, even with all the exhibition fees and the students and the movie stunts. That’s why he entered that ridiculous pineapple derby last year.”

Irene looked back at Sam, who held a cigarette in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other. She thought how strange it was, to see the living Sam Mallory in front of her, a man of flesh and bone and three dimensions, who ate and drank and spoke and surfed and found small kittens in the sand dunes. He didn’t seem to bear more than a passing resemblance to the Sam Mallory of last summer’s ballyhoo.

“What would he do with an airplane like that?” she asked.

“Oh, he wants to do something big, like all the pilots, a groundbreaking flight somewhere. But the airplane’s just the start of it. You need fuel, you need equipment, you need a million little things. You see that fellow over there, next to my husband? That’s George Morrow. He’s a publisher, crazy for flying. Word has it he’s looking for the next Lindbergh.”

Over the top of her coffee cup, Irene peered at George Morrow. He had dark hair, brushed straight, and slight, lean shoulders under a gray suit jacket and sharp navy tie. He was in serious conversation with Rofrano. He seemed to be illustrating some point with an arrangement of soup crackers on the table between them. His fingers made quick, impatient movements. Irene thought he looked immaculate and intent and nervous, like a man who never took a vacation. At the other end of the table, Sam leaned back in his chair and laughed aloud. He still wore his flight suit, stained with oil and blood; his hair was curling and windblown. The white bandage had the same effect as an eyepatch on a pirate.

“What about Sam?” said Irene. “He’s a tremendous pilot.”

Mrs. Rofrano leaned her chin on her hand, as if she were thinking this over, and then she raised her other hand and waved it. “George! Yoo-hoo!”

Mr. Morrow looked up from the soup crackers and stared in their direction, first at Mrs. Rofrano and then at Irene, squinting a bit.

Mrs. Rofrano moved to the empty chair to her right and patted the one she’d left, between her and Irene. “Come join us, George. I’ve got someone I’d like you to meet.”