He led her right to the edge of the ridge, so that the dunes piled up at their feet and the ocean spread wide. A couple of surfers met the waves that tumbled over and crashed into the continent.

“That,” he said.

“That what?”

“That’s what I want to do.”

For an instant, she doubted him. She glanced sideways at his profile, which reminded her of a bird, the oceangoing kind, except that it was colored by the gold of the melting sun. Then she understood. “You mean Hawai’i again?”

“Farther than that.”

“Australia?”

He nodded. “California to Sydney.”

“You’d have to stop along the way.”

“Yes, of course. I’ve got it all mapped out. All I need is the airplane and the dough.”

“How do you get your hands on those?”

“Why do you think I keep flying stunts, Foster? Take up thrill seekers at five bucks each? Teach all those dumb accountants which way is up?” He set the kitten into the dune grass and lit a cigarette. “I’ve been testing Rofrano’s new ship. It’s just what I need. I mean, it needs some modifications, but it’s the right ship, all right. The only problem is, it’s going to cost thirty-five thousand dollars. Then you need the fuel and the equipment and all the permissions. So I need a sponsor.”

“You mean somebody like George Morrow.”

“Yes,” he said slowly. “Somebody like Morrow.”

“You know, I’d have thought Morrow would jump at the chance. You’re a national hero, aren’t you? He said it himself, it’s the publicity he wants, that money follows publicity.”

“But it’s got to be the right kind of publicity,” he said. “I didn’t make it to Hawai’i. I washed up. Anyway, the public wants something new. That’s what Morrow said to me, anyway.”

Together they stared at the settling sun. Irene’s palms were damp. She knotted her fingers together.

“I guess your wife will be wanting you home,” she said.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the ocean, crashing below them. A couple of screeches from a diving seagull. When Sam finally spoke, he seemed to pick the words with care.

“My wife lives up in Oakland. She hates Los Angeles.”

“Oh.”

“It’s what she wants.”

“Well, what do you want?”

Sam finished his cigarette, dropped it in the sand, and turned to her. “I want to see more of my daughter, I guess.”