Mrs. Mallory wasn’t looking at Irene any longer; she gazed serenely across the assembled reporters and took up her daughter’s hand again. She spoke as if reciting from a prepared script, which probably she was: “I am grateful that my husband has secured the assistance of such a single-minded professional for his endeavor. I know Miss Foster understands how much Pixie and I depend on her skill and endurance. Our very hearts and lives are at stake.”

“Believe me,” said Irene, “so are mine.”

More laughter.

“All right, all right,” said Sam. “I think it’s about time we gave you gentlemen the dope on what this bird can do. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but our mechanics have been busy fueling the plane while we’ve been shooting the breeze out here. Our equipment’s aboard, ready to go. Miss Foster? Do feel like heading up in the air and taking a turn above Los Angeles?”

“I certainly do, Mr. Mallory. I couldn’t be readier.”

Sam turned to his wife and kissed her good-bye—more flashbulbs—and then bent to lift Pixie in his arms. Sam’s daughter had a round face and a light sprinkle of freckles across her nose, like any cherub. She put her small arms around her daddy’s neck and cuddled his face against hers, and how those photographers loved her for it! Sam whispered something in her ear, and she nodded her bright blond head. Irene turned away when her eyes started to prickle.

There at her elbow she found Sophie, who enveloped her in a hug.

“Safe flight, my dear one. Where’s your father?”

“Still inside the cafeteria, I think.” Irene reached into the inside pocket of her tunic. “Here. Give him this. I meant to mail it, but since he’s here in person . . .”

Sophie took the envelope. “You’d better hurry inside that airplane, then. Before he reads it.”

“I will.” Irene turned to Sam, who was showing Pixie how to wave to the photographers. “Are you going to quit mugging for those cameras and get us in the air, or what?”

The crowd laughed. One of the photographers called out, “Aw, come on, Miss Foster. How about one of the two of you?”

Irene checked her watch—eleven fifty-six—and lifted her chin to judge the distance to the cafeteria. “Just a minute or two, I guess.”