Contritely, Haskell and Ross became suddenly almost solemn. “Sorry. You see, Ground Control was a Jewish boy, and what he sent up to Father Gilhooley to repeat after him was the Hebrew Prayer for the Dead.”

The faces of the others remained thoughtful. Christine was frowning. “Did he—did they die?”

“I don’t think so. That was two years ago, and I saw Father Gilhooley last week up in Kotzebue.”

Ross Guildenstern said, “Your story’s a flop, Mead. You just won’t learn.”

“Tell yours,” Mead urged. “At least it isn’t supposed to be funny.”

But he would not. Christine heard it later and remembered it always. So did the others, including Addie. But by that time World War stories were not even back-page news.

It looked almost like a toy, a silver and scarlet toy, standing there on the runway, if any unknowing eye had seen it. But it was Alaska winter night. There in the tiny cockpit Ross Guildenstern took it up thirty-two thousand feet, at which point the plexiglass top blew off as completely as you would chip the top off a soft-boiled egg. With it went his oxygen and the headpiece that was his only connection with the mechanical reception of the world below him and perhaps around him in the air. But almost before that thought could form he had lost consciousness in the rarified atmosphere. Consciousness returned as the plane nose-dived toward the earth. Instinctively he knew he must pull the ship up again into the comparative safety of the faraway sky. The toy was not planned for cruising in a low altitude, the fuel would not last down there. He was safe as long as he could stay high, high.

He pulled the plane up. Up. Get her up get her up get her up. There. Twenty-five thousand. Now again he lost consciousness. Again he awoke as the plane dived. Now, miraculously, below him in darkness, was the almost imperceptible suggestion of what might be Kinkaid Field. No headphone. No connection. Well, there was Kinkaid below him, if it really was Kinkaid and a goddamned miracle anyway even if he couldn’t set the ship down. No chance of setting it down, they must hear him down there, they couldn’t get to him, he might put her down on top of the General’s house for all he knew, right down on Old Bull’s head in bed with that wife of his, they must look funny in bed, at that. Helpless he looked down at what might be Kinkaid Field, no gas; helpless, the unseen faces must be turned up toward him, up there dead or alive in the little silver and scarlet toy that was dropping so swiftly toward the earth.

In the small hut near the runway, Ground Approval Control repeated, “You’re too low! You’re too low!” though Ross could not hear him. Ground Control forced himself to resist the impulse to crouch and hug the floor as the toy seemed to skim the hair of his head.