At lunch the first day of their visit one of the hearty men of the shoulder-thumping type came by, his clothes seemed markedly western; well made.

“Well, Dave, you ol’ son-of-a-gun, you here again, I hear Alaska’s coming up, what you trying to get your big paws on now, ain’t you got enough!”

“Look who’s talking! Sit down, sit down. You know Mrs. Husack and Dina here, and my son Bay. And this is Czar Kennedy’s girl—Congressman Doorpost, Chris. Watch out for him.”

The Senator’s eyes bulged. His mouth fell open. He stared at Chris. “Well, the old reprobate! Say!”

Then something in the face of the older man, and the fresh sparkling look of the young girl, her pretty manner as she acknowledged the introduction, caused him to stop, fumbling for words.

Bayard Husack laughed suddenly, a short bark of laughter, and mirthless. His manner became a blend of urbanity and stiffness.

“Miss Storm is Czar Kennedy’s granddaughter. Perhaps you know him.”

“Why sure, sure. Happy to meet you. Please remember me kindly to your Grandpaw, I’ve known him for years. Well, say—uh—nice to see you all.” He fumbled away from the table.

“You certainly pulled a honey that time, Dad. If that gets around, Chris will not only be the toast of Seattle but of Washington, New York, Chicago, and all points west.”

In the three days of their stay in Washington Chris tried not to complain about the heat and the breathlessness. “I find myself trying not to breathe,” she said to Bay. “I feel exactly as if I were walking under water.”

“That’s practically what you’re doing, considering the humidity in this town. And you’re in over your head in a lot of other ways too—I hope.”

She had showered Baranof with post cards of the White House, the Capitol, Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, the Senate, the Mint. But to Thor and to Czar and Bridie and the Barnetts she sent telegrams.

ALASKA BILL COMING UP SEVENTEENTH AM HERE EVERYTHING WONDERFUL HARDLY WAIT WILL TELEGRAPH YOU RESULT LOVE

CHRISTINE

They sat in the first row of the visitors’ gallery—she and Bay and Dina and Louise and Dave. To the others the imposing room, the men seated like outsize schoolboys at desks, was not a novel sight, but to Christine it was breath-taking, it was dramatic, it was history. She sat leaning well forward, her eyes were shining, enormous. She seemed almost as though poised in flight. Bay thought, suddenly, that if the Winged Victory at the top of the Louvre stairway had been seated instead of standing she would have looked like that—the swell of the young breasts, the line of the throat, the head set so well upon it, the slimness of her long waist, the way her thick blond hair curved away from the forehead.

“When are they going to bring it up, Uncle Dave?”

“Any minute now.”

Bay said, “Don’t expect too much. You’re here to see Washington, not for Alaska politics. Take it easy.”