He had won. He had survived. He, Czar Kennedy, was alive. And Thor Storm was dead.

After Thor’s death he had solemnly told her of her grandfather’s Norwegian background. He had told Dave Husack, too, and that whole Seattle crowd, the fat cats. How much blue did they have in their blood? Plenty of yellow, that’s sure, but no blue. The lawyers had opened the box in the Seattle bank, and there it all was, sure enough, in the documents.

Czar had told Christine the details, she had been shown the documents, she had stared in unbelief and then in compassion and reverence for the man and his great purpose and self-denial. But then, when she heard Czar say, “You’re probably a kind of countess or something, your children would be sprung from nobility—–” she broke into laughter—vexed merriment, really. “How quaint and old-timy.” Then, in a sudden panic, “You haven’t told anyone! Please! I hope you haven’t told anyone.”

“Person would think you were hiding a crime or something.”

“They’d kid the life out of me. I’d never know another peaceful moment. Poor wonderful Grampa Thor, how right he was!”

“You ought to be proud of your background.”

“I am. I was born in a caribou in a blizzard up in the Wood—–”

“Stop that!” he yelled.

“I’m sorry, Grampa Czar. I shouldn’t tease you about a thing like that. You’re right. Bay Husack tells me that’s become my routine pitch, and he’s right, too.” Ruefully.

He brightened a little at that, mollified. “Does, does he? He’s smarter than I thought. Not that I don’t think,” hastily, “that Dave Husack’s son isn’t going to make a fine—–”

“He’ll be terrible.”

But the two got on together more equably than they had before Thor’s death. They even took little trips together to Alaska’s more luxurious points—Fairbanks, Anchorage, Juneau. Occasionally he even consented to take Bridie along. She served as ballast and buffer between the two high-powered creatures.

“I’m going Here,” Czar would say; or There. “Want to come along with the old man, Christine?”

Once or twice, if the distance were short (as if that would lessen the risk) he had even consented to having Chris fly him in the little two-passenger bug which she had purchased out of her own savings. He had a kind of pride in his granddaughter’s ability to handle a plane, in her reputation for skill and reliability and safety.

Stoutly Czar would say, “I’m as modern as the next one. You got to keep step with the times while you’re alive, or you might as well lay down. And I’m sure alive, all right. Nothing to piloting any more than there is to driving a car. Easier, if anything, I’d say.”

“That’s right,” Christine agreed, looking gingerly down at the mountain range past which they were soaring.

On the trip to the Kennedy coal lands Czar himself had suggested that Christine fly him up in her little Moth. It was summer, night and day were one. “I could take the train,” he said, “or go on the regular Tuesday plane. I guess I’ve got so I haven’t the patience for anything but air nowadays though I ought to use the railroad, they bring the stuff down. Either way, of course, I’d have to stay overnight. The plane doesn’t pick up back till Thursday.”