As he talked he revolved slowly to include the whole group, the great dull red face beaming with good humor and self-satisfaction. In the vast golden-brown cashmere topcoat he looked, as he ponderously revolved, like a miraculously trained Alaska Kodiak brown bear balancing on its hind legs.

Now his small somewhat bloodshot eyes encountered the amused gaze of Christine Storm. He had encountered that gaze before today, he had been flicked by the dart of disdain that shone behind the amusement, he resented it, he rejected it, he rejected the dark intelligent eyes and the lovely girl herself, and everything and everyone she represented—except Czar Kennedy. Without Czar Kennedy and the pattern of plans and planners that stretched, an intricate web, from west coast to east coast, Dave Husack might have had to forego the creamy-soft cashmere coat, the jaunty yacht, the cars, the luxurious office suite, the massive handsome house high on the hills of Seattle, overlooking the overpowering view of sound, straits, lakes, mountains, skies, forests.

Now he put one great fur-gloved paw on Chris’s shoulder, with the other he patted her cheek. Perhaps he had even contemplated a hug, but she had stepped back just enough to elude this. “Chris!” he bellowed. “How’s Alaska’s Joan of Arc!”

Very low, without moving his lips, Czar Kennedy said to Mayor Bogard, “Get going.”

Obediently Bogard called in the high voice of a Boy Scout leader, “Now then, folks! Let’s get organized. Let’s see, now. Mr. Husack, how’s about you going in with—–”

“What’s this Mister stuff! Dave!”

“Thanks. Dave, if you’ll just come this way—–”

But now Ott Decker, the expert organizer, took over. He did not say well folks or now then. He had collected the baggage stubs, he had handily placed the luggage, he waved a hand toward the waiting cars.

“In, everybody! I’ll break trail if you’ll follow. The parade is just starting. Plenty of room, the General’s gone with the Base group, he’ll join us later at luncheon if they’ll give him a chance.… Mr. Husack—Dave, that is—you’re with Czar, of course, and you too, Mr. Distelhorst, and Sid Kleet, naturally. Bridie, I know Paul and Addie’ll be happy to take you in. Bayard Husack and Miss—uh—in my car, I hope, if that’s all right with you, it’s that lavender job over there it isn’t paid for yet so if you don’t like the color just say the word and I’ll—– Chris, in my car of course. Mayor Bogard—oh, he’s already climbed in with the skookum boys.”

Czar Kennedy made no move to order these arrangements, he wasted no energy on such details. Smiling gently now, his head a little to one side as though surveying a pleasing picture, he seated himself in his own good middle-class car. But then a disturbing mistake seemed to have been made. The Barnetts’ shabby car already was to be seen scooting down the airport road toward town. Bridie Ballantyne, seated amazingly between Dave Husack and Sid Kleet, was queening it in the back of Czar’s car; and in some mysterious way Wilbur K. Distelhorst was snugly ensconced between Dina Drake and young Husack in Ott Decker’s orchid equipage, which was on the point of leaving.