“Get out!” Czar said to the bewildered Bogard beside him. “Get out and tell that—tell Distelhorst he belongs in this car.”

But when Bogard had hurriedly clambered out and had conveyed this message, standing at the Decker car window and apparently encountering good-natured but stiff resistance, he turned his head to look piteously back at Czar.

“Says he’s doing fine.” He floundered back to the Kennedy car.

4

DISTELHORST STUCK HIS head out of the window. He waved a blithe hand; a great grin gashed the strangely unlined middle-aged face.

“Hen, fooled you that time, Czar, and you too, Sid. Wise guys! I ride where the pretty gals are. Oops! No offense, ma’am.” Noticing too late the presence of Bridie Ballantyne in the back seat beside Kleet.

Czar Kennedy waved at him, he smiled his charming smile. “Damned old goat,” he muttered in one of his rare unguarded moments.

The two pretty airplane hostesses emerged from the waiting-room door and hailed a yellow taxi at the curb. Now a third figure, smart in the blue uniform of a pilot, came through the doorway.

“Ross!” Chris called to him. “Ross! Want a lift?”

The man held up a hand in greeting, he smiled. The olive skin, the white teeth in contrast, the light of recognition in his eyes gave him a look of almost startling brilliance. He hesitated a moment, then he walked swiftly to the car. He saw the passengers, he paused, uncertainly. The yellow taxi hummed past, the faces of the two pretty hostesses stared out.

Ott Decker, at the wheel, asked, “Where you in from, Ross?”

“Nome—Kotzebue—Oogruk run.”

“Pile in.”

Chris slid nearer Ott Decker so that there now was space for a third passenger in the wide front seat. “In! In! We’ve got precious freight here, and they’re not used to our climate.” As he entered, and the car moved off, she made the introductions expertly, over her shoulder. “Miss Drake, you’ve met Ross. In Seattle—remember? Mr. Distelhorst—Ross Guildenstern, as in Hamlet. Mr. Distelhorst of the Washington Department of the Interior … Bayard Husack of the Seattle Husacks, no less, you know him too. Ross Guildenstern is one of the pet pilots of the Arctic Circle Air Line, Mr. Distelhorst.”

The bronze young man with the Nordic name removed his blue cap and turned his head toward the three in the rear seat. His vigorous hair was like another cap, black, thick, stiff. “You had us strolling around in the air there for a while, waiting for you to come in. Who was the Big Brass?”

“General, that’s who,” boomed Distelhorst. “Just merely General Cass Baldwin, that’s all.” He cleared his throat, he peered right he peered left, hunching low in the seat. “This is going to be mighty interesting. Now then. I’m here to get the feel of this country. I’d like to get a line on you young folks, it’s you youngsters that will have to carry on when the torch is handed to you. That’s why young Husack is here. That right, Bay?”