“For the ride. And because I’m mad for you. And I want to be First Lady fifteen years from now.”

“You’d be ideal in the White House—you and Mrs. Abe Lincoln.”

A centerpiece of fresh flowers ornamented the guest table. They had been flown in from Outside. Like the guests in whose honor they had been arranged, they, too, hurtled through the heavens, had been subjected to an altitude and environment foreign to their natural habitat. Like the human freight they had emerged intact, though slightly yellow around the edges.

A small pasteboard box stood just in front of Dina Drake’s plate.

Oscar Bogard, having returned to his seat, now tapped the little box with a playful forefinger. “Something pretty for you, little lady.”

She looked at the box, remotely.

“Open it,” Bay said, very low. “You’re supposed to wear them.”

She lifted out the two exotic flowers on their pale green stem, pale golden orchids with a mink-brown lip.

“Orchids in Alaska in midwinter!” Bay said. “Well, what do you know!”

Dina scarcely lowered her voice. “I never wear flowers. I hate orchids.”

Sid Kleet, of whom it was said that he could detect sounds unheard even by a canine ear, now leaned forward, shielding his tight lips with a discreet hand. Very quietly he said, “I’d pin them on if I were you—unless you hate the young man next to you, too.”

She picked them up, she pinned them to her suit lapel with a single vicious jab.

The two arms of the U-shaped table missed nothing. The women seemed almost audibly to drink in Dina Drake’s coat, gloves, bag, suit. They themselves were smart in wool or jersey dresses and suits, their coiffures followed the general line and style of Dina’s hair, though a less expert hand had molded them. The men did not overlook Dave Husack’s flamboyant and costly tie and the suit so artfully cut to conceal the threatening paunch. They noted Bay’s clothes, too; the material, the lapels, the made-to-order shirt. The younger male Alaskans in the twenty-to-forty age group, whether of local stock or lately arrived, made rather a point of he-man clothes even beyond the dictates of the climate. Brown shirts, open collars; shirt-sleeved in the milder months and even in the winter, cold-hardened as they were so that the temperature of a crowded room was often, to them, unbearable.

In the eyes of these men and women, as they surveyed the guests’ table, there was nothing of envy. They were enjoying this gathering, it was part of the show, until the actual speaking began they were bystanders watching a parade. Now, having seen the costumes and been refreshed by the new personalities, they began to study the faces. Perhaps, here and there, the onlookers’ eyes narrowed a little.

Chris Storm, Bridie Ballantyne and Ott Decker were supposed to be present at important affairs such as this luncheon. They always avoided being trapped at the Speakers’ Table. From choice they sat below the salt. They noted everything. Such comments as they made were sotto voce. Even Bridie managed to drop her voice to a confidential tone. Their comment was professional and without illusion. Ott Decker was seated between the two women. Chris’s white fur parka was draped over the back of her chair. Her hatless head was like a golden torch lighting this end of the long table, as Czar’s magnificent crown flared white at the other end of the room.