There was the clink of metal on glass as Mayor Bogard rose and tapped for order. The young alert faces turned toward him like a battery of lights. He spoke in the platitudes of the commanded and ungifted.

Ladies and gentlemen. Members of the Baranof Chamber of Commerce. Honored Guests. We have with us. It is my great pleasure. One who. Known to all of you. Magnificent record. War. And now …

The General rose, and they remembered him in the days of his command. He, too, remembered, for as he spoke, simply and somewhat haltingly, his expression was embarrassed and insecure as that of a television master of ceremonies who suddenly interrupts the flow of entertainment with a commercial plug for the sponsor’s line of lipstick, cold cream and hair lacquer. The blue eyes were strained, he had taken off his bone-rimmed spectacles when he rose. The face was the life-marked, decent, placating mask of a weary man past middle age. He wished, oh, so deeply, that they would just let him stand and be introduced and sit the hell down. But he had a speech to make; he had a speech to make (or had made a speech) in Juneau, in Anchorage, in Fairbanks, now in Baranof and later, perhaps, in Nome and God knows what icy wilderness.

So. “Friends … this vast empire called Alaska … nature has indeed been lavish … we of the world of business and economics and others at the helm of the nation’s political ship of state … the welfare of this magnificent Territory at heart …”

The closing words were momentarily lost as a jet from Kinkaid Air Base streaked past high, high in the heavens, its maniacal screech in the thin icy air taunting the man who stood there addressing the cynical guests of honor and the young attentive members of the Baranof Chamber of Commerce.

General Cass Baldwin, Vice-President and Chairman of the Board of National Fish Pack Company, sat down to respectful applause.

“Dave next, I bet,” Bridie said. “Czar won’t talk, he’s too smart, he lets the others sluice off at the mouth. I don’t know’s I can sit listening to that Distelhorst.”

In the dining-room doorway a little knot of people had gathered. They were quiet, polite, orderly. They stood there out of curiosity, interest, or because, late in making application, there had not been space for them at the luncheon table. Craning, Chris Storm could just glimpse Addie Barnett near the doorway, and behind her the ugly, beautiful, civilized face of Paul Barnett, his myopic eyes round and protuberant behind the thick spectacles. Chris knew that this Chamber of Commerce luncheon would be a week old before he could translate it into Northern Light news columns. She knew, too, that by his passion and integrity it would, miraculously, be fresh and exciting news.

Then, to her surprise, Chris caught sight of the merry face of Ross Guildenstern. Her gaze met his, her eyebrows went up in questioning. He grinned mischievously. “Why, there’s Ross!” Bridie exclaimed.