The noise was as thrilling, each type of motor blasting its own unique sound: the Smack! Smack! of a radial three-cylinder Anzani, the harsh rumble of Curtiss and Wright four-cylinders, the smooth burble of the admirable Antoinette V-8s that Bell knew from speedboats, and the exuberant Blat! Blat! Blat! of the French-built rotary Gnome Omegas whose seven cylinders whirled improbably around a central crankshaft, spewing castor oil smoke that smelled like smoldering candle wax.

He located Archie by making a beeline for an enormous tent of the same bright yellow as the banner he had seen on top of Whiteway’s Inquirer building, and they shook hands warmly. Archie Abbott was nearly as tall as Isaac Bell, redheaded, with compelling gray eyes and a sparkling smile. He was clean-shaven. Faint white lines of scar tissue on this aristocratic brow indicated experience in the prize ring. They had been best friends since college, when Archie boxed for Princeton and Bell had floored him for Yale.

Bell saw that Archie had used his time here well. He was friendly with all the participants and officials. His detectives— those disguised as mechanicians, newspaper reporters, hot dog salesmen, and Cracker Jack vendors, and those patrolling in sack suits and derbies—appeared familiar with their territory and alert. But Archie could not tell Bell any more than he already knew about Josephine’s relationship with Marco Celere, which was little more than speculation.

“Were they lovers?”

Archie shrugged. “I can’t answer that. She does get a little misty-eyed when his name comes up. But what she’s really nuts about is that flying machine.”

“Could it be that she’s misty-eyed for his mechanical expertise?”

“Except that Josephine is a whiz of a mechanician herself. She can take that machine apart and put it back together on her own, if she has to. She told me that the places she’ll be flying won’t have a mechanician.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting her. Where is she?”

Archie pointed at the sky. “Up there.”

The two friends scanned the blue, where a dozen flying machines were maneuvering. “I’d have thought that Whiteway would have painted her machine yellow.”

“He did. Yellow as this tent.”

“I don’t see her.”

“She doesn’t circle around with the others. She flies off by herself.”

“How long has she been gone?”

Archie pulled out his watch. “One hour and ten minutes, this time,” he reported, clearly not happy to admit that the young woman whose safety and very life were his responsibility was nowhere in sight.

Bell said, “How in heck can we watch over her if we can’t see her?”