“You don’t think we’ll make it to the Amazon?”

“You couldn’t make it to Albany in this thing. It has a range of fifty miles, max. And the winds blow west-east, not north-south. Why don’t you nuts give me back my balloon and go your way, and I won’t call the police.”

Found it! Gisco begins ripping his way through a brown paper bag.

Didn’t you hear what this guy said? How are we going to make it to the Amazon?

First things first. Sustenance.

My own stomach rumbles. I realize that I can’t even remember my last meal. Okay, sustenance. Give me half.

I’ve already eaten half. Half is now half of half.

I thought we were partners. Share and share alike.

Be grateful for small favors. I think I smell a bag of potato chips. What are we going to do with the Red Baron? We can’t take him with us.

I pop the quarter sandwich in my mouth and chew it slowly, savoring the rye bread and pastrami, not to mention the sweet pickles. We’re traveling at about thirty feet, blown by a strong breeze. We’ve moved away from the fair, out over a forest.

There’s a small lake coming up below—actually little more than a pond.

“We’ve got business in the Amazon,” I tell Houlihan. “So we’re gonna take a shot at it, winds or no winds.”

“You’re loony.”

“Do you wanna come with, or you do wanna get off?”

“I don’t travel with loonies.”

“Can you swim?” I ask.

“Like a fish.” Then, suspiciously: “Why?”

“Stand up,” I suggest. “The dog’s not going to hurt you. He’s too busy eating.”

“You got that right. Look at him gobble it down. He even ate some of the waxed paper.”

My compliments to the chef.

Houlihan gets shakily to his feet, looks down, and sees the small lake. “You’re kidding, right?”

“It’s your choice. But I have to warn you. If you stay on board, we’re about to make like the space shuttle.”

He squints back at me, then at Gisco, and finally peers down at the pond. “Guess I’d rather risk drowning than be part of a flying nuthouse.” He climbs up on the side of the gondola, hesitates, and then mutters an unhappy “Good riddance to you,” and leaps.

The old balloonist’s legs churn and his arms circle as he falls with a scream. He splashes down feet first, and disappears under the blue water.

Did he make it? Gisco asks uninterestedly.

Yeah, he just popped up. He’s swimming for shore. What a grump.

At least he furnished us with a last meal, Gisco says.

Come on, things aren’t so bad, I point out. We’re flying in a hot-air balloon on a beautiful day over lovely countryside.