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show?’
    ‘You wish to?’
    Ira had long since decided that the world could be divided into three groups--those who wished to lead, those who were willing to be led, and those who were neither one nor the other. He’d once been called by Cluff ‘a bloody independent Cornishman’ and he supposed he was, and he couldn’t see himself in a subordinate position.
    ‘Yes,’ he said firmly. ‘If I come, I run the show.’
    Lao seemed satisfied. ‘You would be given the rank of major,’ he said. Two other aircraft will be waiting in Shanghai, and we have also recruited expert mechanics. If I may come and see you here tomorrow I will bring the necessary documents for you to sign.’
    As the Packard drew away, Ira turned back towards the office, his breath coming out in a great gasp of relief. Sammy was staring at him from the far side of the hut, quivering with anticipation like a setter waiting for the gun Ira grinned. ‘Sammy, lad . .’
    ‘Yes, boss?’
    ‘When you’re a partner in a firm you don’t call the Old Man “boss” or “mister”.’
    ‘No, boss--I mean, Ira.’
    They were both laughing now.
    ‘I think we’ve got a job,’ Ira said.
    Sammy hurtled round the table, scattering papers to the floor in his excitement. Unaffectedly, he seized Ira’s hand and began to kiss it, and Ira pushed him away furiously, slapping at him wildly.
    ‘Cut it out, you bloody idiot,’ he yelled. ‘Flying men don’t go in for kissing each other.’
    ‘No, Mr. Penaluna--I mean, Ira.’ Sammy straightened up, quivering and trying to hold down his excitement and grinning all over his face. ‘It’s because I’m a Jew. We’re always too bleddy emotional!‘
     
    4
     
    Turning his back on the dusty field near Moshi was harder than Ira had expected. He was surprised to find he had thrust down roots and the idea of leaving frightened him a little.
    He sold the Lancia and the lorry and the tin-roofed bungalow for knock-down prices and, with Sammy’s help, crated up the tools and spares from the workshop and shipped them south before flying off in the Avro for Mombasa. In Mombasa they stripped the machine of its wings and, with Sammy sitting on the tailboard of a hired lorry holding the skid, towed it into the docks and saw it hoisted aboard ship.
    Waiting in Durban for them were two seedy-looking individuals who introduced themselves as the mechanics Lao had engaged.
    ‘Geary,’ the tallest of them said. ‘Fitter.’
    ‘Lawn.’ The other gave a boozy grin. ‘Rigger.’
    Ira eyed them dubiously. Geary was an unwholesome South African, shiftless and unsettled, who looked as though he’d liked Cape brandy for far too long. Lawn was a short fat North Countryman much older than he claimed, who had found his way to Durban after the war looking for work. Privately, Ira decided he wouldn’t have offered either of them a job as a tea-boy.
    ‘Call me Yorky, Sonny,’ Lawn said condescendingly. ‘Sergeant Lawn, R.F.C., I was, but Yorky’s good enough for me. In China afore. I can ‘andle coolies. Corporal in the York and Lancasters, see?’Ong Kong, 1909.’
    He interspersed his conversation with words like ‘tiffin’ and ‘chow’ to show he knew what he was talking about, then he gestured at Sammy, standing nearby, uncomfortable as a tailor’s dummy in a new suit that was as stiff as a board, a high celluloid collar and a flat cap as wide as his shoulders. ‘Who’s the young shaver?’ he demanded. ‘Babu? Clerk?’
    ‘Mr. Shapiro’s a pilot,’ Ira pointed out. ‘And you service his aircraft as you do mine.’
    ‘Oh!’ Lawn seemed a little disconcerted. He glanced at Sammy again, disbelievingly, then he flipped his hand in a gesture that was almost a salute. ‘Righty-o, Mr.--er--er . .
    ‘Penaluna. Ira Penaluna.’
    ‘ The Ira Penaluna,’ Sammy added gleefully.
    Lawn pulled a face. He’d obviously heard the name before. They used to say ‘e was a bit regimental,’ they heard him observe with a