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his macabre personal insignia, a black heart illuminated with a skull and cross- bones and mourning candles. Bandfield remembered vividly the roughly painted oversize black iron crosses on Hafner's Jenny, an odd contrast to the almost delicate rendering of a white winged sword.
    Hafner began speaking quietly in German to Tony Fokker. Band-field sat back down, swallowing a rage he didn't understand, angry with Hafner for the snub, but more with himself for caring. Covert ly he studied Hafner, whose square-cut face was dominated by a huge jaw, along which ran a thin white scar. Hafner's bushy eyebrows occupied the high ground of the ridge that ran across his forehead like a small visor. An aquiline nose was poised sharply over his fleshy lips. As he watched, Bandfield saw that all the separate elements of Hafner's face operated independently of his emotions; his lips could smile without any trace of humor in his eyes, or he could frown while seemingly amused. On either side of his mouth were small dimpled lines which acted as signals for his feelings. If he was going to smile, the little dimpled lines would react first, their ends pointing up. If a frown was coming, the little lines would become an inverted V.
    Watching Hafner cooled Bandfield's anger, and he resumed his inspection of the competition. Dusty Rhoades was at his left. Of medium height, with wavy russet hair, Rhoades leaned against the wall, his left leg tucked up for support, a target for the rolled-up Aviation Age nervously drummed against it. Arrow-collar handsome, he could have been cast as the hero in a Western. He wore a uniform of his own devising, an exotic cross between an RAF tunic and a state trooper's motorcycle garb. A year ago he had flown with the marines in Nicaragua, using an ancient DH-4 to dive-bomb General Sandino's troops in the jungle. Rumored to be a great pilot and an even better mechanic, Rhoades led a charmed life, surviving more bailouts from air-mail planes than even Lindbergh. Bruno Hafner had picked him from a dozen candidates to fly as copilot/ mechanic in his airplane, the Bellanca Miss Charlotte. Once again the pilot/plane physical comparison held true. Giuseppe Bellanca was an Italian, but his airplane was as Teutonic as Hafner, square-cut wingtips and tail disdaining any effort at streamlining, cutting through the air on brute power and lift.
    Bandfield watched Hafner's copilot closely, to see if he was infected with his boss's arrogance. Bandy had heard that Rhoades was terribly underrated, a brilliant pilot whose natural manner kept him out of headlines, but who could be counted on to do the work. By all appearances, Rhoades was the most relaxed man in the room, humming an off-key version of "One Alone." Yet Bandfield sensed a quiet, desperate tension revealed in the grimaces Rhoades made as he repeatedly glanced out the window to check the weather.
    All the other men were legends to Bandy. He wanted to become a legend to them. He had more to gain. They could all use the $25,000 from the Orteig Prize; he needed the fame. There would never be enough flying jobs to go around, but if you were first across the Atlantic, you would always have work.
    Byrd strode in front of the group, taking command as if it were a natural right. As he talked his right hand, index finger crooked, kept time, waving an invisible conductor's baton.
    "You've heard that a reward has been offered for anyone who locates Nungesser and Coli. If we were ready, we'd begin a search mission today, but there are some more tests I want to do." Tony Fokker glowered in the background.
    There was no reaction; they were here to compete, not to fly rescue flights. Besides, most of them had written the Frenchmen off as fish food. Byrd changed the subject. "We'll need a little wind to dry the ground. I walked it yesterday, and it's just like last Septem ber." The explorer's Southern heritage came through clearly in his soft voice.
    Bandy asked, "What happened in