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September?"
    Byrd's icicle eyes speared him. "That was when Captain Fonck crashed."
    Bandfield felt stupid. Fonck, the Allied ace of aces with seventy- five victories, had been the first to compete for the Orteig Prize. He had been trying to lift his overloaded Sikorsky off from the same wet field when a jury-rigged auxiliary wheel collapsed. Digging in like a scraper blade, it sent a protesting spray of mud that screamed to stop the flight. The stubborn Fonck pressed blindly on with the takeoff until the big biplane lurched over a gully to crumple and burn not half a mile from where they sat. Fonck and one man got out; two others did not, the first in a procession of victims in the quest for the Orteig Prize.
    Byrd stepped back from the stove, a slight limp adding to his distinction. He reached down and flicked a spot of ash from his polished high laced boots, and then tugged his spotless windbreaker around him. His manner was a stippling of contradictions. Apparently instinctively modest, he nonetheless frequently alluded to his Arctic experience as if it confirmed his right to be there.
    "Somehow, I never get warm enough anymore." He flushed, as if this were an unseemly personal revelation. Byrd raised his voice and went on. "The weather bureau called—someone will be along in an hour to give the latest report. There hasn't been much change. Fog from here to beyond Newfoundland, rain all the way."
    Fokker's expressive snort said the weather was adequate for the flight. Always a businessman, he now regretted selling the airplane to Byrd. They had agreed that Balchen was to be the pilot, and fog was no problem to him. Yet Byrd was too cautious to leave, and Fokker fretted that his big trimotor would be beaten across by the single-engine Bellanca, or worse, by Lindbergh's Ryan. Bandfield's fast airplane presented a new threat, and he was nervous.
    Fokker's Dutch accent came through as he said pointedly, "For some people, the fog wouldn't be any problem. My airplane is designed to fly through weather like this."
    Byrd busied himself breaking up another box for the fire, ignoring Fokker as he ignored all critics.
    Lindbergh circled around to stand between Rhoades and Band- field. Rhoades spoke: "If we hadn't had a fuel leak, the Baron and I would already be in Paris, counting our twenty-five grand." Hafner looked over, smiling—he wasn't a baron, but felt he should have been. Rhoades knew how to keep him happy.
    Balchen tossed him a pack of cigarettes. "Here's some Twenty Grands. That's about as close as you two will get."
    At the beginning of the month, only Hafner's Bellanca had been ready to try for the New York-Paris race. Then it developed a fuel leak that couldn't be found until they'd disassembled the entire fuselage tank, working night and day while the weather changed from good to bad. Now there were four planes ready, and the weather kept them all on the ground.
    The room was quiet. Lindbergh signaled with his eyebrows to Balchen. Yawning and pretending to stretch, Lindbergh swept his foot in an arc to knock the legs of Bandy's chair out from under him, flopping him on his back. Laughter broke the tension.
    Lindbergh doubled over, holding his sides, saying, "Bandy, if you spin in like this in a chair, what will you do in an airplane?" Fokker looked the other way, chuckling. Balchen threw his head back, braying.
    Only Byrd moved to help him up. "You must be careful, Mr. Bandfield. It's quite a problem for us to get insurance."
    They laughed again. It was the first joke Byrd had ever cracked.
    Bandy grinned weakly at the roughhouse acceptance ritual. He was now one of the boys. Flying humor was never subtle.
    Byrd turned serious. "Shall we all meet back here at one to get the full weather report?" The men nodded, and Byrd walked out, followed closely by Fokker. Tony intended to do some nagging.
    The others left to check their aircraft one more time. Lindbergh grabbed a chair, turned it around, and straddled it, his