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disconnected it a month ago.”
    â€œThis is Mark Casey of the L.A. Times . Their aviation reporter.”
    â€œI told you I was through giving interviews, Bruce.”
    â€œThis isn’t just another interview, Frank. Adrian Van Ness died last night. Mark would like to talk to you about your memories of him—the early days of the company—where you see it going now that his influence—”
    â€œAdrian! You’re sure? How—what was the cause?”
    â€œA heart attack, apparently. The doc here was treating him for heart disease—”
    â€œAmanda—Mrs. Van Ness—how is she—where is she?”
    â€œShe’s still in Virginia. But I presume she’ll return to California. We’re going to have a memorial service for Adrian at the company next week,” Simons said.
    Suddenly Frank Buchanan’s world was no longer a gray meaningless place. He no longer belonged in the desert. But he could not possibly explain that to Simons or to this earnest young reporter, who looked as if he was born the day before yesterday.
    Kirk Willoughby understood, of course. He knew more about Adrian and Frank and Amanda than anyone in the company, except inquisitive Sarah Chapman Morris. He was here to make sure the news did not abort Frank’s laboring heart. A superfluous worry.

    They sat down on the porch and Mark Casey began asking him the standard questions. What was the secret of his long, successful collaboration with Adrian Van Ness? What was their most important plane? What was Adrian Van Ness’s contribution to Buchanan’s success? Was he involved in the company’s recent difficulties with the government? How did Frank see Buchanan’s future now?
    Frank’s answers were not lies. He said the secret of his collaboration with Adrian was mutual respect. Of course they argued now and then, ho ho ho. But they realized each had a part to play. As for their most important plane—each one was important while they were building it. Frequently important enough to be the margin between bankruptcy and solvency, ho ho ho.
    Adrian’s greatest contribution was forethought. He was always thinking ahead to the next generation airliner or fighter plane. Of course he wasn’t always right but neither were Douglas or Lockheed or Boeing right all the time, ho ho ho. As for Adrian’s involvement with the company in recent years—he had retired to the cheering section, like him. The company’s future? It was bright. The Buchanan rainbow—Adrian’s idea, by the way—still reached over the horizon—and the plane soaring above it might soon be flying at hypersonic speed.
    Almost all of it was true. But it was only one percent of the truth. Watching the boyish reporter take it down, Frank remembered so many things he could never tell him, so many things a thirty-five-year-old would find it hard—per—haps impossible—to understand.
    Mark Casey said he was delighted with the interview. Bruce Simons said they had to get back to Los Angeles as soon as possible. “I think I’ll stay with this old curmudgeon for a while. Check out a few things like his blood pressure and his heartbeat,” Kirk Willoughby said. “You can send the chopper back for me in an hour or two.”
    The helicopter clattered into the sky. Frank Buchanan gazed at Willoughby. “It’s impossible to explain,” he said.
    â€œI know,” Willoughby said.
    â€œYou’d have to go back to the beginning.”
    â€œI know,” Willoughby said.
    He pulled a flask of Scotch out of his pocket and poured a drink for himself and Frank. “Dick Stone’s going to be the new CEO. Cliff’s out. Does that bother you?”
    â€œIt’s a pretty raw deal in some ways. Cliff isn’t really responsible for our sins. Adrian’s the culprit.”
    Frank sipped the Scotch. Bitter memories flowed into his mind with the