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activity were the planes gathered to compete for the Orteig Prize. Half the buildings were empty, fading signs lamenting famous names of long-gone aviators, optimistic victims who thought they could make a living flying. All across America, in every other industry, the economy was booming and the sky was no limit. In aviation, the sky was a sure pathway to bankruptcy. Cal Coolidge said that the business of America was business. It didn't apply to flying. And it was Coolidge who had suggested that the Air Service buy only one airplane and let the pilots take turns.
    But it wasn't Silent Cal's fault that the profession was torn by a never-ending battle between cost and revenue. Airplanes were ex pensive, and sometimes lasted only a few weeks or months. Crashes were common, and hangars were usually ramshackle tar-paper buildings littered with oil-soaked rags, easily victim to casual cigarettes or faulty wiring. The investments of many a lifetime had gone up in smoke. Insurance was costly and hard to come by. Maintenance costs were high, and neither passengers nor cargo yielded profit.
    Inevitably, management sought economies in pilots' salaries and the workplace. Pilots who complained were ruthlessly replaced. Youngsters were always coming up, glad to subsidize the company—manufacturer, air-mail carrier, no matter—for the privilege of gaining a few hours of flying time. Every airfield office Bandfield had ever seen had been just like this one, inadequately furnished, poorly heated, an offense to the eye. A masochistic glee hung over the whole discipline of flight, a perverse reasoning that if you really wanted to fly, you wouldn't mind being miserable. It was a price most pilots gladly paid, trading ten hours of labor on the ground for every hour in the air.
    Even the Orteig race planes, supposedly the best in the business, confirmed his view. He knew the problem was the same he'd had with Hadley Roget—a lack of engineering discipline. Airplanes were designed by people who loved them blindly without targeting what they were supposed to do, never realizing that it was pointless to build the best-looking airplane in the world if it couldn't earn its keep. They were all going to try to fly the Atlantic, and if they all succeeded, it still wouldn't prove a thing. What the world needed was safe airplanes that could make money, airplanes like his own.
    There were so many hazards, from engine failure to losing con trol in a storm. Few of the airplanes had decent instrument systems, and fewer pilots had any experience with the sort of weather they'd find over the North Atlantic. Bandfield glanced around, estimating that the sea might claim half of the men in the room. They all knew it, but not one of them would have been anywhere else in the world.
    He watched Lindbergh's strong, slender fingers tear up an orange crate and hand the bits of wood to tiny Richard Byrd, who stuffed the splinters into the gasping coal stove as carefully as if staving off an arctic wind. Last year, the slightly built Navy commander had been the first man to fly over the North Pole; this year he intended to be the first across the Atlantic. Neither man spoke, each preoccu pied with thoughts as bleak as the weather.
    Lindbergh noticed his old friend and came over to introduce him.
    Bandfield thanked Byrd for the use of his hangar. The explorer smiled and said, "Glad to do it. I looked in this morning; you've got a nice-looking airplane."
    Bandfield flushed with pleasure. "It's the best thing I've flown, sir. I'd be glad for you to fly it sometime."
    Byrd's smile faded like ice in a cup of coffee. Little worry lines appeared on his brow as he murmured, "No thanks. Not until I'm back from France, anyway."
    Bandfield realized that his plane had shifted the warmth just as it had the odds. Before, Byrd had clearly been the leading contender; now the race was up for grabs. As Lindbergh introduced him to the other pilots, the same feather edge of resentment