“Will you please tell him—will you please tell him that I say—‘Contact’?”
“Contact?” He had stood smiling down at her, ironical and tender. “Ah, what a race! That is the prettiest word that you can find for Jerry? But then it means to come very close, to touch, that poor harsh word—there he must find what comfort he can. We, too, in aviation use that word; it is the signal that says—‘Now you can fly!’ You do not know our vocabulary, perhaps?”
“I know very little.”
“That is all then? No other message? He will understand, our Jerry?”
And Janie had smiled—rather a terrible, small smile.
“Oh, yes,” she told him. “He will understand. It is the word that he is waiting for, you see.”
“I see.” But there had been a grave wonder in his voice.
“Would it”—she had framed the words as carefully as though it were a strange tongue that she was speaking—“would it be possible to buy his machine? He wouldn’t want any one else to fly it.”
“Little Janie, never fear. The man does not live who shall fly poor Peg again. Smashed to kindling-wood and burned to ashes, she has taken her last flight to the heaven for good and brave birds of war. Not enough was left of her to hold in your two hands.”
“I’m glad. Then that’s all, isn’t it? And thank you for coming.”