“No.”
They settled themselves in the comfortable reclining seats of the plane. A few moments later the sign flashed on requesting that passengers cease smoking, that seat belts be fastened, and then the motors, which had been clicking away at idling speed, roared into a deep-throated song of power. The plane taxied down the field, turned into the wind. The pilot applied brakes, tested first the port, then the starboard motor, then sent the plane skimming along the smooth runway.
“Always like to watch them take off,” Mason said, looking out of the window at the ground speeding past.
“They do it so smoothly now you hardly know you’ve left the ground,” she said.
Mason made no reply. He was watching the ground as it suddenly seemed to drop away. The plane was up in the air, smoothly gliding over the roofs of houses, across a railroad track, over a busy street congested with thousands of automobiles fighting their way foot by foot through the rush hour of traffic.
The sun had just set, turning a few streamers of western cloud into long bars of ruddy gold. Down below, lights on automobiles were being turned on. Neon signs began to gleam. Then suddenly all traces of civilization dropped behind. The plane was flying over mountains covered with chaparral and mesquite. The dark shadows of the valleys and canyons were in sharp contrast with the diffused gleam of sunset light which clung to the tops of the high mountains.
Far below, an automobile road wound and twisted its devious way up the mountains. Abruptly it drifted behind. There was a stretch of sagebrush-covered mesa, then more high mountains, this time crested with great pines. Slowly, twilight drew a curtain over the landscape, and lights within the plane blotted out what little view remained.
Mason settled back in his seat, said to Della, “I always like this trip.”
“What’s it all about?” she asked.
Mason said, “After I left you, I ran into Tragg. We had a talk, and then I went out and bought some San Francisco papers.”