From New Orleans to Newark she could be in radio contact all the way. She reported in to Mobile, Montgomery, Atlanta, Charlotte, Richmond. She felt like a country telephone operator listening in on party lines, the conversations were so numerous and frequent on the way across the country. She looked out and watched the darkness cover the earth. She snapped on her navigation lights.
Successively, each of the cities as she looked down at the lights was a treasure of diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds. A thousand and one nights’ treasure that had been tipped over, spilled out, and spread over the black land. She thrilled to the sparkle and glitter.
At 9:05 P.M. she passed over Washington, D.C., and reported her position. Into her earphones came the voice of Eugene Vidal, her old friend from the Ludington Line. He came in loud and clear. “You’ve done enough,” he said. “You’d better land at Hoover Airport.” He was calling from his office at the Bureau of Air Commerce.
Amelia grinned. “No thanks,” she answered him. “Going through to New York.” Then she added, “Cheerio.”
It was a beautiful night for flying, too beautiful to land. Clusters of bright green and silver stars against the black of the night were better than emeralds and diamonds at Tiffany’s.
Amelia checked the gasoline gauges for the left- and right-wing tanks and for the big extra tank in the passenger compartment. She studied the fuel-flow meter. Everything normal. The Wasp purred in steady, rhythmic beats. She pulled out the thermos of hot chocolate. She gulped a mouthful; the warmth from the sweet liquid spread through her.
People had often offered her coffee or tea, and on other occasions liquor and cigarettes. She didn’t believe in stimulants of any kind; she didn’t need them. Once, someone had asked her why she didn’t smoke. He had undoubtedly seen her endorsement of a cigarette after the Friendship flight.
Amelia smiled as she remembered. To overcome any thoughts of prudishness he might have of her she had thereupon taken two cigarettes, lit them, and puffed them into clouds of smoke. “There,” she had said, after they had burned down and she put them out in an ash tray, “I have smoked.” She never smoked again, not even in jest. But there was nothing to prevent her if she wanted to. That point had to be made clear.
She looked out from the cockpit and ran her eyes from wing tip to wing tip. It was a lovely night: the new moon, the stars that could be scooped into the palm of her hand, the clean, fresh air that whistled through the opened windshield. Space unlimited. She looked at the tachometer: the needle was steady at 1,750 rpm’s; then at the indicated air speed: unwavering at 150 mph. Homeward bound. Everything fine.
Waiting for her at Newark were GP and thousands of other people who had heard about the flight and driven out to the airport. With George were Paul Collins, AE’s other good friend from the Ludington Line; Doc Kimball, the famous New York weatherman; and Dr. Eduardo Villasenor, consul general for Mexico. From the southwest they saw a single-motored, high-winged plane. It was AE, and she was ahead of schedule.