For King Horn the time to do things was always now. He broke into a run. Overhead, the ships of the circus were circling on ten-minute hops. Sam Smith had made it plain to the spectators that these pilots, unlike King Horn, were safe and sane.
Back at the field, King cut a straight line through the crowd to the office. But the little room where he had left Lyle was empty. The roll of bandage was still on the desk. The sight of it made King feel strange. He laid a hand gently on the arm she had bound up.
King sought her on the field, but she was not there. Walt Tennant was, however. The boss of the circus stood just inside the ropes, slowly chewing an unlit cigar. He kept a keen eye upon the knot of waiting customers who had already bought tickets for flights, but he did not fail to see King Horn as the stunt pilot walked toward him.
“Fixed up?” he asked, glancing at King’s arm.
“Sure. Look here, Walt—I’m quitting.”
Walt Tennant transferred all his attention to his pilot.
“You? What for? Somebody been telling you that flying’s dangerous?”
“My kind of flying—yes. I’m quitting the rough stuff, Walt. How about a job carrying passengers?”
Tennant laughed. “I’ll bet Lyle’s been talking to you.”
King Horn ignored this and looked away in some resentment when Tennant’s keen eyes probed his face. He didn’t want to talk about Lyle to anyone—not even to her own father.