When two hours had passed, she was back at Sparky’s side asking for the controls.
“I can’t sleep,” she explained. “Flying over the desert is fascinating. You don’t care a whoop about it.”
“That’s right.”
“Then why not let me have a chance at it?”
“Sure! Why not?” He yielded the controls.
As she took over, the words of an old song were running through her mind:
“Dance, gypsies; sing, gypsies; dance while you may.”
It is in time of war that such simple songs as this take on a world of meaning.
She had not been at the controls an hour when the first faint traces of dawn began to appear. Then, suddenly, a signal on her board flashed a grim warning. Instantly her fingers shut off the fuel and oil from their left motor. The next instant she turned the carbon-dioxide snow on that motor, as she called:
“Sparky! Sparky! Quick! Our left motor is on fire!”