"Good," I said. I looked at my watch.
It was a few minutes past three.
He followed me into the john. "You're tired," he said, watching while I splashed cold water on my face.
"Do you really think you should go?"
"I have to."
"I put six roast-beef sandwiches and two quart Thermos bottles of black coffee in the plane for you."
"Thanks," I said, starting out.
His hand stopped me.
He held out a small white bottle.
"I called my doctor," he said, "and he brought these out for you."
"What are they?"
"A new pill. Benzedrine.
Take one if you get sleepy. It'll wake you up.
But be careful with them. Don't take too many or you'll go through the roof."
We started out for the plane.
"Don't open your reserve fuel tanks until you're down to a quarter tank.
The gravity feed won't pull if she registers more than that and it might even lock."
"How will I know if the reserve tanks are working?" I asked.
He looked at me. "You won't until you run out of gas. And if she locks, the air pressure will keep your gauge at a quarter even if the tank is dry."
I shot a quick look at him but didn't speak. We kept on walking.
I climbed up on the wing and turned toward the cockpit. A hand pulled at my trouser leg. I turned around.
Forrester was looking up at me with a shocked look on his face.
"What are you doing with the plane?"
"Going to California."
"But what about the tests tomorrow?" he shouted. "I even got Steve Randall out here tonight to look at her."
"Sorry," I said. "Call it off."
"But the General," he yelled.
"How'll I explain to him?
He'll blow his stack!"
I climbed into the cockpit and looked down at him.
"That's not my headache any more, it's yours."
"But what if something happens to the plane?"
I grinned suddenly.
I'd been right in my hunch about him.
He'd make a first-rate executive. There wasn't an ounce of concern about me, only for the plane.
"Then build another one," I shouted. "You're president of the company."
I waved my hand, and releasing the brakes, began to taxi slowly out on the runway.
I turned her into the wind and held her there while I revved up the motor. I pulled the canopy shut and when the tachometer reached twenty-eight, I let go of the brakes. We raced down the runway.
I didn't even try to lift her until my ground speed reached a hundred and forty. We were almost out of runway before she began to chew off a piece of sky. After that, she lifted easily.
I leveled off at four thousand feet and headed due south.
I looked over my shoulder. The North Star was right in the middle of my back, flickering brightly in the clear, dark sky.
It was hard to believe that less than a thousand miles from here the skies were locked in.
I was over Pittsburgh when I remembered something Nevada had taught me when I was a kid.
We were trailing a big cat and he pointed up at the North Star.
"The Indians have a saying that when the North Star flickers like that," he said, "a storm is moving south."
I looked up again.
The North Star was flickering exactly as it had that night.
I remembered another Indian saying that Nevada taught me. The quickest way west is into the wind.
My mind was made up. If the Indians were right, by the time I hit the Midwest, the storm would be south of me.
I banked the plane into the wind and when I looked up from the compass, the North Star was dancing brightly off my right shoulder.