With an inner sigh, Marian asked, "Do I call you Chet, Chester, or what?"
"Chet."
"Okay, Chet. Let's get upstairs where the air is cooler."
She climbed heavily up onto the wing and squeezed through the cabin hatch. Kinsman followed her and sat in the copilot's seat, on the right. He stuck his foot out to keep the hatch open as Marian gunned the engine to life.
He stayed silent, watching, as she taxied to the very end of the two-mile-long runway. It had been built to accommo- date heavy bombers. This puddle-jumper could take off and land along the runway seven times and still have concrete to spare ahead of it.
They got the control tower's clearance. Kinsman dogged the hatch shut, and the little engine buzzed its hardest as they rolled down the runway and lifted into the air.
Marian banked the plane and made a right turn as ordered by the tower controller. They headed away from the Air Force base, across the Texas scrubland.
"Want to see the Alamo?" she asked.
"Sure," said Kinsman.
She asked the controllers for a route to San Antonio.
"Whose plane is this?" Kinsman asked as they climbed to cruising altitude.
"Mine," said Marian.
"Yours? You own it?"
"Sure. You think you jet jocks are the only guys who like to fly? Why do you think I Joined the Air Force in the first place?"
He grinned at her. "You like to fly."
"Doesn't everybody?"
She could see him visibly relaxing. They were barely five thousand feet above the ground but already he felt safe and insulated from the pressures below.
"Want to take over for a while?" she asked.
"Sure." She let go of the controls and Kinsman took the wheel in his hands.
"No aerobatics unless you warn me first," she offered.
