instead over an unfamiliar, heavily wooded section of the coast. Wooded. Real
trees. But trees, for all their beauty and grateful familiarity, were not for
now. He needed an airdrome. He swung north up the coast, shooting higher until
he could see the Hudson; then, exultantly, he plunged the Icarus toward
Manhattan.
He would land at LaGuardia Field, but first he would give the old town a thrill.
Maybe they had rockets now, transatlantic rockets or something–but that was
doubtful, because if they had they would also have space rockets. His own
adventure the Society had kept secret, for fear of the laughter of the
newspapers. Probably there were just much better air planes now. Certainly no
glittering meteors like the Icarus. In his imagination he could see the white
expanse of startled, upturned faces in the streets of the city as he thundered
deafeningly overhead. Conquering hero, returned from Mars. He chuckled. He had
earned an ovation, by God. Also that steak and that soft bed and that air….
The old thought-chain brought him back to Anne again and he blinked a little. If
she were there to meet him, his life would have reached its peak. And if she
were not . . . well, old Earth was home, just the same…. He kicked himself for
a sniveling schoolboy and concentrated on the gold cage. Good little
space-vessel, but somewhat tricky in normal flight. He braked as Manhattan
loomed nearer and the silver thread of the Hudson expanded to a metal ribbon,
and for a moment the flames obscured his forward vision. What a display the