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I spent months talking to people who knew aviation in its adolescence. Poking through libraries, museums, and airline archives, I found tales of pilots landing in farm fields and of stunt fliers carving loops over awestruck audiences. I read of wing-walkers and air racers. I learned of lost and crashed planes and of planes guided to safety by smudge pots, radio beams, and light beacons strung across the land.
Staring into black-and-white photos, I met the radiomen whose equipment let aviation grow up. And again and again, I read the eloquent, groping words of early-day pilots who wanted to describe the enormous sky they'd lost their hearts to. (Copyright c 1999 by Harcourt, Inc. All rights reserved.)
That's what it's like at the Muddy Springs Airport. Beatty hangs out there because her uncle manages the field, and she is hoping to see her dad when he flies in--and quickly out again--on the mail run. Moss hangs out there, too, hoping his mechanical skills will be useful enough to earn him the money to survive. They both look forward to a future with planes, and in the air. But they don't foresee the part they will have to play on the ground one night when the field lights fail, the storm is rising, and Beatty's father is flying the plane that's circling, circling, and almost out of fuel.
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