Murder by Air

For the sixth time in less than half an hour I glanced at my watch and then back across the dinner-table at my old friend ‘Steeley’ Delaroy.
“What’s the young beggar doing, I wonder?” I muttered irritably. Then, as a new thought struck me, “I hope he’s all right,” I added, a hint of alarm creeping into my voice. “He’s done a lot of flying lately, just about enough to give him that feeling of false confidence which so often ends in trouble.”
Steeley smiled one of his rare smiles. “I shouldn’t worry,” he said quietly.
“It isn’t like Brian to be late.”
“Probably detained at the office,” suggested Steeley. “Nothing serious happens to you when you’re his age. It’s when you begin to feel anno Domini sitting beside you with his hand on the spare joystick that you develop a sense of discrimination in the matter of risk to life and limb which is really more dangerous than the careless abandon of youth. It’s funny, but I’ve noticed that it often works out that way. He’ll turn up in a minute and tell us that he has been hung up on a red-hot news story.”