Leo had his own explanation for that. He said it was training, not talent, that gave me more nimble fingers. “What do you expect?” he would say. “You wouldn’t expect a pianist to act as though he was all thumbs. It’s mechanical aptitude that counts in being a good pilot.” And of course, on mechanical aptitude he usually scored a tiny fraction higher than I did — but not enough higher, in my opinion, to explain his easy skill as a helicopter pilot. I suspected that was training, too, rather than talent. Leo simply got in more flying hours, though it was hard for me to see how his job offered the opportunity for it.

He had relaxed a good deal as soon as we lifted off, and now that we were moving west towards Reading he began to whistle softly, just loud enough for me to hear him. It was the first movement of the Unfinished, taken a little slowly.

“You realize that you’re a semitone flat?” I said. “It’s in B, not B-flat.”

He turned his head and grinned at me. “Sorry, Little Brother. I just wanted to see if you were awake still.”

He had the ear, all right, but he had simply never got around to learning to play a musical instrument. When I thought of the huge chunks of my life that had been swallowed up on practice, I sometimes wondered if Leo had the right idea and I was off my head. But it was too late for that sort of thinking. I leaned back in my seat.

“All right, accept that I’m awake enough. How about a little light on the big mystery, and the rush to the north? It’s not like you to miss the chance at a good Chinese meal.”

He nodded, looking straight ahead, and sighed, “Too true. But this is really a tough business, Lionel.”

It was, too. I knew it as soon as he spoke. We never called each other “Leo” and “Lionel” in private unless some really serious matter was involved. I didn’t speak, but just sat and waited.