This was a period of one-man organizations, when a Don Douglas, a Dutch Kindleberger, a Tony Fokker, or an Igor Sikorsky carried under the crown of his hat all there was to know about aircraft engineering. Most of these men dealt with the Design Section, located in larger quarters up the corridor from the Engine Section, but as time passed, and especially after the “Affair Fleet,” others like Claire Egtvedt, of the Boeing Company, out in Seattle, and Chance Vought began filtering into the Engine Section. And now as Chance slid through our door, rigged out in his tramp regalia, the Section gathered around my desk for a little plain and fancy kidding. Although the room was warm, Chance was too much the showman to offer to take off the coat. Instead, he posed his question. “What’s cooking?” he inquired, biting his waxed moustache. “Nothing’s cooking,” I countered. “In fact, I can report ‘eight o’clock lights and galley fires out’ like any other good sailor.” Chance grinned. “I’m running out of work,” he said, “and if I can’t get a new contract soon I’ll have to close up shop.” Henry Mullinix shook his head as he put in his oar. “Mr. Vought,” he said, “you must know that your little UO, once the sweetest little job in the air, has now become so overloaded it can hardly stagger off a catapult. Surely you don’t expect the Bureau to buy any more trucks like that?” Chance bristled with indignation. “It’s the Bureau’s own fault,” he snorted. “They’ve added everything to it from automatic toilets to hot and cold running radios.” Ricco Botta added his salt to the wound. “It’s still a kluck,” he said, “no matter how you alibi it.” As Chance opened his mouth to retort, I gave him the _coup de grâce_. “Fact is, you’ve come to the end of your rope. If you want to do more business with this Bureau,” I concluded, “you may as well make up your mind to create something new.” Chance sat silent, fingering his moustache. “Do you really mean that?” he inquired. “We’re your friends,” I replied. Chance sat quietly as if debating his next course, and then, having made up his mind, he sprang a bombshell. “All right, my friends,” he said with a smile, “I’ve got a new airplane on the boards—one that will set the world on fire. But the new airplane calls for a new engine; I want three hundred and fifty real horsepower but on an engine weight of not over 650 pounds. If the Engine Section will give me that, I’ll give the Bureau the world’s best airplane.”