Detective and mystery stories, English; Horror tales, English
"Just after ten I touched the lower edge of the upper cloud-stratum. It
consisted of fine diaphanous vapour drifting swiftly from the
westwards. The wind had been steadily rising all this time and it was
now blowing a sharp breeze--twenty-eight an hour by my gauge. Already
it was very cold, though my altimeter only marked nine thousand. The
engines were working beautifully, and we went droning steadily upwards.
The cloud-bank was thicker than I had expected, but at last it thinned
out into a golden mist before me, and then in an instant I had shot out
from it, and there was an unclouded sky and a brilliant sun above my
head--all blue and gold above, all shining silver below, one vast,
glimmering plain as far as my eyes could reach. It was a quarter past
ten o'clock, and the barograph needle pointed to twelve thousand eight
hundred. Up I went and up, my ears concentrated upon the deep purring
of my motor, my eyes busy always with the watch, the revolution
indicator, the petrol lever, and the oil pump. No wonder aviators are
said to be a fearless race. With so many things to think of there is
no time to trouble about oneself. About this time I noted how
unreliable is the compass when above a certain height from earth. At
fifteen thousand feet mine was pointing east and a point south. The
sun and the wind gave me my true bearings.
"I had hoped to reach an eternal stillness in these high altitudes, but
with every thousand feet of ascent the gale grew stronger. My machine
groaned and trembled in every joint and rivet as she faced it, and
swept away like a sheet of paper when I banked her on the turn,
skimming down wind at a greater pace, perhaps, than ever mortal man has
moved. Yet I had always to turn again and tack up in the wind's eye,
for it was not merely a height record that I was after. By all my
calculations it was above little Wiltshire that my air-jungle lay, and
all my labour might be lost if I struck the outer layers at some
farther point.
"When I reached the nineteen-thousand-foot level, which was about
midday, the wind was so severe that I looked with some anxiety to the
stays of my wings, expecting momentarily to see them snap or slacken.
I even cast loose the parachute behind me, and fastened its hook into
the ring of my leathern belt, so as to be ready for the worst. Now was
the time when a bit of scamped work by the mechanic is paid for by the
life of the aeronaut. But she held together bravely. Every cord and
strut was humming and vibrating like so many harp-strings, but it was
glorious to see how, for all the beating and the buffeting, she was
still the conqueror of Nature and the mistress of the sky. There is
surely something divine in man himself that he should rise so superior
to the limitations which Creation seemed to impose--rise, too, by such
unselfish, heroic devotion as this air-conquest has shown. Talk of
human degeneration! When has such a story as this been written in the
annals of our race?
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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