ILLUSTRATIONS
WITH THE NIGHT MAIL
AERIAL BOARD OF CONTROL BULLETIN
NOTES
CORRESPONDENCE
REVIEWS
ADVERTISING SECTION

NIGHT MAIL

A STORY OF 2000 CE.

(TOGETHER WITH EXTRACTS FROM THE CONTEMPORARY
MAGAZINE IN WHICH IT APPEARED)

Books by Rudyard Kipling

The Brushwood Boy



Poems Collection





The Five Nations



The Second Jungle Book

Just So Stories Songbook





The Kipling Birthday Book





Many Innovations

The Naulahka (With Wolcott Balestier)





From Coast to Coast





, and In Black and White



They



, and Wee Willie Winkie

(TOGETHER WITH EXTRACTS FROM THE CONTEMPORARY
MAGAZINE IN WHICH IT APPEARED)

BY

Rudyard Kipling

Full-Color Illustrated

BY FRANK X. LEYENDECKER
AND H. REUTERDAHL

NYC

Doubleday, Page & Company
1909

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THE RIGHT TO TRANSLATE
INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING SCANDINAVIAN

COPYRIGHT, 1905, 1909, BY RUDYARD KIPLING
PUBLISHED, MARCH, 1909

REPRINTED IN BOOK FORM WITH PERMISSION FROM
THE S. S. McCLURE COMPANY

NEXT PAGE

WITH THE NIGHT MAIL

A STORY OF 2000 CE

[3]

At nine o'clock on a windy winter night, I stood on the lower levels of one of the G. P. O. outward mail towers. My goal was to take a run to Quebec in "Postal Packet 162 or any other that might be assigned"; and the Postmaster-General himself signed off on the order. This special authorization opened all doors, even those in the dispatch caisson at the bottom of the tower, where they were sorting the Continental mail. The bags were packed tightly like sardines in the long gray under-bodies that our G. P. O. still refers to as "coaches." I watched as five of these coaches were filled and sent up the guides to be locked onto their waiting[4] packets, three hundred feet closer to the stars.

From the dispatch center, I was guided by a polite and incredibly knowledgeable official—Mr. L. L. Geary, Second Dispatcher of the Western Route—to the Captains' Room (which sparks memories of old tales), where the mail captains come for their shifts. He introduces me to the Captain of "162"—Captain Purnall, and his relief, Captain Hodgson. One is small and dark; the other is large and red; but both have that intense, focused gaze typical of eagles and aviators. You can see it in the pictures of our racing professionals, from L. V. Rautsch to little Ada Warrleigh—that deep, distant look in their eyes always fixed on the open sky.

On the bulletin board in the Captains' Room, the flashing arrows of about twenty[5] indicators show, degree by degree, the progress of as many ships heading home. The word "Cape" appears on a dial; a gong rings: the South African mid-weekly mail has arrived at the Highgate Receiving Towers. That's it. It humorously reminds one of the little bell in pigeon keepers' lofts that signals the return of a homing pigeon.

"Time for us to get going," says Captain Purnall, and we're quickly taken up by the passenger lift to the top of the dispatch towers. "Our coach will secure itself once it's full and the clerks are on board."

"No. 162" is waiting for us in Slip E of the top stage. The great curve of her back glimmers coldly under the lights, and a slight adjustment to her trim makes her sway a bit in her holding-down slips.

Captain Purnall frowns and dives inside. Hissing softly, "162" stays level[6] as a rule. From her North Atlantic winter nose-cap (shiny like a diamond from cutting through countless leagues of hail, snow, and ice) to the inset of her three built-out propeller shafts is about two hundred and forty feet. Her maximum diameter, positioned well forward, is thirty-seven. Compare this to the nine hundred by ninety-five of any standard liner, and you'll understand the power required to move a hull through any weather at more than the emergency speed of the "Cyclonic"!

The eye sees no joints in her skin plating except for the curved gap of the bow-rudder—Magniac's rudder that gave us control over the unpredictable air but left its creator broke and partially blind. It's designed according to Castelli's "gull-wing" curve. Raise a few feet of that nearly invisible plate three-eighths of an inch and she will sway five miles to the left or right before she’s back under control. Turn the wheel all the way and she will snap back on her path like a whip. Tilt the whole front—a slight turn of the wheel is enough—and she glides in your desired direction, either up or down. Open the full circle and she presents a mushroom shape to the air that will bring her to a stop within half a mile.

"Yeah," says Captain Hodgson, responding to my thoughts, "Castelli thought he had figured out how to control airplanes when he had just learned how to steer blimps. Magniac created his rudder to help military boats crash into each other; then war fell out of favor, and Magniac lost his mind because he said he couldn't serve his country anymore. I wonder if any of us really know what we're doing."

"If you want to see the coach locked[8], you better get on board. It's due now," says Mr. Geary. I walk in through the midship door. There's nothing here to show off. The inner surface of the gas tanks comes down to a foot or two above my head and ends just before the bilges. Other liners and yachts cover their tanks with decorations, but the G. P. O. leaves them bare, with just a layer of gray official paint. The inner skin blocks off fifty feet of the bow and the same at the stern, but the bow bulkhead has a recess for the lift-shunting equipment, just as the stern has openings for the shaft tunnels. The engine room is almost in the middle. In front of it, extending to the curve of the bow tanks, is an opening—a currently bottomless hatch—where our coach will be locked. You can look down over the coamings three hundred feet to the dispatch caisson, where voices echo upward. The light[9] below is drowned out by a booming sound, as our coach rises on its guides. It quickly grows from the size of a postage stamp to a playing card; then to a small boat, and finally to a pontoon. The two clerks, operating it, don’t even glance up as it settles into place. The Quebec letters fly from their fingers into the organized racks, while both captains and Mr. Geary confirm that the coach is securely locked. A clerk hands over the waybill above the hatch coaming. Captain Purnall marks it with his thumb and passes it to Mr. Geary. A receipt has been given and received. "Enjoy the trip," says Mr. Geary, and steps through the door, which a foot-high pneumatic compressor locks behind him.

"Aah!" the compressor sighs as it's released. The holding-down clips pop apart with a snap. We're all clear.

Captain Hodgson opens the large underbody porthole of the colloid[10], and I watch London, lit up like a million lights, drift eastward as the strong wind takes hold of us. The first low winter clouds block the familiar view and cast a shadow over Middlesex. On the southern edge, I spot a postal ship's light cutting through the white clouds. For a moment, it shines like a star before it descends toward the Highgate Receiving Towers. "The Bombay Mail," Captain Hodgson says, checking his watch. "It's forty minutes late."

"What's our status?" I ask.

"Four thousand. Aren't you heading to the bridge?"

The bridge (let's always appreciate the G. P. O. as a keeper of the oldest traditions!) is depicted by a view of Captain Hodgson's legs as he stands on the control platform that crosses above. The bow colloid is open[11] and Captain Purnall, one hand on the wheel, is checking for a good angle. The dial reads 4,300 feet.

"It's steep tonight," he mutters, as layer after layer of cloud slips below. "We usually catch an easterly draft below three thousand feet this time of year. I hate slogging through fluff."

"So does Van Cutsem. Check him out looking for a slant!" says Captain Hodgson. A fog light breaks through the clouds a hundred fathoms below. The Antwerp Night Mail signals and appears between two racing clouds far to the left, her sides glowing blood-red in the glare of Sheerness Double Light. The gale will have us across the North Sea in half an hour, but Captain Purnall lets her go calmly—pointing to every direction as she rises.

"Five thousand—six, six thousand eight hundred"—the dip-dial reads before we find[12] the eastward drift, marked by a flurry of snow at the thousand-fathom level. Captain Purnall engages the engines and turns down the governor on the switch in front of him. There's no point in pushing machinery when Æolus himself gives you good knots for free. We're truly off now—our course fixed on our chosen star. At this altitude, the lower clouds are neatly arranged, smoothed by the dry touch of the East. Below that is the strong westerly wind that we rose through. Above us, a layer of southerly mist drapes a theatrical veil across the sky. The moonlight transforms the lower layers into silver, untouched except for where our shadow passes beneath us. Bristol and Cardiff Double Lights (those grand beams over Severnmouth) are right in front of us; we’re following the Southern Winter Route. Coventry Central, the hub of the[13] English system, flashes its diamond light northward every ten seconds; and a bit off our starboard bow, The Leek, the large cloud-breaker of Saint David's Head, swings its distinct green beam twenty-five degrees in either direction. There must be half a mile of fluff over it in this weather, but it doesn’t impact The Leek.

"Our planet's way too bright, if anything," says Captain Purnall at the wheel, as Cardiff-Bristol passes below. "I remember back in the day when you'd see common white clouds rising two or three thousand feet in a fog, if you knew where to look. In really fluffy weather, they might as well have been right above your head. You could easily get lost coming home back then and have some fun. Now, it's like driving down Piccadilly."

He points to the pillars of light where the[14] cloud-breakers cut through the cloud layer. We can't see any outlines of England: just a white surface filled with manholes of different colors of fire—Holy Island's white and red—St. Bee's interrupted white, and so on as far as we can see. Thank goodness for Sargent, Ahrens, and the Dubois brothers, who invented the cloud-breakers that let us travel safely!

"Are you going to lift for The Shamrock?" asks Captain Hodgson. Cork Light (green, fixed) gets bigger as we rush towards it. Captain Purnall nods. There's a lot of traffic around here—the cloud bank below us is marked with streaks of flame where the Atlantic boats are racing toward London just clear of the fluff. Mail packets are supposed to have the five-thousand-foot lanes to themselves, according to the Conference rules, but a foreigner in a hurry[15] tends to bend the rules when flying in English air. "No. 162" lifts with a long wail from the breeze in the fore-flange of the rudder, and we reach Valencia (white, green, white) at a safe 7,000 feet, dipping our beam to an incoming Washington packet.

There are no clouds over the Atlantic, and faint streaks of cream around Dingle Bay show where the crashing waves batter the shoreline. A big S.A.T.A. liner (Société Anonyme des Transports Aëriens) is diving and rising half a mile below us, trying to find a break in the relentless west wind. Lower down, there's a disabled Danish ship: she’s updating the liner on her situation in International. Our General Communication dial picks up her conversation and starts to eavesdrop. Captain Hodgson gestures to turn it off but hesitates. "Maybe you'd like to listen," he says.

"'Argol' of St. Thomas," the Dane[16] says quietly. "The report says the three starboard shaft collar bearings are fused. We can reach Flores as we are, but we can't go any further. Should we buy spare parts at Fayal?"

The liner agrees and suggests flipping the bearings. The "Argol" responds that she's already tried that without any results, and starts to express her concerns about inexpensive German enamels for collar bearings. The Frenchman nods in agreement, says "Courage, mon ami," and logs off.

Their lights fade below the edge of the ocean.

"That's one of Lundt & Bleamers's boats," Captain Hodgson says. "They deserve it for putting German parts in their thrust-blocks. She won't be in Fayal tonight! By the way, would you like to check out the engine room?"

I've been eagerly waiting for this invitation, and I’m following Captain Hodgson from[17] the control platform, crouching low to avoid the bulge of the tanks. We know Fleury's gas can lift anything, as the world-famous trials of '89 demonstrated, but its almost limitless expanding ability requires a lot of tank space. Even in this thin air, the lift-shunts are working to remove one-third of its normal lift, and still, "162" has to be managed with occasional downdraws of the rudder, or our flight would shoot up to the stars. Captain Purnall prefers a ship that's over-lifted rather than under-lifted; but every captain has a different way of trimming the ship. “When I take the bridge,” says Captain Hodgson, “you’ll see me shunt forty percent of the lift out of the gas and run her on the upper rudder. With a rise instead of a drop, as you say. Either way works. It’s just a habit. Keep an eye on our dip-dial! Tim brings her down once every thirty knots, just as regularly as breathing.”

[18]It’s displayed on the dip-dial. For about five or six minutes, the arrow slowly moves from 6,700 to 7,300. You can hear a faint "szgee" from the rudder, and then the arrow drifts back down to 6,500 at a decrease of ten or fifteen knots.

"In rough weather, you maneuver her with the throttles too," says Captain Hodgson, and, unclipping the jointed bar that separates the engine room from the empty deck, he leads me onto the floor.

Here we encounter Fleury's Paradox of the Bulkheaded Vacuum—something we now accept without question—fully operational. The three engines are H. T. & T. assisted-vacuo Fleury turbines running from 3,000 to the Limit—that is, up to the point where the blades create the "bell" effect—creating a vacuum for themselves just like over-driven marine propellers used to do. "162's" Limit is low because of the small size of her nine screws, which, although[19] more convenient than the old colloid Thelussons, reach the "bell" effect sooner. The midships engine, typically used as a backup, is not operational; therefore, the port and starboard turbine vacuum chambers draw directly into the return mains.

The turbines whistle softly. From the low-arched expansion tanks on either side, the valves drop down like pillars to the turbine chests, and from there, the gas rushes through the spirals of blades with enough force to rip the teeth right out of a power saw. Behind it, its own pressure is kept in check or pushed on by the lift shunts; in front of it, there's a vacuum where Fleury's Ray dances in violet-green bands and swirls of flame. The jointed U-tubes of the vacuum chamber are made of pressure-resistant material (no glass would withstand the stress, not even for a moment), and a junior engineer wearing tinted glasses watches the Ray closely. It is the very heart of the[20] machine—a mystery even today. Even Fleury, who created it and, unlike Magniac, died a billionaire, couldn’t explain how the restless little imp vibrating in the U-tube can, in a tiny fraction of a second, transform the intense blast of gas into a cold grayish-green liquid that drains (you can hear it trickle) from the far end of the vacuum through the eduction pipes and mains back to the bilges. Here, it returns to its gaseous state—one might almost say wise—and rises to start the process over again. The ordained cycle is bilge tank, upper tank, dorsal tank, expansion chamber, vacuum, main return (as a liquid), and bilge tank once more. Fleury's Ray ensures that happens; and the engineer with the tinted glasses ensures Fleury's Ray keeps going. If a speck of oil or even the natural grease from a human finger touches the hooded terminals, Fleury's Ray will blink out and[21] will have to be painstakingly rebuilt. This means a half day's work for everyone and an expense of around one hundred seventy pounds to the G. P. O. for radium salts and other minor things.

"Check out our thrust-collars. You won't find much German material here. Fully jeweled, as you can see," Captain Hodgson says while the engineer opens up the top of a cap. Our shaft-bearings are C. M. C. (Commercial Minerals Company) stones, polished with the same precision as a telescope lens. They cost £37 each. So far, we haven't reached their lifespan. These bearings came from "No. 97," which got them from the old "Dominion of Light," which salvaged them from the wreck of the "Perseus" airplane back when people were still flying linen kites powered by thorium engines!

They are a glaring criticism of all subpar German "ruby" enamels, so-called "boort"[22] facings, and the risky and disappointing alumina compounds that appeal to profit-driven owners and drive captains mad.

The rudder control and the gas lift shunt sit side by side under the engine room dials, and they're the only machines visibly moving. The rudder control lets out a sigh now and then as the oil plunger rises and falls by half an inch. The gas lift shunt, protected like the U-tube in the back, shows another Fleury Ray, but it's upside down and more green than violet. Its job is to redirect the lift from the gas, which it does without needing observation. That's it! A small pump rod wheezing and whining to itself next to a flickering green lamp. A hundred and fifty feet behind in the flat-topped tunnel of the tanks, a restless violet light flickers uncertainly. Between the two, three white-painted turbine trunks, like eel baskets tipped on their side, emphasize the empty space. You can hear the trickle of liquefied gas flowing from the vacuum into the bilge tanks and the soft gluck-glock of gas locks sealing as Captain Purnall brings "162" down by the head. The hum of the turbines and the rush of air on our skin is nothing more than a soft cushion against the universal stillness. And we're moving at an eighteen-second mile.

I look out from the front of the engine room over the hatch coamings into the coach. The mail clerks are sorting the bags for Winnipeg, Calgary, and Medicine Hat, but there's a deck of cards laid out on the table.

Suddenly, a bell rings; the engineers rush to the turbine valves and stand by, but the bespectacled assistant of the Ray in the U-tube never looks up. He has to stay focused on his work. We're hard-braking and moving backward; there’s chatter coming from the control platform.

[24]"Tim's really worked up about something," says the calm Captain Hodgson. "Let's check it out."

Captain Purnall is no longer the smooth guy we saw half an hour ago; he now represents the authority of the G.P.O. Ahead of us drifts an old, patched-up, twin-screw cargo ship that has no more right to the 5,000-foot lane than a horse-drawn cart does in a modern city. It has an outdated "barbette" conning tower—a six-foot structure with a railed platform in the front—and our warning light shines on top of it like a cop's flashlight on a lurking thief. Speaking of thieves, a disheveled navigator in his shirtsleeves appears. Captain Purnall yanks open the colloid to talk to him face-to-face. There are moments when science just doesn't cut it.

"What on earth are you doing here, you tall chimney sweep?"[25] he shouts as we drift side by side. "Do you know this is a Mail lane? You call yourself a sailor, sir? You’re not even fit to sell toy balloons to an Eskimo. Your name and number! Report and get down, and be——!"

"I've been blown up once," the shock-headed man shouts hoarsely, like a dog barking. "I don't care at all about anything you can do, Postey."

"Don’t you, sir? But I’ll make you care. I’ll have you towed in reverse to Disko and dismantled. You can’t get insurance if you’re broke for obstruction. Do you understand that?"

Then the stranger shouts, "Look at my propellers! There's been a crazy storm down below that's thrown us into a tailspin! We’ve been pushed up to about forty thousand feet! We’re all like a magician’s trick inside! My buddy’s arm is broken; my engineer’s head is cut open; my Ray went out when the engines crashed; and ... and ... please just tell me our altitude, Captain! We think we’re going down."

"Six thousand eight hundred. Can you handle it?" Captain Purnall ignores all the insults and leans halfway out of the mix, staring and sniffing. The stranger gives off a strong smell.

"We should get into St. John's with some luck. We're trying to seal the fore-tank now, but it's just whistling away," her captain laments.

"She's going down like a rock," Captain Purnall says quietly. "Get the Banks Mark Boat on the line, George." Our dip-dial indicates that while keeping pace with the tramp, we've sunk five hundred feet in the last few minutes.

Captain Purnall flips a switch and our[27] signal beam starts to sweep through the night, spinning rays of light into the distance.

"That'll get something," he says, while Captain Hodgson monitors the General Communicator. He has contacted the North Banks Mark Boat, a few hundred miles to the west, and is reporting the situation.

"I've got your back," Captain Purnall shouts to the lone figure on the conning tower.

"Is it really that bad?" comes the reply. "She isn't insured; she's mine."

"Might've guessed that," mutters Hodgson. "The owner's risk is the worst risk of all!"

"Can't I get St. John's—not even with this breeze?" the voice trembles.

"Get ready to abandon ship. Don't you have any strength left in you, front or back?"

"Nothing but the midship tanks, and they're not very secure. You see, my Ray[28] failed, and—" he coughs in the stench of the leaking gas.

"You poor guy!" This doesn't get through to our friend. "What does the Mark Boat say, George?"

"Wants to know if there's any danger to traffic. Says she's in a bit of weather herself and can't leave the station. I've sent out a General Call, so even if they don’t see our signal, someone is sure to help—or else we have to. Should I clear our slings? Hold on! Here we are! A Planet liner, too! It’ll be here in a moment!"

"Tell her to get her slings ready," yells his brother captain. "We won't have much time to waste.... Secure your buddy," he shouts at the tramp.

"My friend is fine. It's my engineer. He's lost his mind."

"Get the lift out of him with a wrench. Hurry up!"

[29]"But I can reach St. John's if you'll support me."

"You'll reach the deep, wet Atlantic in twenty minutes. You're just under fifty-eight hundred now. Get your papers."

A Planet liner heading east rises up in a beautiful spiral and takes off with a hum. Its underbody is open, and its transporter slings hang down like tentacles. We turn off our beam as it perfectly maneuvers over the tramp's conning tower. The mate comes up, his arm strapped to his side, and stumbles into the cradle. A man with a horrifying scarlet head follows, shouting that he has to go back and recharge his Ray. The mate reassures him that he’ll find a nice new Ray all set in the liner's engine room. The bandaged head nods excitedly. A young man and a woman follow. The liner cheers emptily above us, and[30] we see the passengers' faces in the saloon's underbody.

"That's a good girl. What's the idiot waiting for now?" says Captain Purnall.

The captain comes up, still asking us to stay and watch him get St. John's. He goes below deck and comes back—at which point we, the small humans in the emptiness, cheer louder than ever—with the ship's kitten. Up go the liner's hissing slings; her bottom slams back down and she takes off again. The dial shows less than 3,000 feet.

The Mark Boat signals that we need to pay attention to the abandoned vessel, now whistling its last tune as it sinks below us in long, sickly zigzags.

"Stay focused on her and issue a General Warning," says Captain Purnall, trailing behind her.

There’s no need. Not a plane in the sky but understands the meaning of that vertical[31] beam and steers clear of us and our target.

"But she's going to drown in the water, right?" I ask.

"Not always," he replies. "I’ve seen a derelict turn things around and run on her forward tanks for three weeks. We won't take any chances. Check her, George, and hurry up. There's bad weather coming."

Captain Hodgson opens the underbody colloid, pulls the heavy pithing-iron out of its rack, which in liners is usually designed as a bench, and at two hundred feet, releases the catch. We hear the whir of the crescent-shaped arms opening as they descend. The derelict's forehead is bashed in, marked with stars, and torn diagonally. She falls stern first, our beam on her; slides like a lost soul down[32] that unforgiving ladder of light, and the Atlantic takes her.

"A dirty business," says Hodgson. "I wonder what it was like back then."

The thought had crossed my mind too. What if that swaying body had been filled with men from all over the world, each one taught (that’s the horror of it!) that after death he would very possibly go on to suffer unimaginable torment forever?

And it hasn't even been half a century since we (it's clear now that we are just our fathers expanded on earth), we, I say, tore through and filled and experienced with great admiration.

Here Tim, from the control platform, shouts that we need to get into our inflators and bring him his right away.

We rush into the heavy rubber suits—and the engineers are already dressed—and[33] inflate at the air-pump taps. G. P. O. inflators are three times as thick as a racer's "flickers," and they rub painfully under the armpits. George takes the wheel until Tim has inflated himself to the maximum size. If you kicked him off the c. p. to the deck he would bounce back. But it is "162" that will do the kicking.

"The Mark Boat's insane—completely nuts," he scoffs, going back to the controls. "She says there’s a bad storm coming and wants me to head to Greenland. I’ll deal with her later! We spent an hour and fifteen minutes on that useless dead duck below, and now I’m supposed to go cruising around the Pole? What does she think a postal packet is made of? Gummed silk? Tell her we’re coming straight in, George."

George secures him in the Frame and turns on the Direct Control. Now under Tim's left toe is the port-engine Ac[34]celerator; under his left heel is the Reverse, and the same goes for his other foot. The lift-shunt stops are positioned on the edge of the steering wheel where the fingers of his left hand can easily reach them. To his right is the midships engine lever, ready to be engaged at any moment. He leans forward in his seat, eyes fixed on the colloid, with one ear tuned into the General Communicator. From now on, he is the power and direction of "162," no matter what happens.

The Banks Mark Boat is sending out pages of A.B.C. Directions to everyone. We need to secure all "loose objects," cover our Fleury Rays, and "under no circumstances try to clear snow from our conning-towers until the weather improves." We’re told that under-powered boats can rise to their lift limit, and mail packets should watch for them accordingly; the lower[35] lanes to the west are in really bad shape, "with frequent blow-outs, vortices, laterals, etc."

Still, the clear dark stays unmarked. The only sign is the electric tension in my skin (I feel like a lace-maker's pillow) and an irritability that the chatter of the General Communicator ramps up to almost hysterical levels.

We’ve reached eight thousand feet since we got rid of the tramp, and our turbines are giving us a solid two hundred and ten knots.

Way out to the west, a long red blur appears low on the horizon, marking the North Banks Mark Boat. Little dots of light flicker around her, rising and falling—confused planets orbiting a volatile sun—vulnerable ships clinging to her light for companionship. It’s no surprise she couldn’t leave her post.

She warns us to watch out for the backlash from the bad vortex that she is currently caught in, as her beam indicates.

The dark pits around us start to fill with faintly glowing shapes—twisting and restless forms. One turns into a globe of pale flame that waits, trembling with anticipation, until we pass by. It jumps absurdly through the darkness, lands right on the tip of our nose, spins there for a moment, and then takes off. Our roaring bow sinks as if that light were lead—sinks and then bounces back, lurching and stumbling again with the next turbulence. Tim's fingers on the lift-shunt hit chords of numbers—1:4:7:—2:4:6:—7:5:3, and so on; he's adjusting using only the tanks, lifting or lowering the craft against the restless air. All three engines are running because the sooner we get past this thin ice, the better. We can't go any higher. The whole upper area is filled with pale krypton[37] vapors, which could be set off by our skin friction in dangerous ways. Between the upper and lower levels—5,000 and 7,000, hints the Mark Boat—we might just make it through if... Our bow is engulfed in blue flame and drops like a sword. No human skill can keep up with the changing pressures. A vortex has us by the beak, and we dive down a two-thousand-foot slope at a thirty-five degree angle (the dip-dial and my bouncing body record it). Our turbines scream loudly; the propellers can't grab the thin air; Tim drains the lift from five tanks at once and forces her through the chaos until we cushion with a jolt on an updraft, three thousand feet below.

"Now we've done it," George whispers in my ear. "Our skin friction that last slide really messed with the tensions! Look[38] out for laterals, Tim, she's going to need some support."

"I've got her," is the response. "Come up, old lady."

She rises nobly, but the waves hit her from both sides like the wings of furious angels. She's thrown off her path in four directions at once, but forced back into place, only to be tossed aside and plunged into a new chaos. We’re always accompanied by a spark of energy at our front or rolling over from the bow to the midship, and along with the crackle of electricity surrounding us is the occasional sound of hail—hail that will never land on any ocean. We must go slowly, or we could snap our backs, flipping end over end.

"Air's a completely elastic fluid," George shouts over the chaos. "It's about as elastic as a rough sea off the Fastnet, right?"

He is not fair to the good elements.[39] If you interrupt the Heavens while they are balancing their accounts; if you disturb the High Gods' market rates by speeding steel hulls at ninety knots across carefully adjusted electric tensions, you can't complain about any rudeness in the reception. Tim faced it with a calm expression, one corner of his lower lip caught on a tooth, his eyes fleeting into the darkness twenty miles ahead, and fierce sparks flying from his knuckles with every turn of his hand. Every now and then he shook his head to clear the sweat dripping from his eyebrows, and that was when George, seizing the opportunity, would slide down the life-rail and quickly wipe his face with a big red handkerchief. I never thought a human being could work so tirelessly and think so clearly as Tim did through that Hellish half hour when the chaos was at its worst. We were pulled back and forth by warm or cold suction, tossed up on the tops of waves, spun down by vortices, and knocked aside by currents under a dizzying rush of stars alongside a drunken moon. I heard the rushing click of the midship-engine lever sliding in and out, the low rumble of the lift-shunts, and louder than the howling winds outside, the scream of the bow rudder digging into any brief moment of calm. Finally, we began to claw up at an angle, bow rudder and port propeller working together; only the finest balancing of the tanks saved us from spinning like the bullets of old.

"We need to get ahead of that Mark Boat somehow," George shouted.

"There's no windward," I protested weakly, as I hung shackled to a post. "How can there be?"

He laughed as we plunged into a thousand-foot drop— that red man laughed beneath his inflated hood!

"Look!" he said. "We need to move those refugees with a high lift."

The Mark Boat was below us and slightly to the southwest, moving in the middle of its chaotic surroundings. The air was filled with lights flickering at every level. I assume most of them were trying to point into the wind, but since they weren't hydras, they didn't manage. An under-equipped Moghrabi boat had reached the peak of its lift and, seeing no improvement, had dropped a couple of thousand feet. There, it encountered a powerful wulli-wa and exploded, spinning like a dead leaf. Instead of shutting off it went backward and, of course, bounced off like it hit a wall, almost colliding with the Mark Boat, whose communication (our G.C. understood it) was refreshingly straightforward.

"If they would just ride it out quietly, it would be better," said George calmly as we[42] climbed like a bat above them all. "But some skippers will navigate without enough lift. What does that Tad-boat think she's doing, Tim?"

"Playing kiss in the ring," was Tim's unfazed response. A Trans-Asiatic Direct liner had smoothly hit it full throttle. But there was a vortex at the end of that smooth, so the T.A.D. was tossed out like a pea from a fingernail, braking wildly as it descended and almost flipped over.

"Now I hope she's happy," said Tim. "I'm glad I'm not a Mark Boat.... Do I need help?" The C. G. dial had caught his attention. "George, you can tell that guy with my love—love, remember, George—that I do not need help. Who is the annoying busybody?"

"A Rimouski tugboat on the lookout for a tow."

[43] "Very generous of the Rimouski druggist. This postal package isn’t being hauled at the moment."

"Those salvage ships will go anywhere for a chance to recover something," George explained. "We call them kittiwakes."

A long-beaked, shiny steel ninety-footer floated effortlessly close to us for a moment, her slings coiled and ready for rescues, with just one person in her open tower. He was smoking. Relieved by the chaos of the winds as we rushed by, he lay back in complete tranquility. I watched the smoke from his pipe rise peacefully before his boat dropped, almost like a stone in a well.

We had just passed the Mark Boat and her messy neighbors when the storm stopped as quickly as it had started. A shooting star to the north lit up the sky with a green flash from a meteorite burning up in our atmosphere.

[44]George said, "That might resolve all the tensions." As he spoke, the conflicting winds settled down; the waters calmed; the waves faded into gentle swells; the airways cleared up in front of us. In less than three minutes, the group around the Mark Boat had turned off their power-lights and zoomed off to attend to their tasks.

"What's going on?" I gasped. The nerve storm inside me and the tingle outside had faded: my inflators felt heavy like lead.

"God, He knows!" said Captain George seriously. "That old shooting star's skin friction has released the different levels. I've seen it happen before. Phew! What a relief!"

We went from ten thousand to six thousand and took off our sweaty suits. Tim turned off and stepped out of the Frame. The Mark Boat was coming up behind us. He[45] opened the colloid in that blissful quiet and wiped his face.

"Hey, Williams!" he shouted. "A bit out of your usual spot, aren’t you?"

"Maybe," was the response from the Mark Boat. "I've had some company tonight."

"So I noticed. Wasn't that quite a draft?"

"I told you so. Why didn't you back out at Disko? The east-bound ships have."

"Me? Not until I’m running a Polar tuberculosis sanatorium boat. I was squinting through a microscope before you were even out of your crib, kid."

"I'd be the last person to deny it," the captain of the Mark Boat replies quietly. "The way you handled her just now—I'm a pretty decent judge of traffic in a volt-flurry—it was a thousand revolutions beyond anything even I've ever seen."

Tim's back visibly relaxes with this oiling. Captain George on the c. p. winks and points to the portrait of a strikingly attractive woman pinned up on Tim's telescope bracket above the steering wheel.

I get it. I completely understand!

There’s some chatter overhead about "coming over for tea on Friday," a quick update on the derelict's fate, and Tim chimes in as he heads down: "For an A.B.C. guy, young Williams isn’t as reckless as some.... Were you planning to take her on, George? Then I’ll just take a look at that port-thrust—it seems a bit warm to me—and we’ll move on."

The Mark Boat takes off cheerfully and settles into her designated spot. Here she will remain, an open observatory; a lifeboat station; a salvage tug; a court of final appeal and weather bureau for three hundred miles in any direction, until next Wednesday when her replacement comes to take her battered place. Her black hull, double conning tower, and always-ready slings are all that’s left of that strange old concept of authority on the planet. She answers only to the Aërial Board of Control—the A.B.C. that Tim talks about so casually. But that semi-elected, semi-appointed group of a few dozen people of both genders controls this planet. "Transportation is Civilization," our motto goes. Theoretically, we can do whatever we want as long as we don’t disrupt the traffic and everything it involves. In practice, the A.B.C. approves or rejects all international agreements and, judging by its latest report, sees our easygoing, humorous, lazy little planet as more than willing to take on the entire[48] burden of private management.

I talk about this with Tim, sipping maté on the c. p. while George fans her along over the white blur of the Banks in beautiful upward curves of fifty miles each. The dip-dial translates them on the tape in flowing freehand.

Tim grabs a length of it and looks over the last few feet, which show "162's" route through the electric storm.

"I haven't had a fever chart like this in five years," he says with a hint of regret.

A postal packet's dip-dial tracks every yard of every run. The tapes are then sent to the A. B. C., which compiles and creates composite photos of them for the captains' guidance. Tim reflects on his unchangeable past, shaking his head.

"Hello! Here's a fifteen-hundred-foot drop at eighty-five degrees! We must[49] have been upside down then, George."

"You don’t say," George replies. "I thought I noticed that at the time."

George might not have Captain Purnall's lightning-fast reflexes, but he’s every bit the artist with his broad fingers dancing over the shunt-stops. The smooth flight curves flow onto the tape without a hitch. The Mark Boat’s vertical beam of light points east, setting against the backdrop of the stars. To the west, where no planet should rise, the three verticals of Trinity Bay (we’re sticking to the Southern route) create a low-hanging haze. We seem to be the only thing still beneath the vast sky; floating comfortably until the earth’s rotation brings our landing towers into view.

And minute by minute, our quiet clock shows us a sixteen-second mile.

[50]"One of these nights," says Tim. "We'll get back at that clock's Master."

"He's coming now," George says, looking back. "I'm chasing the night west."

The stars ahead shine just as softly as if a layer of mist had been quietly rolled in, but the deep rush of air against our skin transforms into a happy shout.

"The dawn breeze," Tim says. "It's heading off to meet the Sun. Look! Look! There’s the darkness being pushed back over our bow! Come to the back deck. I'll show you something."

The engine room is hot and stuffy; the clerks in the coach are asleep, and the Slave of the Ray is about to join them. Tim slides open the back hatch and reveals the curve of the world—the ocean's deepest purple—trimmed with blazing and unbearable gold. Then the sun rises and through the[51] hatch shuts off our lamps. Tim frowns.

"Squirrels in a cage," he mutters. "That's all we are. Squirrels in a cage! He's going twice as fast as us. Just you wait a few years, my shining friend, and we'll take steps that will amaze you. We'll Joshua you!"

Yes, that is our dream: to turn the entire earth into the Vale of Ajalon at our will. So far, we can stretch the dawn to twice its normal length in these regions. But one day—even at the Equator—we will keep the Sun steady in its full course.

Now we look out over a sea packed with heavy traffic. A large submersible suddenly breaks the surface. One after another, they follow with splashes, sucking sounds, and a wild bubbling of released pressure. The deep-sea freighters are surfacing to catch their breath after a long night, and the calm ocean is covered with patterns of foamy peacock's eyes.

"We'll speed up, too," says Tim, and when we get back to the c. p. George shuts off, the colloids are opened, and the fresh air sweeps her out. There’s no rush. The old contracts (they will be updated at the end of the year) allow twelve hours for a journey that any vessel can complete in ten. So we enjoy breakfast in the embrace of an easterly breeze that moves us along at a relaxed twenty.

To enjoy life and tobacco, start on a sunny morning about half a mile above the dappled Atlantic clouds, after a burst of energy that has cleared and calmed your nerves. While we talked about the increasing traffic with the confidence that comes from having a higher perspective, we heard (and I heard for the first time) the morning hymn from a hospital boat.

She was covered by a tangle of unravelled fluff[53] beneath us, and we heard the chant before she emerged into the sunlight. "Oh, ye Winds of God," sang the unseen voices: "bless ye the Lord! Praise Him and magnify Him forever!"

We took off our caps and joined in. When our shadow fell over her large open platforms, they looked up and reached out their hands in a friendly way while they sang. We could see the doctors, the nurses, and the pale faces of the patients in their cots. She moved slowly beneath us, heading north, her hull, wet with the night’s dew, shining brightly in the sunlight. Then she took the shadow of a cloud and disappeared, her song still going. Oh, you holy and humble men of heart, bless the Lord! Praise Him and magnify Him forever.

"She’s a public performer or she wouldn’t have been singing the Benedicite; and she’s from Greenland or she wouldn’t have snow-blinded over her colloids," George finally said. "She’s probably headed to Frederikshavn or one of the Glacier sanatoriums for a month. If she were in an accident ward, she’d be stuck at the eight-thousand-foot level. Yeah—tuberculosis patients."

"Isn't it funny how new things are just old things? I read in books," Tim replied, "that primitive people used to carry their sick and injured to the tops of hills because there were fewer germs up there. We just put them in sanitized air for a bit. It's the same concept. How much do the doctors say we've added to the average lifespan of a man?"

"Thirty years," George says with a spark in his eye. "Are we going to spend all that time here, Tim?"

"Go ahead, keep flapping. Who's stopping you?" the senior captain laughed as we entered.

We had a good lift to clear the coastwise[55] and Continental shipping; and we needed it. Even though our route isn't exactly populated, there's a constant stream of traffic coming through. We encountered Hudson Bay fur traders coming out of the Great Preserve, rushing to leave Bonavista with sable and black fox for the ever-demanding markets. We crossed paths with Keewatin liners, small and cramped, but their captains, who see no land between Trepassy and Blanco, know the value of the gold they bring back from West Africa. We also met Trans-Asiatic Directs, making their way around the world at a respectable seventy knots; and white-painted Ackroyd & Hunt fruit boats from the south sped beneath us, their ventilated hulls whistling like Chinese kites. Their market is in the North among the northern sanatoria, where you can smell their grapefruit and bananas across the cold snows. We also spotted Argentine beef[56] boats, huge and unattractive. They, too, supply the northern health centers in ice-covered ports where submarines wouldn't dare surface.

Yellow-bellied ore-flats and Ungava petrol-tanks floated down from the north like groups of unafraid wild ducks. It’s not worth the hassle to transport minerals and oil even a mile further than necessary, but the dangers of transferring to submersibles in the ice off Nain or Hebron are so high that these heavy freighters head straight for Halifax, enjoying the journey. They're the largest freighters in the air besides the Athabasca grain-tubs. However, now that the wheat has been shipped, those grain-tubs are busy transporting timber in Siberia.

We stuck to the St. Lawrence (it’s amazing how the old waterways still attract us kids of the air), and followed his wide[57] line of black between the drifting ice blocks, all the way down the Park that our fathers knew best—but everyone knows the Quebec run.

We arrived at the Heights Receiving Towers twenty minutes early and waited comfortably until the Yokohama Intermediate Packet could depart and give us our proper slip. It was interesting to watch the holding-down clips along the chilly riverfront as the boats departed or docked. A large Hamburger was departing from Pont Levis, and as her crew removed the platform railings, they started to sing "Elsinore"—the oldest of our sea shanties. You know it, of course:

Then, while they worked hard to bring home the covering plates:

The clips separated with a gesture of outraged dismissal, as if Quebec, shining under her snows, were casting away these shallow and unworthy lovers. Our signal came from the Heights. Tim turned and floated up, but surely it was with intense longing that the grand tower arms swung open—or did I think that because on the upper platform a small hooded figure also spread her arms wide towards her father?

In ten seconds, the coach with its staff arrived at the waiting area; the stable workers took over from the engineers at the idle [59] turbines, and Tim, prouder of this than anything else, introduced me to the woman in the photograph on the shelf. "By the way," he said to her, stepping into the sunlight under the hat of everyday life, "I saw young Williams in the Mark Boat. I’ve invited him for tea on Friday."

[60]

[61]

Aerial Control Board

No changes in English Inland lights for the week ending December 18.

Planetary Coastal Lights. Week ending Dec. 18. Verde's inclined guide light will change from the first of next month to a triple flash—green, white, green—replacing the previously used occulting red. The warning light for Harmattan winds will now be a continuous vertical white glare on all oases along the main trans-Saharan routes, N. E. by E.

Invercargill (N. Z.)—Starting on the 1st of next month: an extreme southerly light (double red) will show a white beam tilted at 45 degrees when a Southerly Buster is approaching. Air traffic operates at high altitudes off this coast from April to October.

Table Bay—Devil's Peak glare has cleared to Simonsberg. Ships navigating the Table Mountain coastline must keep all lights from Three Anchor Bay at least five hundred feet below, and should not round until they're past the eastern side of Devil's Peak.

Sandheads Lighthouse—Green triple vertical marks a new private landing stage for Bay and Burma traffic only.

Snaefell Glacier—White light that disappears for winter.

Patagonia—No summer light south of C. Pilar. This includes Staten Island and Port Stanley.

C. Navarin—Four quick bursts of white fog light, one-minute intervals (new).

[62]East Cape—Fog flash—single white with single bomb, 30 sec. intervals (new).

Malay Archipelago lights are unreliable due to eruptions. They stretch from Somerset to Singapore directly, maintaining the highest levels.

For the Board:

Week ending Dec. 18.

Sable Island Landing Towers—A green freighter, its number unreadable, was flipped over and had a hole in its front tank after a collision. It passed the 300-ft. level at 2 pm on December 15th. Observed from the water and checked by Mark Boat.

N.F. Banks—Postal Packet 162 reports that the freighter Halma (Fowey—St. John's) has been abandoned and is leaking after bad weather, located at 46° 15' N, 50° 15' W. The crew was rescued by the Planet liner Asteroid. They were observed in the water and secured by the postal packet on December 14th.

Kerguelen Marker Boat reports the last call from the Cymena freighter (Gayer Tong-Huk & Co.) taking on water and sinking in a snowstorm near the South McDonald Islands. No wreckage has been recovered. The addresses and other details of the crew are available at all A. B. C. offices.

Fezzan—T. A. D. freighter Ulema run aground during Harmattan on Akakus Range. Under plates damaged. Crew at Ghat where repairs are underway Dec. 13th.

Biscay, Mark's Boat reports Carducci (Valandingham line) slightly damaged in the western gorge Point de[63] Benasque. Passengers were moved to Andorra (same line). Barcelona Mark Boat salvaging cargo on Dec. 12th.

Ascension, Mark's Boat—Wreck of an unidentified racing plane, Parden rudder, wire-reinforced xylonite wings, and Harliss engine mounting, spotted and recovered at 7° 20' S. 18° 41' W. on Dec. 15th. Photos available at all A. B. C. offices.

No response to General Call has been received in the past week from the following overdue items, so they are now listed as missing.

General Call (all Mark Boats) out for:

Valkyrie (racing plane), A. J. Hartley owner, New York (twice warned).

Geisha (racing plane), S. van Cott owner, Philadelphia (twice warned).

Marvel of Peru (racing plane), J. X. Peixoto owner, Rio de Janeiro (twice warned).

For the Board of Directors

[64]

[65]

Notes

The weather in the North isn't showing any signs of getting better. Complaints are coming in from everywhere about the unusual amount of sleet at higher altitudes. Both racing planes and diggers have had a tough time—the planes struggle with uneven layers of half-frozen slush on their vans (only those who have "held up" a poorly balanced plane in a crosswind know what that feels like), while the diggers are weighed down by heavy loads and snow-covered bodies. As a result, the Northern and Northwestern upper levels have largely been deserted, and the high flyers have returned to the safer altitudes of three, five, and six hundred feet. However, there are still a few determined sun-seekers who, despite having frozen stays and ice-blocked connecting rods, are still soaring through the blue sky.

The scandals of the past few years have finally pushed the yachting community to take united action regarding "bat" boat racing.

We've witnessed the spectacle of nearly keeled racing planes flying a clear five feet or more above the water, only coming down to touch their so-called "native element" as they approach the finish line. Judges and starters have conveniently ignored this absurdity, but the public demonstration off St. Catherine's Light at the Autumn Regattas has finally shown some, albeit delayed, results. Going forward, the "bat" will be recognized as a boat, and the long-ignored request of true sports enthusiasts for "no daylight under mid-keel in smooth water" is likely to be granted. The new rule significantly limits both plane area and lift. The gas compartments can be placed both fore and aft, like in the old designs, but a central water-ballast tank is now mandatory. These adjustments may not achieve perfection, but they do promote the development of a rational and practical waterborne cruiser. The type of rudder remains unchanged by the new rules, so we can expect the Long-Davidson design (whose patent has just expired) to see increased use moving forward, although the strain on the sternpost when turning at speeds over forty miles an hour is clearly quite intense. However, bat-boat racing has a bright future ahead.

[67]

[68]

Communication

To the Editor—Just last week, while crossing the Equator (W. 26.15), I noticed intense and erratic cannon fire about fifteen or twenty knots S. 4 E. Descending to the 500 ft. level, I found a group of Transylvanian tourists setting off a ton of the largest atmospheric bombs (A. B. C. standard), and in between their enjoyable activities, they were firing smoke-ring cannons from both the front and back. This orgy—that's the only way I can describe it—went on for at least two hours and, understandably, caused severe electric disruptions. My compasses were, of course, affected, my bow was hit twice, and I got jolted twice from the lower platform rail. When I complained, I was told that these "professors" were conducting scientific experiments. You can judge the extent of their "scientific" knowledge by the fact that they expected to create (I'm quoting them) "a little blue sky" if "they kept it up long enough." This in the middle of the Doldrums at 450 feet! I have no issue with any amount of blue sky in the right place (you can find it at the 2,000 ft. level for nearly a whole year), but I must respectfully suggest that "sky-larking" in the middle of a heavily traveled route, where at the best of times electricity literally drips from one's stanchions and screw blades, is unnecessary. When my friends were done, the road was scorched, blown, and pitted with uneven pressure layers, spirals,[69] vortices, and adjustments for at least an hour. I had two rough pitches in an upward climb—entirely due to these reckless toss-outs—that nearly wrecked my propeller. Working in the Equatorial region at low levels is challenging enough without the added stress of scientific hooliganism in the Doldrums.

[We completely agree with Professor Mathews's opinions, but unfortunately until the Board decides to better regulate the Southern regions where scientific experiments can happen, we will always face the risk our correspondent talks about. Sadly, a fantasy buzzing around in a vacuum is, these days, all too likely to create secondary effects.—Editor.]

Vigilant—The Laws of Auroral Disruptions are still not fully understood. Any overheated engine can "seize" unexpectedly; however, we’ve received numerous reports of accidents like yours while observing the Aurora. We tend to agree with Lavalle that the upper layers of the Aurora Borealis act like a massive electric "leak," and that your engine failure was likely caused by complete magnetization of all metal parts. Low-flying planes often "jam" when they're near the Magnetic Pole, and there’s no scientific reason why the same issue wouldn't occur at higher altitudes during strong Auroras.

Outraged—Based on your own account, you were out of control. The fact that you couldn’t raise the necessary N. U. C. lights when approaching a traffic lane because your electrics short-circuited is an unfortunate event that could happen to anyone. However, the A. B. C., which is responsible for the[70] planet's traffic, can’t make exceptions for situations like this. If you check the Code, you’ll see that you were fined at the lower rate.

Planiston—(1) Last year, L. V. Rautsch and his brother R. M. Rautsch won the Five Thousand Kilometre (overland) race, achieving this in the same week they also completed the Ten Thousand (oversea). R. M.'s average speed was just over 500 kilometres per hour, setting a new record. (2) In theory, there’s no limit to how much lift a dirigible can have. For commercial and practical use, 15,000 tons is considered the most manageable.

Head of the household—None at all. He is responsible for direct damage to your chimneys and any collateral damage caused by bricks falling into your garden, etc., etc. Physical discomfort and emotional suffering may be included, but typically, the average jury isn't very sympathetic. If you can show that his grapnel removed any part of your roof, you should focus your case on the invasion of your home (See Parkins v. Duboulay). We completely understand your situation, but the night of the 14th was stormy and chaotic, and—you might end up anchoring on a stranger's chimney yourself one night. Verbum sap!

Aldebaran—War, as a profitable enterprise, ended in 1967. (2) The London Convention clearly allows every nation the right to go to war as long as it doesn’t disrupt global trade. (3) The A. B. C. was established in 1949.

L. M. D.—Keep her facing straight into the wind at half power, using the lulls to speed up and move into it. This way, she will struggle a lot less than if you tried to go across a strong wind. (2) There's no benefit to backing into a following wind, and there's always a chance of capsizing. (3) The formulas for stun'sle brakes are consistently unreliable and will remain that way as long as air can be compressed.

[71]Pegamoid—We personally prefer glass or flux compounds over any other materials for winter work nose-caps because they are completely non-hygroscopic. (2) We can't recommend any specific brand.

Lung—Based on the symptoms you mentioned, consider the Gobi Desert Sanitaria. The low levels at the Saharan Sanitaria aren’t effective for them unless it’s at the very beginning of the illness. (2) We don’t suggest boarding houses or hotels in this section.

Newbie—On calm days, the air above a big city is slightly warmer—that is, less dense—than the air in the surrounding countryside, so a plane drops a bit when it enters that thinner area, just like a ship sinks a little in fresh water. This explains the "jolt" and your "mysterious collisions" with factory chimneys. In the air, just like on the ground, it's safest to fly at a higher altitude.

Urgent—There’s just one rule for the road in the air, earth, and water. Do you want the sky all to yourself?

Picciola—Both the North and South Poles have been exaggerated in Art and Literature. Let's leave them to Science for the next twenty years. You didn’t include a stamp with your poems.

Northern Nigeria—The Mark Boat was correct to warn you on the Reserve. The shadow of a low-flying airship frightens the animals. You can get all the photos you want in Sokoto.

New Era—It's not polite to cross an A. B. C. official's boat without getting permission first. He's part of the team responsible for the planet's traffic, and he shouldn't be disturbed. You're likely out for your own reasons, whether work or leisure, so just let him be. For the sake of humanity, don’t try to be "democratic."

[72]

[73]

Ratings

(Reviewed by Réné Talland. Aeronautics School, Paris)

Ten years ago, Lavalle, "that unshakeable dreamer of the heavens," as Lazareff called him, pulled together the results of a lifetime's work and handed it, with well-deserved disdain, to a world that was completely tied to Barald's Theory of Vertices and "compensating electric nodes." "They will see," he wrote—in that famous postscript to "The Heart of the Cyclone"—"the Laws they mocked, written in fire beneath them."

"But even here," he continues, "there’s no finality. It’s better a thousand times for my conclusions to be disproven than for my dead name to block the entrance to the temple of Science—a barrier to further investigation."

So died Lavalle—a prince of the Powers of the Air, and even at his funeral, Céllier joked about "him who had gone to uncover the secrets of the Northern Lights."

If I choose to be ordinary, it’s only to remind you that Céllier's theories are as discredited today as the ridiculous conclusions of the Spanish school. Instead of their fleeting and conflicting ideas, we now have Lavalle's Law of the Cyclone, which he discovered in the darkness and cold at the foot of the towering throne of the Northern Lights. It is there that I, focused on my own research, have passed by the same worn lion-like face, white as the snow beneath him, lined with wrinkles like the seams and cuts on the North Cape; the nervous hand, an integral part of the mechanism of his flighter; and above all, the amazing glowing eyes looking up at the sky.

"Master," I would call out as I moved respectfully beneath him, "what is it you seek today?" and always the answer, clear and without a doubt, from above: "The old secret, my son!"

The huge self-importance of youth pushed me onto my own path, but (oh, the cry of humanity!) if I had known—if I had really known—I would have gladly traded my little achievements many times over for the chance, like Tinsley and Herrera, to have helped him in his groundbreaking research.

It’s thanks to Victor Lavalle’s devotion to his father that we have the two volumes dedicated to his dad’s everyday life, filled with the cherished moments of home. After returning from the depths of the far North to their small house on the outskirts of Meudon, it wasn’t the philosopher, the bold observer, or the man of strong will that stood out to his family, but rather a chubby and somewhat sad clown, a true entertainer and kind soul, equal to his children. It must be noted that he was often the comic source of despair for Madame Lavalle, who, in a letter five years after their marriage to her esteemed mother, mentioned that “in this unmatched intellect whose name I carry, I find the carelessness of a big and very messy boy.” Here is her letter:

Xavier came back from who knows where at midnight, lost in thoughts about his eternal crush on Aurora—la belle Aurore, whom I'm starting to dislike. Instead of securing his anchor—I had put up the guide-light on our roof, so all he had to do was come down and fasten the plane—instead, he floated around, completely distracted, above the town with[75] his anchor down! Imagine, dear mother, the roof of the mayor's house is where the grapnel first catches! I don't regret that, since I don't get along with the mayor's wife; but when Xavier uproots my favorite araucaria and drags it across the garden into the conservatory, I shout at the top of my lungs. Little Victor in his pajamas rushes to the window, hugely entertained by the random flight of my prized tree in the dark, unable to see the grapnel. The Mayor of Meudon bangs on our door in the name of the Law, probably demanding my husband's head. Here’s the conversation through the megaphone—Xavier is two hundred feet above us.

"'Mr. Lavalle, come down and make amends for the violation of private property. Come down, Mr. Lavalle!'"

No one is answering.

"'Xavier Lavalle, on behalf of the Law, come down and submit to the legal process for violating someone's home.'"

"Xavier, pulled from his thoughts, only catching the last words: 'Outrage of home? My dear mayor, who has corrupted your Julie?'"

"The mayor, furious, 'Xavier Lavalle—'

"Xavier, interrupting: 'I don't have that kind of luck. I'm just a dealer in cyclones!'"

"My faith, he really did it! Everyone in Meudon gathered in the streets, and my Xavier, after finally realizing what he had done, apologized a thousand times. Eventually, we made up in our house over a supper at two in the morning—Julie in an amazing outfit of compromises, and I had both her and the mayor calmed down in beds in the blue room."

And the next day, while the mayor fixes his roof, Xavier sets off again for the Aurora Borealis, there[76] to begin his life's work. M. Victor Lavalle tells us about that historic clash (en plane) on the side of Hecla between Herrera, who was then a key figure in the Spanish school, and the man who would challenge his theories and make him an intellectual captive. Even years later, the loud laughter of Lavalle, as he supports the Spaniard's damaged plane and shouts, "Courage! I won't fall until I find Truth, and I'm holding you tight!" echoes like the call of trumpets. This is the Lavalle whom the world, focused on immediate profits, did not recognize or expect—the Lavalle whom they ultimately saw as just a pedant and a theorist.

The human side, separate from the scientific aspects (explored in his own books), of his groundbreaking discoveries is characterized by an unmatched simplicity, clarity, and common sense. I would specifically direct those who doubt the lasting impact of ancestral faith on character and will to the eleventh and nineteenth chapters, which contain the beginning and conclusion of the Tellurionical Records covering nine years. Be assured of their immense importance; the humble house in Meudon understood as little as that the Records would one day become the global standard in all official meteorology. They were simply grateful that their Xavier—this son, this father, this husband—would periodically rise to connect with powers, possibly angelic, that they couldn't fully grasp, and that they joined together daily in prayers for his safety.

"Pray for me," he says on the night before each of his trips, and when he returns, with the same straightforwardness, he gives thanks "after dinner in the small room where he kept his barometers."

To the end, Lavalle was a traditional Catholic, embracing—he who had confronted the very core of the lightnings—the beliefs in papal infallibility, absolution, confession, and both major and minor relics. A marvelous—envy-inducing contradiction!

The completion of the Tellurionical Records wrapped up what Lavalle liked to call the theoretical aspect of his work—work from which even the youngest and least impressionable researcher might have backed away. He had tracked through extreme temperatures, across the depths of the oceans, using instruments he had invented himself, over the harsh core of the polar ice and the barren face of the deserts, mile by mile, patiently, tirelessly, unyieldingly, from their ever-changing birthplace beneath the magnetic pole to their final resting place in the high atmosphere—each one of the Isoconical Tellurions—Lavalle's Curves, as we refer to them today. He had sorted out the points where they intersect, assigning each one its regulated cycle of movement. With this knowledge in hand, he called Herrera and Tinsley, his students, to the final demonstration as calmly as if he were getting ready for a midday flight to Marseilles.

"I've proven my thesis," he writes. "Now, all that’s left is for you to see the proof. We're heading to Manila tomorrow. A cyclone is going to form off the Pescadores S. 17 E. in four days, and it will reach its peak intensity in twenty-seven hours after it starts. That’s where I’ll show you the Truth."

A previously unpublished letter from Herrera to Madame Lavalle reveals how the Master's prophecy came true.

(More to come.)

Required immediately, for East Africa, a highly skilled airplane and airship pilot, knowledgeable in petrol, radium, and helium engines and generators. Low-level work only, but must be familiar with heavy-duty excavations.

Mossamedes Transport Association

84 Palestine Buildings, EC.

Man wanted—Dig driver for Southern Alps with Saharan summer trips. High levels, high speed, high wages.

Apply M. Sidney

Hotel San Stefano, Monte Carlo

Family airship. A reliable, steady person needed for slow-speed, low-altitude Tangye airship. No night shifts, no sea travel. Must be a member of the Church of England and help out in the garden.

M. R.,

The Rectory, Gray's Barton, Wiltshire.

Commercial dig, central and southern Europe. A savvy, energetic person for a L. M. T. dig. Night shifts only. Based in London and Cairo. A language expert preferred.

Bagman

Charing Cross Hotel, W. C. (urgent.)

For sale—A great deal—Single Plane, narrow-gauge vans, Pinke motor. Restayed this fall. Hansen air-kit. 38 in. chest, 15½ collar. Available to view by appointment.

N. 2650. This office.

The Bee-Line Bookstore

BELT'S WAY-BOOKS, providing city information for all towns with a population of over 4,000, as outlined by A. B. C.

THE WORLD. Complete 2 vols. Thin Oxford, soft cover. £12.50.

BELT'S COASTAL ITINERARY. Shore Lights of the World. £7.50.

THE TRANSATLANTIC AND MEDITERRANEAN TRAFFIC LINES. (By authority of the A. B. C.) Paper, £1.50; cloth, £2.50. Ready Jan. 15.

ARCTIC AEROPLANING. Siemens and Galt. Cloth, hardcover. £3.60.

LAVALLE'S HEART OF THE CYCLONE, with additional charts. £4.60.

RIMINGTON'S PITFALLS IN THE AIR, and Table of Comparative Densities. £3.30.

ANGELO'S DESERT IN A DIRIGIBLE. New edition, revised. £5.45.

VAUGHAN'S PLANE RACING IN CALM AND STORM. £2.50

VAUGHAN'S HINTS TO THE AIR-MATEUR. £1.

HOFMAN'S LAWS OF LIFT AND VELOCITY. With diagrams, £3.50.

DE VITRE'S THEORY OF SHIFTING BALLAST IN DIRIGIBLES. £2.50

SANGER'S WEATHERS OF THE WORLD. £4.

SANGER'S TEMPERATURES AT HIGH ALTITUDES. 4s.

HAWKIN'S FOG AND HOW TO AVOID IT. 3s.

VAN ZUYLAN'S SECONDARY EFFECTS OF THUNDERSTORMS. £4.30.

DAHLGREN'S AIR CURRENTS AND EPIDEMIC DISEASES. £5.30.

REDMAYNE'S DISEASE AND THE BAROMETER. £7.50.

WALTON'S HEALTH RESORTS OF THE GOBI AND SHAMO. £3.50.

WALTON'S THE POLE AND PULMONARY COMPLAINTS. £7.50

MUTLOW'S ADVANCED BACTERIOLOGY £7.50.

HALLIWELL'S ILLUMINATED STAR MAP, with a clockwork mechanism that shows the motion of the stars, comes in a box and includes clamps for a binnacle. 36-inch size, only £2. 2s. 0d. (Essential for night work.) With A. B. C. certificate, £3. 10s. 0d.

Zalinski's Standard Works.

GRAY'S AIR CURRENTS IN MOUNTAIN GORGES. £7.50

A. C. BELT & SON, READING

Flint & Mantel

Southampton

FOR SALE

at the end of the season, the following Bat-Boats:

GRISELDA, 65 knt., 42 ft., 430 (nom.) Maginnis Motor, under-rake rudder.

MABELLE, 50 knt., 40 ft., 310 Hargreaves Motor, Douglas' lock-steering gear.

IVEMONA, 50 knots, 35 feet, 300 Hargreaves (Radium accelerator), Miller keel and rudder.

The above are well known on the South Coast as sturdy, reliable boats, with plenty of room for cruising. Griselda can carry a spare set of Hofman racing sails and can be lifted three feet clear of the water in calm conditions with the ballast tank moved to the back. The others don’t lift out of the water and are recommended for beginners.

Also, through a private sale, the racing B.B. Tarpon (with 76 winning flags) is 137 knt., 60 ft. Long-Davidson double under-rake rudder, brand new this season and not under strain. It has an 850 nominal Maginnis motor, Radium relays, and a Pond generator. There’s a bronze breakwater at the front, and a triple reinforced forefoot and entry. Talfourd rockered keel. It features a triple set of Hofman vans, providing a maximum lifting surface of 5,327 sq. ft.

Tarpon has been lifted and held seven feet for two miles between touches.

Our Fall List of racing and family Bats is ready on January 9th.