Cork Light (green, fixed) enlarges as we rush to it. Captain
Purnall nods. There is heavy traffic hereabouts--the cloud-bank
beneath us is streaked. with running fissures of flame where the
Atlantic boats are hurrying Londonward just clear of the fluff.
Mail-packets are supposed, under the Conference rules, to have
the five-thousand-foot lanes to themselves, but the foreigner in
a hurry is apt to take liberties with English air. "No. 162"
lifts to a long-drawn wail of the breeze in the fore-flange of
the rudder and we make Valencia (white, green, white) at a safe
7000 feet, dipping our beam to an incoming Washington packet.
There is no cloud on the Atlantic, and faint streaks of cream
round Dingle Bay show where the driven seas hammer the coast. A
big S.A.T.A. liner (Societe Anonyme des Transports Aeriens) is
diving and lifting half a mile below us in search of some break
in the solid west wind. Lower still lies a disabled Dane she is
telling the liner all about it in International. Our General
Communication dial has caught her talk and begins to eavesdrop.
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