We hurry into the heavy rubber suits--the engineers are already
dressed--and inflate at the air-pump taps. G.P.O. inflators are
thrice as thick as a racing man's "flickers," and chafe
abominably under the armpits. George takes the wheel until Tim
has blown himself up to the extreme of rotundity. 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 mad--stark ravin' crazy," he snorts, returning
to command. "She says there's a bad blow-out ahead and wants me
to pull over to Greenland. I'll see her pithed first! We wasted
half an hour fussing over that dead duck down under, and now I'm
expected to go rubbin' my back all round the Pole. What does she
think a Postal packet's made of? Gummed silk? Tell her we're
coming on straight, George."
George buckles him into the Frame and switches on the Direct
Control. Now under Tim's left toe lies the port-engine
Accelerator; under his left heel the Reverse, and so with the
other foot.
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