The lift-shunt stops stand out on the rim of the
steering-wheel where the fingers of his left hand can play on
them. At his right hand is the midships engine lever ready to be
thrown into gear at a moment's notice. He leans forward in his
belt, eyes glued to the colloid, and one ear cocked toward the
General Communicator. Henceforth he is the strength and direction
of "162," through whatever may befall.
The Banks Mark Boat is reeling out pages of A. B. .C. Directions
to the traffic at large. We are to secure all "loose objects";
hood up our Fleury Rays; and "on no account to attempt to clear
snow from our conning-towers till the weather abates."
Under-powered craft, we are told, can ascend to the limit of
their lift, mail-packets to look out for them accordingly; the
lower lanes westward are pitting very badly, "with frequent
blow-outs, vortices, laterals, etc."
Still the clear dark holds up unblemished. The only warning is
the electric skin-tension (I feel as though I were a lace-maker's
pillow) and an irritability which the gibbering of the General
Communicator increases almost to hysteria.
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