All three engines are at work, for the sooner we have
skated over this thin ice the better. Higher we dare not go. The
whole upper vault is charged with pale krypton vapours, which our
skin friction may excite to unholy manifestations. Between the
upper and lower levels--5000 and 7000, hints the Mark Boat--we
may perhaps bolt through if ... Our bow clothes itself in blue
flame and falls like a sword. No human skill can keep pace with
the changing tensions. A vortex has us by the beak and we dive
down a two-thousand foot slant at an angle (the dip-dial and my
bouncing body record it) of thirty-five. Our turbines scream
shrilly; the propellers cannot bite on the thin air; Tim shunts
the lift out of five tanks at once and by sheer weight drives her
bullet wise through the maelstrom till she cushions with jar on
an up-gust, three thousand feet below.
"Now we've done it," says George in my ear: "Our skin-friction,
that last slide, has played Old Harry with the tensions! Look out
for laterals, Tim; she'll want some holding.
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