Her black hull, double
conning-tower, and ever-ready slings represent all that remains
to the planet of that odd old word authority. She is responsible
only to the Aerial Board of Control the A. B. C. of which Tim
speaks so flippantly. But that semi-elected, semi-nominated body
of a few score of persons of both sexes, controls this planet.
"Transportation is Civilisation," our motto runs. Theoretically,
we do what we please so long as we do not interfere with the
traffic AND ALL IT IMPLIES. Practically , the A. B. C. confirms
or annuls all international arrangements and, to judge from its
last report, finds our tolerant, humorous, lazy little planet
only too ready to shift the whole burden of public administration
on its shoulders.
I discuss this with Tim, sipping mate 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 gathers up a skein of it and surveys the last few feet, which
record "162's" path through the volt-flurry.
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