“How?”
“Bringing some stuff across the border.”
Stuff—liquor, aliens or dope?
“Liquor?” I guessed.
My philanthropic friend shrugged his shoulders. “A woman can get by where a man can’t. No one would ever suspect you. There’s not a thing to be afraid of. You could do it easy.”
It was a pretty compliment, but I declined.
One day I went up with my plane to establish its ceiling—that is, to see how high it would go.
There is a point in altitude beyond which, of course, a given plane cannot climb, just as with automobiles, there is a limit to the grade that can be negotiated and a speed that can be attained. In flying, an added factor is entailed, in the rarification of atmosphere with height, which affects plane, motor and personnel.
To make the record official I asked the representative of the Aero Club of Southern California to seal my barograph. This instrument records altitude in ink on a revolving drum. When sealed it is impossible for the flyer to alter it.
It was a good day and I climbed easily for about 13,000 feet. Thereafter I began to have trouble. My spark control lever became disconnected and I could not regulate the spark in my engine. As a result a terrific vibration and knocking started. I thought the engine would jump out of its frame. There wasn’t anything to do but come down, although I was still climbing fifty feet a minute.