A dull indifference began to take possession of his mind. His faculties were slowly freezing. Even his eyesight now began to fail. He could scarcely see the column of mercury in the glass, or the minute hand of his watch. He felt that consciousness would soon completely desert him. His right hand was resting on the gunwale of the boat; he found he could not raise it. He could scarcely move his lower limbs, and, turning once more to glance at the barometer, his head fell forward helplessly.
By a violent exercise of his muscles and his will, he raised his face a little, but for an instant only. It drooped again. He slid down into the bottom of the boat. His fading gaze sought that of Wilton. They looked into each other's eyes, like dying men bidding one another silent, sad farewells. The mists of death already seemed to be closing on them, when a sudden variation of the temperature, or, it may be, some magnetic current partially revived them. But the Bladud still rushed upward, ever upward. They had reached a height of four miles above the earth, and the temperature had fallen to 24° below freezing point of water. To this appalling altitude the Bladud had ascended with almost incredible rapidity.
Upward, and upward still, they went, until five miles, then six, was reached above the surface of the vanished earth.
Out of the void a muffled voice reached Linton's ears, the welcome voice of a living fellow-creature. It was Wilton trying to rouse him, Wilton speaking with urgency and vehemence.
Gradually he came out of his swoon; familiar objects close to him revealed themselves again. Wilton was lying in the bottom of the boat. He was striving in vain to reach Linton. The piercing cold had almost paralyzed him. His hands were freezing.
What did Wilton want? What was he trying to do?
As far as could be judged, they had now reached an altitude of 37,000 feet—nearly seven miles. The mists closed in again. The thread of life was on the point of breaking. Linton became half conscious that a thick crust of ice had formed upon his clothes, his breath was freezing on his lips and in his nostrils. He glanced again with an agonizing effort at the moving record of their elevation. Another 1,000 feet, and then 2,000 feet. Needles of ice were pricking at his eyes. Close to him the prone form of Wilton seemed to be covered with minute crystals from head to foot. Linton tried to stretch out his hands to touch him, but found that they were helpless, numbed. What, he vaguely wondered, was Wilton doing now? What mad idea was this? With an exhausting effort the engineer had just smashed the lens of his telescope. Then his hands seemed again to fail him.
Watching him helplessly, Linton felt that everything was useless, hopeless, lost. It would soon be over.
But Wilton had gripped the broken glass of the telescope between his teeth. What was he doing now? Why was he sawing frantically, convulsively, at that tightened cord?