"I'll take a film showing the earth revolving. It'll look very quaint on the screen."
"Here goes then. We are going to dive down to about six thousand feet, so hold on tight to your strap."
The engines almost stopped. Suddenly we seemed to be falling earthwards. Down—down—down! We were diving as nearly perpendicular as it is possible to be. Sharp pains shot through my head. It was getting worse. The pain was horrible. The right side of my face and head seemed as if a hundred pin-points were being driven into it. I clutched my face in agony; then I realised the cause. Coming down from such a height, at so terrific a speed, the different pressure of the atmosphere affected the blood pressure on the head.
Suddenly the downward rush was stopped. The plane was brought to an even keel.
"I'm going to spiral now," said the pilot. "Ready?"
"Right away," I said, and knelt again in my seat. The plane suddenly seemed to swerve. Then it slanted at a most terrifying angle, and began to descend rapidly towards the earth in a spiral form. I filmed the scene on the journey. To say the earth looked extraordinary would be putting it very mildly. The ground below seemed to rush up and mix with the clouds. First the earth seemed to be over one's head, then the clouds. I am sure the most ardent futurist artist would find it utterly impossible to do justice to such a scene. Round and round we went. Now one side, now the other. How I held to my camera-handle goodness only knows. Half the time, I am sure, I turned it mechanically.
Suddenly we came to an even keel. The earth seemed within jumping distance. The nose dipped again, the propeller whirled. Within a few seconds we were bounding along on the grassy space of the aerodrome, and finally coming to rest we were surrounded by the mechanics, who quickly brought the machine to a standstill.
"By the way," I said to the pilot, as we went off to tea, "how long were we up there altogether?"
"Two hours," he replied.
Two hours! Great Scott! It seemed days!