The plane skimmed over the ice for nearly half a mile, then shot upward in a joyous goodbye to the little group on the ice.
Tim and Ralph smiled at each other. At last they were off the ice, in the air, and started on the 2,200 mile flight over the roof of the world—a flight that was to carry them across the heart of the Arctic, across areas never before seen by the eyes of man. Just what the hours ahead of them held in store they could only guess. Tim hoped that the trip would reveal the age-old secret of the Arctic, whether a hidden continent existed in the land of ice and snow. Ralph hoped that the plane would carry them through to King’s Bay, Spitzbergen, their destination.
The pilot kept the stick back until they reached 6,000 feet and then leveled off on their course. The motor was running smoothly, even though the thermometer outside the cockpit windows registered 40 degrees below zero. Underneath them, their shadow was flitting over the rough, broken ice pack at 110 miles an hour. For two hours they roared steadily onward, with only an occasional word, Ralph handling the stick and Tim carefully checking their course, for a variation of one degree would make them miss Spitzbergen, scarcely more than a tiny dot of an island on the other end of their long course.
They were far out on the Arctic ice pack and Tim kept a careful check of his charts while he scanned the rolling sea of ice beneath them for traces of the fabled Arctic continent. At 6,000 feet they had a visibility of 200 miles and he secured some marvelous pictures. For another two hours they forged steadily ahead, conversation at a minimum, although Ralph chewed enthusiastically on a cud of gum.
Tim estimated that they were nearly 500 miles from Point Barrow when they sighted storm clouds far ahead. Great, rolling banks of clouds were piling up over the horizon as the speedy little plane roared on its eastward flight. The air was growing colder and Ralph revved the motor up in an attempt to climb above the approaching storm, but fast though the sleek, gray monoplane climbed, the clouds climbed faster, and, finally, with a shrug of his shoulders that meant more than words, Ralph glanced at his chart and compasses and headed into the storm. Snow and wind buffeted them and the compasses swung wildly as the plane gyrated in the air. For half an hour Ralph fought the controls, a half hour that was centuries long to Tim, who had staked everything on the success of their flight. The clouds thinned and they shot out again into clear weather. The storm had swung them nearly 50 miles further south than they had intended, and Ralph turned the plane northward again. Although they were cutting across the heart of the Arctic, they would not pass over the North Pole, since the only purpose of the flight was to discover whether there was hitherto unknown land in the Arctic.
For hours they droned onward, both young adventurers busy at their tasks. Mile after mile of ice, some of it smooth as glass, other stretches rough and hummocked and sometimes shot with long streaks of open water, unfolded under their eyes. They were flying very high, up nearly 10,000 feet, and the visibility was unusually good. But still there was no land. Only ice and water and more ice. Tim snapped magnificent panoramas of ice and snow that would thrill thousands of newspaper readers if they succeeded.
The cold was bitter but with the motor functioning perfectly neither Tim nor Ralph noticed it. Once in a while they shifted positions to rest their tensed bodies and their conversation was in shouted monosyllables.
Suddenly Tim’s elbow went into Ralph’s ribs and one heavily gloved hand pointed to the hazy outlines of land far to their right. Ralph nodded and grinned.
“That’s Grant land,” shouted Tim. “Means we’ve passed over the heart of the Arctic without finding land. The big job’s done. Now all we’ve got to do is keep on until we reach Spitzbergen.”
They had flown over the top of the world and definitely proved that the fabled Arctic continent was just that—a fable.