The wind was increasing, whipping the snow into a blizzard. Tim could hardly see beyond the first street light. He looked at the clock again. It would be tough on the air mail flyers if they were between landing fields or in the Great Smokies when the storm broke. The rugged peaks of the mountains would be merciless on such a night.
Tim turned to the telephone and called the municipal airport. After an interval Carl Hunter answered.
“How is the mail?” asked Tim.
“Getting a bad break,” snapped Hunter. “The storm dropped like a blanket and two of the ships were caught in the Great Smokies. We haven’t heard from either the eastbound or the westbound for more than half an hour.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Nothing until the storm breaks.”
“And then?”
“Send out rescue planes if I can find anyone to fly them. All of the mail pilots are on the east end of the division and even if the storm lets up at daybreak it will be noon before they can get here.”
“You can count Ralph and me for anything we can do,” promised Tim.
“Thanks a lot,” replied the field manager. “I’d appreciate it if you would come out now. I’m here all alone and my nerves are getting jumpy in the storm. Bring plenty of heavy clothes for the temperature is dropping fast. May be near zero by morning.”