And the Drift has hopes of reaching the Maximum Angle of Incidence and vanquishing the Thrust and the Lift. And he grows very bold as he strangles the Thrust; but the situation is saved by the Propeller, who is now bravely helicopting skywards, somewhat to the chagrin of Efficiency.
“Much ado about nothing,” quotes the Aeroplane learnedly. “Compromise or not, I'm climbing a thousand feet a minute. Ask the Altimeter. He'll confirm it.”
And so indeed it was. The vacuum box of the Altimeter was steadily expanding under the decreased pressure of the rarefied air, and by means of its little levers and its wonderful chain no larger than a hair it was moving the needle round the gauge and indicating the ascent at the rate of a thousand feet a minute.
And lo! the Aeroplane has almost reached the clouds! But what's this? A sudden gust, and down sinks one wing and up goes the other. “Oh, my Horizontal Equivalent!” despairingly call the Planes: “it's eloping with the Lift, and what in the name of Gravity will happen? Surely there was enough scandal in the Factory without this, too!” For the lift varies with the horizontal equivalent of the planes, so that if the aeroplane tilts sideways beyond a certain angle, the lift becomes less than the weight of the machine, which must then fall. A fall in such a position is known as a “side-slip.”
But the ever-watchful Pilot instantly depresses one aileron, elevating the other, with just a touch of the rudder to keep on the course, and the Planes welcome back their precious Lift as the Aeroplane flicks back to its normal position.
“Bit bumpy here under these clouds,” is all the Pilot says as he heads for a gap between them, and the next minute the Aeroplane shoots up into a new world of space.
“My eye!” ejaculates the Wind-screen, “talk about a view!” And indeed mere words will always fail to express the wonder of it. Six thousand feet up now, and look! The sun is rising quicker than ever mortal on earth witnessed its ascent. Far below is Mother Earth, wrapt in mists and deep blue shadows, and far above are those light, filmy, ethereal clouds now faintly tinged with pink And all about great mountains of cloud, lazily floating in space. The sun rises and they take on all colours, blending one with the other, from dazzling white to crimson and deep violet-blue. Lakes and rivers here and there in the enormous expanse of country below refract the level rays of the sun and, like so many immense diamonds, send dazzling shafts of light far upwards. The tops of the hills now laugh to the light of the sun, but the valleys are still mysterious dark blue caverns, clowned with white filmy lace-like streaks of vapour. And withal the increasing sense with altitude of vast, clean, silent solitudes of space.
Lives there the man who can adequately describe this Wonder? “Never,” says the Pilot, who has seen it many times, but to whom it is ever new and more wonderful.
Up, up, up, and still up, unfalteringly speeds the Pilot and his mount. Sweet the drone of the Engine and steady the Thrust as the Propeller exultingly battles with the Drift.
And look! What is that bright silver streak all along the horizon? It puzzled the Pilot when first he saw it, but now he knows it for the Sea, full fifty miles away!