There seemed no longer any question as to the stability or speed of the Ocean Flyer. All that those in charge of it now had to fear, so far as they could see, was an accident—an unlooked for storm, the breaking of machinery or a bit of carelessness that might end disastrously before it could be corrected. When Ned retired to the stateroom Roy took the wheel a few moments while Alan went below.
He found Bob installed on a camp stool by the emergency engine levers, a bit of waste in his hands and his eyes on the speed indicators, clock and signal board. Buck, now wholly recovered from his illness and his face and clothes spotted with oil drippings, was on his knees at the silent dynamo cleaning and polishing its exposed parts. There was already a hot, greasy smell in the engine room. But there was not a discordant sound, not a jar to alarm the second officer.
With a quick feel of the main bearings for possible heat, Alan looked over the fuel and oil supply gauges and then motioned to Buck to follow him.
“Leave your cap in here,” he suggested with a smile. Taking up an oil can he passed to the gallery and led the way aft to the tail truss. On the long, narrow gangway reaching through this, protected only by slender cables on each side, he made his way toward the big twenty foot parallel rudders.
“Don’t look down,” he suggested to Buck, “and hang on to the cables. It’s worse than walkin’ a rope, for a tight rope don’t fly up to shake you off.”
“I’m all right,” responded Buck. “I’ve been initiated. Go ahead.”
Unlike a wind, with its varying gusts and puffs, the air hurled rearward by the propellers struck the two boys with a steady pressure. Clothing clung to their bodies like a wet glove. Their hair was plastered down as if with pomade. With shoulders stooped and legs bent under the strain, Alan led the tenderfoot Buck slowly out over the void beneath—now nearly 3,000 feet.
“You may have to do this to-night,” yelled Alan bringing his mouth near to Buck’s ear. “But never try it unless the lights are on. And never let go the cable. The rudder bearings need oil. They’ve been workin’ like a barn door with rusty hinges.”
Reaching the end of the truss gangway, Alan braced himself and oiled the bearings. The lower ones were accessible from the lower gangway. The upper ones he reached by crawling through a manhole to the top of the truss, along which ran another exposed and unprotected gangway. By means of this the big balancing plane could be reached in emergencies.
“But don’t let me ever catch you up here,” admonished Alan as he dropped down again.