“Ay, ay, sir.”
“Hold her hard, then.”
Signal to the engine room: “Slow speed.”
Roque summoned the boys with imperious motion.
“Take the air; bring signal red, if English warship; signal white, if French cruiser; and signal black, if channel steamer. Get away!”
Four sailors manned the runway—first Billy shot the chute; then Henri, a moment later. A clean leap, and off they went.
The steamer they left logged lazily, drifting, waiting.
The aviators guided the flight toward the thin spiral of smoke penciling a point on the horizon. The air was as clear as a bell.
With no fixed notion of what purpose they were serving, the aviators exulted only in the joy of air conquest. The machines were keyed up like a watch—that is, perfection—and could be directed to a hairline.
The smoke spiral was rope-sized, then body-round, then a column.