At his swift touch, the plane reared upward and away from the danger that was rolling and heaving directly beneath. Peering out of the window at his left, Hal saw in the waters a procession of monsters. In the dusky haze of the twilight, a great school of whales were disporting themselves in hugely fantastic leaps and lunges. When a sixty-foot whale would leap high in the air, then drop its tons of weight back down against the waters, it seemed that creation shook to the concussion. At the thunder of huge bodies smashing back through the waves in their enormous fantasies of playfulness, Hal sent his ship rising higher into the air. If one of those monster bodies even brushed his wing or rudder, it would mean his plane crushed into helplessness, himself adrift upon the ocean.
With the approach of darkness, Hal Dane’s spirit seemed to reach its zero hour of loneliness and weariness. Since the dawn of day he had matched his strength in battle after battle with the varying phases of the elements. He and his frail wind craft, mere contraption of cloth and wood and some lengths of steel tubing, had come out victorious so far—but there was still the night ahead of him.
He realized with a start that he had not tasted food for more than twelve hours. Even now, he felt no hunger; the long strain of matching human wits and power against the winds had taken away his appetite. However, he required himself to eat a sandwich and drink some hot coffee from his bottle. This would help him keep up his strength. He needed that help for strength. The darkness he was entering was a worse monster than those vast thrashing whale bodies he had just escaped.
Loneliness entered the lists against him also. As far as he could see over all the great ocean stretches, there showed no tiny pin point of light that could be a great transoceanic steamer cruising onward with its vast burden of human lives. If anything happened to him out here in the night, he was all alone, no vessel near to come to his assistance, no help outside of himself. If he died, he died alone—a mere atom dropped down in the ocean depths.
With an effort, Hal forced his mind away from morbid thoughts. He concentrated on his maps and instruments. Already, he had come over two thousand miles. With every whir of his motor he was ticking off more miles. A great longing rose in him to ride the high air currents once again, that would mean real speed. But he dared not risk his plane another time in the icy grip of the stratosphere. He had wracked the engine enough already. Another such battle with the ice sheath and with over-speed might tear the motor bodily from the machine.
To add to the loneliness of the night, he now swept into a stratum of fog. It hung in an enveloping mass about the ship, creeping into the cockpit, clouding the instruments. As Hal rode high to avoid the fog, he swept into an area of black clouds, snow clouds. At this altitude, he found the air filled with hail. In a moment these heavy, dangerous ice pellets were rattling angrily against the plane. Like a hunted creature, Hal shot this way and that striving to dodge the zone of ice and sleet. It was no use; the ice pall pursued him, sheeted his ship. Wing surfaces were flung out of balance with additional weight, controls began to clog. There was nothing to do for it save drop back down into the warm, foggy layers of air just above the waves. As soon as he hit the warm zone, ice began to melt, its heavy, retarding weight slid off. The speed of the ship, which had lagged below eighty miles the hour, now began to zoom back up well over the hundred mark.
His instruments would hold him to his course, and the noctovistor installed on his plane would catch the red glow of any ship’s light, even through the fog, and warn him of its presence. But unlighted derelict ships adrift on the sea, and floating ice peaks were dangers that the red eye of the noctovistor could not record. His luck, alone, could carry him past such of these that happened in his path.
Later in the night, a glow on his noctovistor told him that a ship lay ahead. Hal sped sufficiently out of his course to avoid any danger of collision. Out through the air, though, he began flinging radio messages, and soon picked up a reply. From this ocean liner he got confirmation of his exact location, and the time. Brief enough messages they were, but Hal Dane blessed the wonderful science whose marvels had put him in touch with other humans out here in the lonely stretches of the great ocean. He zoomed on into the night with his heart cheered by this brief contact.
He now winged his way out of fog and cloud into the white light of the late rising moon. Now and then in this silver glow, mirages swam into his view. Peaks, foothills, ravines and rivers were etched so boldly in the sky that they seemed almost real. Fantastic hills and valleys would crumble away, and others equally fantastic would rise to take their place.
Then dawn began to break. Streaks of light crept up behind him out of the western sky. Below him, land appeared, islands dotting the ocean in a long crescent dipping northwest. Land—was it real, or merely another mirage? He flew lower. It was, yes, it must be real. There were houses, men like tiny dots, and a fleet of fishing craft that seemed mere toys, was setting out to sea.