"It's tremendous," he said. "I confess that at first I felt both fear and physical ill. But I am getting over it, and I feel instead the thrill of swift motion."
"It's because we have a perfect piece of track."
"There's no track in the air!"
"Oh, yes, there is. If you'd thought a moment you'd have known it, though I'll admit it's a shifting one. When you stand on the ground and turn your eyes upward all the sky looks alike. But it's far from it. It's full of all kinds of winds, currents and strata, pockets, of which all aviators stand in deadly fear, mists, vapors, clouds of every degree of thickness and complexion, and then you have thunder and lightning, just as you do on land and sea. It's these shifting elements that make the navigation of the air so dangerous, John. The whole question would be solved, if there was nothing but stationary air, growing thinner in exact proportion as we rise. But such a condition of aerial peace could not be reached unless we could go up fifty miles, where there is no air, and that we'll never be able to do."
"How high are we now?"
"About three thousand feet. Draw that collar more closely about your neck. You may not feel cold, because of the new fire in your blood, but you are cold, nevertheless. Now, see those whitish streams below us. They're little clouds, vapor mostly, they don't contain rain. You've read the 'Arabian Nights,' haven't you, John?"
"Yes, and I know just the comparison you're thinking of."
"What is it, then? See if you're right."
"The roc, great, fabled bird, flying through the air with those old Arabs perched on its back."
"Right! He guessed right the very first time. That's one of your Americanisms, isn't it? Oh, I know a lot of your choicest expressions. Hit it up lively! That's what we're doing. He's full of pep! That's what we are; aren't we, John? Come across with a double play! And we're doing that, too."