Amelia glanced at her instruments, then her eye stopped at the fuel gauges. The left engine seemed to be using too much gasoline. She reached for the mixture-control lever to lean out the fuel. The lever would not move; it was jammed. AE quickly analyzed the possibilities of a forced landing: neither the Arabian Sea nor desert was inviting, nor did she want to try to make it back to Assab; they would have to try to push through to Karachi. She eased back on both throttles.
Ahead was the Gulf of Oman, and across the gulf, Gwadar. At Gwadar she looked at the chronometer; it was five o’clock. Karachi was only two hours away. She hoped that by flying at a lower rpm she might make it.
The fuel supply lasted. When they reached Karachi, the chronometer for elapsed time since take-off had clicked off thirteen hours and ten minutes. It had been one of their longest flights. Weary, AE walked away from the plane.
“There’s a phone call for you,” someone said to her.
“Oh, yes,” Amelia answered flatly. Probably some newspaperman, she thought.
“It’s from New York. Mr. Putnam is on the wire.”
AE rushed inside to the telephone and picked up the receiver.
“How do you feel?” GP asked from 8,000 miles away.
“Fine. A little tired, perhaps.” The connection was good.
“How’s the ship?”