Out came his map, which he flattened on his knees. Next, the cockpit light snapped on. For a moment he studied his position. Then the light went off and the map into the pocket of his short leather jacket.
The amphibian was a trifle tail-heavy, so dropping the nose to level he gave her right aileron and simultaneously increased right rudder. Round to the right swung the nose of the speeding plane. When the desired bank was reached, he checked the wings with the ailerons and at the same time eased the pressure on the rudder. Half a moment later he applied left aileron, and left rudder, resuming straight flight, headed toward the coast on a course that would take them fifty miles east of Portland.
With wings level once more, he neutralized the ailerons, gave the bus a normal amount of right rudder and settled back comfortably in his seat.
The little port of Cushing, just beyond where the Merrimac River empties into the sea, faded away behind them. Below now was the blue Atlantic, dotted here and there with the patched sails of fishermen, returning with the night’s catch. Far to the starboard, hugging the horizon, Bill saw a large single-stacker, a freighter, heading so as to clear Cape Ann on her way to Boston.
The day had dawned bright and clear. It was perfect flying weather. With a twenty-mile breeze spanking their tailplane, Bill knew that they must be doing at least one hundred and fifty-five M.P.H. He felt the exhilaration of broad spaces and swift flight. The salt tang of the sea smelled good. He was content.
Half an hour or so went by. A sleepy voice in Bill’s receivers roused him from revery. “Where under the shining sun are we?”
“Just there—or thereabouts.”
“Gee—are we heading for Europe?”
“Nope. For breakfast, I hope.”
“But what are we doing over the ocean, Bill?”