"Get anything?"
"Was getting. Queer thing that! Got the name of my father's yacht and the word 'Curly.' Then the plane lurched and spilled me off. Jerked the receiver off too. Queer about that message! Thought I saw the Kittlewake on the sea a while ago, but then I thought it couldn't be—thought I was getting delirious or something."
"Going back up?"
"I—I'll—In a moment or two I'll try."
A few moments later he did try, but it was no use. His nerve was gone. His knees trembled so he could scarcely stand. His hands shook as with the palsy. It is a terrible thing for a climber to lose his nerve while in the air.
"No use," he told himself. "I'd only get shaken off again and next time I'd be out of luck. Shame too, just when I was getting things."
Again he caught his companion's call.
"Storm's almost here! Guess we'll have to climb."
Even as he spoke, there came a flash of lightning which revealed a solid black bank of clouds which seemed a wall of ebony. It was moving rapidly toward them; was all but upon them.
"Better climb; climb quick," he breathed through the tube.