Mary had read of this peak and the futile attempts men had made to scale it. She had been thrilled then. But now, she shuddered.
“They hope to tire us, run us out of gas, something.” Sparky tested his supply of fuel. “They’ve got a long way to go yet. But we must be careful. A forced landing on these white slopes means death!”
“We must save enough gas to take us back.”
“Exactly that.”
Once more Mary’s mind was working. Was this to be an endurance race, endurance of plane, of fuel, and human courage?
“Hardly that,” she told herself. “We should be up with them in less than a half hour.”
Through the clear air they could see great distances. Far ahead, perhaps a hundred miles, stood a peak much higher than the rest. Was this the highest peak of all? She had no way of telling. And so they sped on.
Ten minutes passed, fifteen, twenty—they were nearing the fleeing plane. The lofty peak was very near.
Sparky studied his fuel gages.
“In twenty minutes we must turn back or run the risk of crashing among these peaks.”