He slept in a draughty little hotel near the field. He rose at four. It was still dark. He dressed slowly, paid his bill, and found his way to the hangars.
The night watchman greeted him with customary obsequiousness. He did not know.
“I came out early to tune up the machine myself,” explained Vladimir. “I don’t trust these mechanics any more.”
With the aid of the night watchman he rolled the machine out of the hangar, and started the engine. Vladimir listened carefully to the jangled symphony of the motor, noting beat and pitch with musicianly intensity. He was satisfied. The motor sang gloriously.
And the sole purpose of his flight was to convince the sneering director that Vladimir Uspensky was not through, that Vladimir Uspensky had been grossly libeled, that Vladimir Uspensky was not a drunkard but a careful, competent pilot.
He stepped into his flying suit, adjusted his helmet and his goggles, saw that the rolling map was fixed in its proper place. He looked at his wrist-watch. In another hour flying officials would begin to descend upon the field. He must be off. He clambered up the metal rests of the wings and strapped himself into the pilot’s seat.
His eyes sparkled exultingly as he bent low. The plane rattled over the field, faster and faster. He turned. The motor subsided, and then leaped into hammering life again. He began to rise over the hangars, higher and higher. A thin morning sun melted the surrounding haze, and the mist on his wind-shield and goggles. Below, factory chimneys yawned, and the trains in the railroad yards turned and twisted like black snakes.
It was good to be in the air again! How he would laugh at them when he returned! Show them he had been to Danzig and back again, in schedule time, without a scratch. Could a drunkard do that?
East he flew, over the pines of Brandenburg, over the marshes beside the hard-won little fields and the precise farmhouses. He knew this land. He slipped lower in his seat and gave himself up to the blended roar of wind, motor and propellers, and the gentle heave of the metal bird. Thus for two hours.
He craned his neck over the wind-shield. He did not like the sky, nor the clouds, nor the fog spreading over the earth. But fortune was with him today. Fortune must be with him today. He would show them that even a storm was but a slight obstacle to Vladimir Uspensky. On, on! The speedometer quivered at one hundred and ten. The plane shook as if in fever. He sat bolt upright.