Always, in time, he lowered the nose, picked up the needful speed, and thus, by coming as close to the “graveyard” glide, or flat angle, as he dared, and yet conserving enough reserve speed to keep the lift of the wings more sustaining than the downward pull of gravity, he held his craft in the air.
Always the nose, pointed into the wind, went lower. Always, as he tried to penetrate the darkness of the night and of the brown earth below, his eyes, over the cockpit cowling, searched for the flattish, light spot he wanted. Along its inner side was the strip of turf he needed.
Fear-thoughts flashed through his mind:
“Can I glide that far? Will I overshoot or undershoot? Will I misjudge the height as I come down, if I do make it? Will I set the ship down too suddenly, so it will bounce off and then—with too little margin of height to get speed again—crack up? Will I stall too high and smash down? Will I be going too fast, and run too far? Can I glide in to the turf or will I set down in stubble and nose over?”
Resolutely, by all the will power he had, Bob crushed out those nerve-deadening, muscle-binding terrors.
There was the field. Where, now, did they keep the light producing flares? Oh, yes! There, in that little boxlike compartment.
He flung a detonating flare that would light in the air or on striking earth. Its light was what horrified Curt and Al.
To Bob, its glare was a great relief!
The white gleam showed, far ahead, faintly lit, the field. His course would take him toward it, but he altered the direction of his flight slightly to get over the turf, then corrected the bank, leveled his wings, depressed the nose still more, picked up speed and, with all his force, sent a landing flare into the air, as far ahead and to the side as he could fling it.
Then he “shot” the field, got his nose directly onto a line with the large trees at the end of the field, pulled up the nose more, to kill all the forward momentum he dared, and then——