It was at the thirty-four mile level that the real battle for altitude began. Norman kept the plane curving steadily upward, handling it with surpassing skill in the rarefied air. Frost was on its windows now despite the heating mechanism. Slowly the altimeter needle crept to the forty mark. Norman kept the ship circling, its wings tilted slightly, but not climbing, Earth a great gray misty ball beneath.
"Can't keep this height long," he jerked. "If our second satellite doesn't show up in minutes we've had a trip for nothing."
"All seems mighty different up here," was Hackett's shouted comment. "Easy enough to talk down there about hopping onto the thing, but up here—hell, there's nothing but air and mighty little of that!"
Norman grinned. "There'll be more. If I'm right about this thing we won't need to hop it—its own atmosphere will pick us up."
Both looked anxious as the motor sputtered briefly. But in a moment it was again roaring steadily. Norman shook his head.
"Maybe a fool's errand after all. No—I'm still sure we're right! But it seems that we don't prove it this time."
"We'll have to, in minutes. Even with its own air-feed the motor can't stand this height for—"
