AT THE MERCY OF THE STORM
Hugh Clode, his expression in the dim light one of utter surprise,
struggled to his feet. “Wh――what happened?” he gasped. But knowledge
came to him before Jack could answer. Above them the big bag was
lurching and swaying, the air that drove past was like a breath from
the frozen north and the dark space about them was a wild confusion.
The summons of the tube roused Hugh from the realization of disaster.
It was the commander speaking, and his voice was as calm and steady as
ever.
“All right there, Mr. Clode?”
“All right, sir,” answered Hugh.
“Good! We’re trying to get above this, and I think we shall. See that
everything is secure, please. You understand unlashing the parachutes?”
“Yes, sir.” Hugh’s heart sank, but Mr. Weeks’ next words were
reassuring.
“You’re not likely to need them, but it’s well to be prepared. Report
anything wrong. Keep well down in the boat.”
The ship was riding easier now. The last of the sand-bags had been
dropped and it might be that they had passed up above the worst of the
storm. But they were still being blown through the air at a terrific
pace, and now and then the boat lurched fearsomely. One engine only was
in use and that was slowed down to a speed only sufficient to keep the
ship’s tail to the wind. To fight that gale would have been a hopeless
task. Looking forward in the darkness that was relieved at intervals by
the glow of the cockpit lights, Jack could see here and there the shape
of a head and crouching shoulders. Occasionally a voice came to him, a
fragment of speech. Once Lieutenant Jordan leaned across the space from
the station ahead.
“See if you can get me Connell’s Café in San Antone, Mr. Clode, and
order me a steak and onions. Tell ’em I’m likely to get there in about
half an hour!”
“Are we headed that way?” asked Hugh.
“I don’t know where we’re headed, my son. As the boy said when they
asked him where he was going, ‘Don’t ask me, ask the calf!’ Ask this
blinkin’ tornado where we’re headed! If we don’t get to San Antone
we’re likely to fetch up somewhere out in the South Atlantic pond, I
guess!”
“How high are we, Mr. Jordan?” asked Jack.
“About eleven thousand, five hundred. Guess we’re out of the worst of
it, anyway. If we can stay here we’ll be all right, but the bags won’t
stay fat forever in this temperature. Well, enjoy yourselves.” Mr.
Jordan disappeared again, and Jack asked:
“What did he mean about the bags not keeping fat?”
“Gas balloonets,” answered Hugh thoughtfully. “You see, cold causes
contraction of the gas. Up to a point we can flow gas from the storage
tank into the balloonets, but when that’s exhausted we’re through
and we can only overcome the contraction and keep our buoyancy by
lightening ship. That means dropping sand-bags――we’ve already done
that――getting rid of gasoline, water, oil and so on or heaving over
every blamed thing we can do without. Just now the temperature up here
must be mighty near freezing, and that means that it’s only a question
of time when the balloonets will begin to crumple. But maybe we’ll get
out of the storm by then.”
“We’re a lot steadier now than we were awhile back,” observed Jack
hopefully.
“You’re right. I’d say we were driving along on a pretty even keel
now. Guess that means that we’re well into the second atmospheric
layer. If we can stay there, as Mr. Jordan says, we’re all hunky.”
“How many atmospheric layers, as you call them, are there?”
“Three. The lower one, next the earth, is about two miles deep; three
kilometers, to be exact. That’s where you find your storms; rain
clouds, lightning, thunder, wind gusts of all sorts and irregular
temperatures. Then comes the middle layer, where we are. That’s
over four miles deep, from around ten thousand feet to twenty-three
thousand. Things like tornadoes and cyclones don’t usually get that
high. You get cold, sweeping winds up here, and frigid temperatures,
and the higher you go the colder it is, old son. What they call the
cirrus clouds live up here, sort of on the roof of this layer. Above
them begins the upper layer, where the temperature is always about the
same, as far as any one knows yet.”
“Gee,” said Jack, awedly, “there’s a lot of――of space up here, isn’t
there?”
“You said it!”
“And what’s above the upper layer?”
“Search me! They call it the cosmic void, and I guess that means as
much to you as it does to me; or to the scientists themselves! No one’s
ever been up there yet. Or, if they have, they never got back to tell
about it!”
Jack thought it over for a moment. Then: “Suppose we sort of made a
mistake and got up there. What would happen?”
Hugh laughed. “Guess we’d stay there. But we couldn’t get there to save
our lives, Jack. The old ship can’t do more than fourteen thousand,
and the upper layer is still a good nine thousand above that. And just
where it stops being the upper layer and calls itself the cosmic void
no one knows. When they start off for the cosmic void, Jack, you’ll
find me staying at home with a toothache or something just as handy!”
“Me, too,” agreed the other heartily. “In fact, Hugh, I’m as high now
as I want to go, and I’d like it a heap better if I could look down and
see the United States of America!”
“If you could see anything it would more likely be the Gulf of Mexico,
I guess. We’ve been whirling along at about sixty or more, and if the
gale’s still blowing from the west, as it was when it struck us first,
we ought to be well out at sea.”
“Gosh!” muttered Jack. “Then if the wind keeps right on we’ll be around
the globe pretty soon and popping up over the other side again! What
would happen if we descended, Hugh?”
“We might get into the cyclone again, for one thing. I suppose that’s
why we’re staying up. This wind is pretty fierce, but it’s steady and
it’s better to be blown a few hundred miles out of our course than torn
to pieces. Say, if you want to turn in down there and get a snack of
sleep, go ahead.”
“Sleep!” exclaimed Jack. “Are you crazy?”
“Well, I just made the suggestion,” chuckled Hugh. “Personally, I
prefer to stay up here and see what’s doing. Not that there’s anything
to see,” he added, raising his head cautiously above the edge of the
turtle-back. “Nothing but blackness. No wind to speak of, though. That
means that we’re doing about the same as the gale is. I’ll bet we’re
traveling about as fast as either of us ever has traveled or ever will!
How are your feet? Mine are getting colder than ice.”
“Feet? Oh, they’re all right, I guess. A little bit coolish. It’s my
nerves that trouble me most!”
Hugh chuckled. “Mine aren’t any too easy, either. I wish we’d quit this
beastly joy-ride! Wonder if the mate would make some coffee. By Jove,
look at the time! It’s only nine-seven! I thought it must be nearly
morning. Hello, there goes the other engine! What do you suppose that’s
for? Bet you he’s trying to swing back into the wind. That would mean
that it isn’t so hard. Yes, we’re turning, Jack. Put your hand up.
Feel that? Guess the Old Man doesn’t fancy the Gulf. Don’t blame him. I
don’t fancy it myself much. If I have to float down on a parachute I’d
rather know that there was dry ground underfoot.”
“When it comes to jumping over with an umbrella,” said Jack resignedly,
“I’m just not there. I’ll stick by the ship when that time comes; even
if it means the cosmic void!”
“Wow! Feel that little zephyr,” exclaimed Hugh. “We’re bucking straight
into it now, and I’ll bet we aren’t even making headway! Just the same,
the old bird’s riding pretty steady!”
In the cockpit beyond, the mate was constantly on the move, his shadow
looming monstrously on the surface of the bag overhead as, crouching,
he drenched the bearings with oil from the long-nosed can. The stench
of the oil and grease came back to the boys in the station aft, drawn
by the rushing wind above. The engines roared loudly, desperately in
their battle. Rudder and plane controls were seldom still as the pilots
sought to keep the nose of the big dirigible straight into the teeth of
the gale. Jack, hunched in a corner, his eyes on the steady, comforting
little lamp above the instrument bench, the wild rush of the wind
and the clamor of the engines in his ears, was filled with a strange
mixture of emotions, anxiety, wonder and elation. He reflected that
it was an excellent thing for their peace of mind that his parents did
not know where he was at that moment! And he smiled a bit grimly at the
recollection of his apprehension lest he be assigned to a seaplane. No
seaplane, he thought, could ever make him turn a hair after to-night’s
experience! Now and then Hugh spoke, but for the most part they
crouched there in silence while the _Fate_ fought her losing battle
with the gale. For it was a losing battle from the first. No engines
made, no propeller turned, could have driven the _F 8_ against that
great rushing wind. The best they could do, in fact all the commander
hoped to do, was minimize their drift as much as possible. The _F 8_
was like a boat bucking the mighty current of a river, unable to make
headway, even drifting downstream, but yet going far slower than the
current. The cold began to get through the leather, wool-lined coat
that Jack wore, and he hugged himself tighter and longed for more of
that good hot coffee. Once he found himself nodding, and wondered that
he could feel sleepy under such conditions. But there was something
lulling in the steady roar of sound and after awhile his head fell over
on his shoulder and he slept.
When he awoke for good, for more than once he had half awakened only to
fall asleep again, a great change had taken place. The giant wind no
longer roared its way overhead, the blank darkness had given way to a
misty grayness that revealed the whole length of the boat, the strident
hum of the engines was gone and only the port engine murmured drowsily
and the intense cold was replaced by a milder chill that held the
dampness of a foggy day. It was Hugh who had awakened him, and at his
first bewildered look Jack caught the heartening aroma of coffee. There
was a cup of it within six inches of his nose and Hugh was laughing at
his sleepy perplexity.
“You’re some sleeper, Jack,” said the ensign. “Sorry to have to wake
you, but I’m all in and you’ll have to take a trick at the radio.”
“What time is it?” stammered Jack. “Where are we?”
“I can answer the first, but not the second. It’s a little after four,
but where we are is what we don’t know. About all we do know is that
we’re somewhere over the Gulf, at about two thousand feet elevation,
and that we’re in clouds. I’ve been trying to pick up some one, but
there isn’t a sound. Put that down and stick the ear-muffs on, like a
good chap. I’m going to turn in below for an hour or so. If you want
me, sing out.”
“I’m a cheeky dub to sleep like that,” Jack apologized. “I didn’t mean
to, Hugh. Have you been awake all night?”
“Sure, but I couldn’t have slept, anyhow, so don’t let that worry you.
Call me at six if I don’t wake up before. Better try Galveston, Jack.
I’ve been hammering at ’em for an hour. If you don’t fetch ’em, see
if you can pick up a ship. There ought to be some one around here. So
long.”
Jack ached in every stiff and chilled muscle as he took his place in
the seat. With the receiver strapped on, he began calling Galveston.
Not a sound came through the ether. Looking forward he saw a tired
but cheerful Mr. Jordan at the engine controls, the backs of the two
officers in the navigating cockpit, and, by craning his head a bit, the
motionless figure of Lieutenant Gandell far up in the bow. He wondered
if they had been on duty like that all the time he had slept, and
realizing that they had, felt ashamed of himself. The engineer’s mate
was not in the station, and Jack supposed he had turned in for rest.
The _F 8_ was sailing slowly through a world of gray twilight. Moisture
lay in drops on every surface and from where he sat the envelope
disappeared from sight well short of nose and tail. They were in a
cloud bank that minute after minute seemed to grow denser rather than
thinner.
Presently Mr. Weeks arose stiffly from his seat and came back to the
engine cockpit and, Jack judged, warmed his hands at the exhaust. He
was talking to Lieutenant Jordan, but the receivers that Jack wore
prevented him from hearing what was said. After a few minutes the
commander made his way to Jack’s side and leaned down. “Can you get
anything, Sterling?” he asked.
“No, sir, there isn’t a sound. I suppose our receiving apparatus is all
right. Nothing could have happened to it last night, do you think?”
“Clode looked the wires over and said they seemed O. K. Well, keep
trying. We figure that we’re about four hundred miles east of the
coast, somewhere around 25 north and 91 west, but it’s only guesswork.
We’re running due west and can’t be far wrong, but I’d feel easier if
I knew within a hundred miles where we really are. As long as these
clouds continue we can’t take an observation, you know. Report at once
if you pick up any one. They tell me you managed to get in a bit of
sleep.” The commander smiled.
“Yes, sir,” said Jack sheepishly. “I――I didn’t mean to, and it was a
rotten thing to do with every one else on the job.”
“Not a bit of it, Sterling. You weren’t needed and you might as well
have slept as stayed awake. Besides, it speaks mighty well for your
nerves!”
Jack looked rueful. “I’m glad something speaks well for them, sir:
they weren’t speaking very well for themselves!”
The commander laughed and went back to his station, and Jack hammered
on at his key. Once he thought he caught the faintest kind of a sound,
but was not certain. Mate Wason tramped past him, yawning widely, a
few minutes later, and began the preparation of breakfast. Jack ate
his with one hand while his other still thumped the key. Breakfast
consisted of baked beans and coffee, both steaming hot, and three
thick slices of bread and a pat of butter, and Jack told himself that
not until that moment had he ever known how good food could taste! He
was draining the last drops of his second tin of coffee when his ears
caught the crash of a distant thunderclap. He saw that the sound had
reached the navigating cockpit as well, for Lieutenant Traine raised
his head quickly and looked toward the northwest. A second long roll
of thunder came. The prospect of encountering an electrical storm was
not one to welcome, since, although there was no danger of an explosion
of the gas tanks, yet a two hundred foot dirigible makes a pretty fair
target and, with gasoline aboard, the chance of disaster is always
considerable. A moment later Jack felt a slight tipping of the boat and
knew that the dirigible was starting to seek high altitudes. For a
time the thunderstorm was forgotten, for his straining ears caught the
faint gasping of some far-off transmitter. It was the veriest phantom
of sound, a crackling so thin that he had to concentrate his every
effort to even sense it. At times he lost it entirely, and out of it he
got but one word, and of that was more than doubtful. The signature was
lost in a mighty crash of thunder that seemed to rip the whole heavens
apart, and Jack, half stunned, dashed the receiver from his ears. The
_F 8_, speeding faster now, was immersed in a gloom of dun clouds. What
wind was felt came only from the ship’s progress. Hugh Clode, alarm on
his countenance, crawled hurriedly up the narrow companion.
“Were we hit?” he demanded anxiously.
“I don’t think so.” Jack looked vaguely fore and aft. “I was trying to
get some one talking when a thousand guns went off in my ears. Gee!”
The gloom flared into white, blinding radiance. Afterwards Jack
recalled the vision photographed in that instant on his mind: a vast
space of tumbled clouds, gray, foamy-white, with the lightning glowing
through them and around them in wonderful, appalling magnificence:
but at the moment he could only close his eyes and gasp, for a great
crackling burst through the heavens, the ship plunged and such a crash
of thunder burst against their ears as no words could describe. Then
silence, and through it the voice of the commander, confident and
steady:
“Struck us, I think! Mr. Clode, can you see what the damage is astern?”