Altitude

An automobile drew to a stop just within the doorway of the hangar, and another man, also dressed in flying clothes--the best protection from the cold--climbed out. Opening the rear door of the car he removed three small, black rectangular boxes. Handling them with infinite care, he walked toward the Marie IV. Conway saw him coming and turned to Kisner.

“Here comes Welkfurn with our instruments. We’re just about all set now.”

The man named Welkfurn called, as he approached the balloon: “You guys must ’a’ been working all night, to be out here this time of day. How you making out?”

“Fine,” Conway replied. “Set those barographs down and give us a hand here. What’d the jeweler say? I guess he got the oil off all right.”

“Should have,” said Welkfurn. “Told me he worked all night on ’em. Got a fine day for a trip like this, eh? Awful cold down here, though.... Say, Charley Redfern ran into a culvert with that big new car of his last night. Saw the wreck a while ago as I was going to town. Tore her up mighty bad; Charley didn’t have it paid for either. Don’t know what he’s--”

“Brought everything back from town, did you?” Conway interrupted.

“Yeah, everything you sent.... Hello, Kisner! Got you working! How come? Say, Con, what time are you going to take off? Morning papers carried a story on you and the Marie; there’s going to be a crowd out to see you shove off. I was talking to that skinny little reporter that covers the field on this kind of stuff: he was looking for you to get a write-up, and he wants to get a yarn and some pictures for a full page for Sunday. Told him you’re busy as hell and that he’d get run off the place if he showed up out here, but he said: ‘Got to do it, Lieutenant; guess I better get out there right after noon and see the Captain.’ I’m going to get me a club and wait for him. Say, Kis, how about a cigarette?”

“You through talking?” Conway grinned. “Kisner’s got a lot to do down there before I take off. How about doing a little work yourself?”

“Work?”--indignantly. “Say, who was it got up at seven o’clock this morning and drove thirty miles to get those barographs? Battery frozen, too; had to crank the bus by hand. Nearly froze to death! Just got the seat warmed up as I was driving up to the hangar--”

“Hand me those instruments,” Conway interrupted. “Be careful with ’em too!”

Welkfurn handed the black boxes up, one at a time. Then he turned and squatted beside Kisner, busied himself with the adjustment of a sand-release on an empty sandbag.

Occasionally Kisner or Welkfurn looked up and directed some question at Conway, queried this or that in connection with the preparation for the flight. Kisner was all engaged with the work he had to do; Welkfurn, on the other hand, kept up a running conversation. From time to time he made some friendly jest about Conway’s ability as a balloonist.

“Ought to get the record this time,” Welkfurn called. “Tried it three times now; had lots of practice trying to get it. Better make it on this trip; you’ll be running out of excuses pretty soon.”

Conway paused, stopped his work and stood with mittened hands upon his hips.

“A helluva lot you know about altitude records, fella! Want to fly this one, for a change? I’ll let you!”

“Guess not this time. Marie and I don’t get along so well. I haven’t got the master’s touch.” And Welkfurn laughed.

“Say, Con, I’ll order flowers this afternoon. Got a friend in town who’s a florist. I can get ’em cheap,” he added.

“I’m supposed to laugh at that, I guess!” Conway said to Kisner. Then to Welkfurn: “Little stale this morning, son.”

Kisner seemed annoyed.

“You talk like a fool, Welk!” he said soberly. “You talk like that, and something might happen!”

“Don’t see any harm in it,” Welkfurn replied defensively. “No harm meant; you don’t need to get sore about it.” He slipped into a moody silence.

Kisner climbed into the basket to help Conway with the equipment there. For two hours the three men worked, saying little. The sun crawled up in the east and stood almost overhead, but it brought no warmth as it climbed.

When the preparations for the flight were almost completed, Conway sent Welkfurn down to headquarters on an errand. Welkfurn was gone almost an hour, and when he returned Conway yelled to him:

“Hey, fella, where’s my clock?”

“Clock?” Welkfurn asked blankly. “Search me; didn’t know you sent a clock.”

Conway paused. “Sure I sent one. Sent it with the barographs to have the oil cleaned out of it.”

“Use another one,” Welkfurn suggested. “I’ll get one out of another balloon.”

“Use another one?” Kisner asked sourly. “Gosh, I thought you knew more than that! Con’s got to have a clock that’s dry--no oil inside of it--or the oil’ll get stiff up high where it’s cold, and the clock’ll freeze! He’s got to have that clock running to tell him when it’s time to start back down. He’s got oxygen for an hour and a half; he’s got to save enough oxygen to get back down to fifteen thousand feet--where he can breathe air again. If the clock stops up there and he uses up all his oxygen--not knowing when the time’ll be up--he’ll suffocate before he gets back down!”

Conway laughed at Kisner’s agitation.

“You better go back to town and get it,” Kisner said. “Con’s got to have it. And don’t waste any time!”

“I don’t think he’s got time enough now,” Conway said dryly. “I’m going to take off right after lunch, and Welk might get to talking downtown and not get back in time. Eh, Welk?”

Welkfurn looked up at the two men in the basket a moment, then at the floor. He tried to grin.

“I’ll get your damn’ clock!” he said hastily. He ran to the automobile, climbed in. Gears clashed for a moment, and he was gone.