Argosy: The Short Story Magazine — page 81: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

HEART OF THE STORM 81 at 10,000 feet. Then turn out away from Pico, and make a quick descent to the sea.” “What height d’you reckon the cloud will be? ”’ “A thousand . .. probably less. But with this wind, it won’t be on the deck.”’ “ D’you want me to alter for Horta? ” ‘““'Yes. Pass the new course up to Shaughnessy.” “Tt’ll make us a bit later.’’ Bates looked none too happy. ‘* Number T'wo engine’s all right, isn’t she, Mr. Bates? ”’ Kelston asked suddenly. “Oh yes, sir . . . Number T'wo’s still doing fine.”’ “Well, then . . . what’s there to worry about? ” Bates managed a grin. ‘‘ Nobody’s worried around here, sir.” ““ Good,”’ Kelston said. ‘“‘ Let’s hope the same goes for the passenger compartment.” But he didn’t really expect it would. And it didn’t. The smell in the place was nauseating. Kelston knew from experience that a quarter of his passengers would be frightened of flying in the best of conditions. In a bad storm, that proportion would increase to well over half. Standing with difficulty, trying to balance himself in the turbu- lence, he looked at the faces in the rows in front of him. Briefly, he tried to explain to them what he intended to do. He told them about the ship in distress, without available help to find her position. Searching for her would mean another hour or so of bouncing around in the storm for them. And already they were late. He said gently, ‘‘ You would all want us to do everything in our power to help, wouldn’t you? ” There was a slight pause. Then a man with a well-trimmed pointed beard said, as though he was the spokesman, “‘ Of course, Captain. Do everything you can. We'll be all right.” Mr. Parkinson, the only V.I.P. on board, said nothing. His eyes were closed. He looked very ill. It was even doubtful whether he had heard the things that Kelston had so carefully explained to them all. Kelston turned and with difficulty, made his way back to the crew compartment. The air was rougher again. Bates sat, swinging the tuning knob of the radio compass around 294 kilocycles. ‘“‘ Can’t get Horta yet, Skipper,”’ he said. For another half-hour he went on trying. The cloud was still heavy and turbulent. Then suddenly he heard the call-sign of the beacon, FY, just audible above the crackling static. Dit dit da dit. Da dit da da. The Navigator tried the compass position, but the needle was still being wrenched in all directions by the electricity of the storm. “Hopeless,” he called up to Kelston. ‘“‘ Hopeless, so far.” But gradually, as Easy Zebra plunged on with no visible re- assurance that she was progressing a yard, the morse grew louder. comiclooks.comnn