ll Wednesday next
when her relief slides across the stars to take her buffeted place. Her
black hull, double conning-tower, and ever-ready slings represent
all that remains to the planet of that odd old word authority. She is
responsible only to the Aerial Board of Control the A. B. C. of which
Tim speaks so flippantly. But that semi-elected, semi-nominated body
of a few score of persons of both sexes, controls this planet.
"Transportation is Civilisation," our motto runs. Theoretically, we do
what we please so long as we do not interfere with the traffic AND
ALL IT IMPLIES. Practically, the A. B. C. confirms or annuls all
international arrangements and, to judge from its last report, finds our
tolerant, humorous, lazy little planet only too ready to shift the whole
burden of public administration on its shoulders.

I discuss this with Tim, sipping mate on the c. p. while George fans
her along over the white blur of the Banks in beautiful upward curves
of fifty miles each. The dip-dial translates them on the tape in flowing
freehand.

Tim gathers up a skein of it and surveys the last few feet, which record
"162's" path through the volt-flurry.

"I haven't had a fever-chart like this to show up in five years," he
says ruefully.

A postal packet's dip-dial records every yard of every run. The tapes
then go to the A. B. C., which collates and makes composite photographs
of them for the instruction of captains. Tim studies his irrevocable
past, shaking his head.

"Hello! Here's a fifteen-hundred-foot drop at fifty-five degrees! We
must have been standing on our heads then, George."

"You don't say so," George answers. "I fancied I noticed it at the
time."

George may not have Captain Purnall's catlike swiftness, but he is all
an artist to the tips of the broad fingers that play on the shunt-stops.
The delicious flight-curves come away on the tape with never a waver.
The Mark Boat's vertical spindle of light lies down to eastward, setting
in the face of the following stars. Westward, where no planet should
rise, the triple verticals of Trinity Bay (we keep still to the Southern
route) make a low-lifting haze. We seem the only thing at rest under all
the heavens; floating at ease till the earth's revolution shall turn up
our landing-towers.

And minute by minute our silent clock gives us a sixteen-second mile.

"Some fine night," says Tim, "we'll be even with that clock's Master."

"He's coming now," says George,