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165
The Aeroplane Speaks. Fifth Edition
·
H. Barber
49
Keenly
both
he
and
the
Observer
compare
their
maps
with
the
country
below.
The
roads,
khaki-coloured
ribbons,
are
easily
seen
but
are
not
of
much
use,
for
there
are
so
many
of
them
and
they
all
look
alike
from
such
an
altitude.
Now
where
can
that
lake
be
which
the
map
shows
so
plainly?
He
feels
that
surely
he
should
see
it
by
now,
and
has
an
uncomfortable
feeling
that
he
is
flying
too
far
West.
What
pilot
is
there
indeed
who
has
not
many
times
experienced
such
unpleasant
sensation?
Few
things
in
the
air
can
create
greater
anxiety.
Wisely,
however,
he
sticks
to
his
compass
course,
and
the
next
minute
he
is
rewarded
by
a
sight
of
the
lake,
though
indeed
he
now
sees
that
the
direction
of
his
travel
will
not
take
him
over
it,
as
should
be
the
case
if
he
were
flying
over
the
shortest
route
to
his
destination.
He
must
have
slightly
miscalculated
the
velocity
or
direction
of
the
side-wind.
"About
ten
degrees
off,"
he
mutters,
and,
using
the
Rudder,
corrects
his
course
accordingly.
Now
he
feels
happier
and
that
he
is
well
on
his
way.
The
gusts,
too,
have
ceased
to
trouble
him
as,
at
this
altitude,
they
are
not
nearly
so
bad
as
they
were
near
the
ground,
the
broken
surface
of
which
does
much
to
produce
them;
and
sometimes
for
miles
he
makes
but
a
movement
or
two
of
the
controls.
The
clouds
just
above
race
by
with
dizzy
and
uniform
speed;
the
country
below
slowly
unrolls,
and
the
steady
drone
of
the
Engine
is
almost
hypnotic
in
effect.
"Sleep,
sleep,
sleep,"
it
insidiously
suggests.
"Listen
to
me
and
watch
the
clouds;
there's
nothing
else
to
do.
Dream,
dream,
dream
of
speeding
through
space
for
ever,
and
ever,
and
ever;
and
rest,
rest,
rest
to
the
sound
of
my
rhythmical
hum.
Droning
on
and
on,
nothing
whatever
matters.
All
things
now
are
merged
into
speed
through
space
and
a
sleepy
monotonous
d-d-r-r-o-o-n-n-e------."
But
the
Pilot
pulls
himself
together
with
a
start
and
peers
far
ahead
in
search
of
the
next
landmark.
This
time
it
is
a
little
country
town,
red-roofed
his
map
tells
him,
and
roughly
of
cruciform
shape;
and,
sure
enough,
there
in
the
right
direction
are
the
broken
outlines
of
a
few
red
roofs
peeping
out
from
between
the
trees.
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