Only by a narrow margin was the whole train not lying a crumpled tangle in the brawling torrent of the North Fork. “Tough steel, aluminum alloys, resplendent chromium, satiny copper, crimson leather, shining glass—miracle of modem engineering and art”—the streamliner stood still, balked in its course. All the cunning of wires and clockwork, of lights and semaphores, was as nothing before some trick of the storm.

Just then a draggled little track-walker came slopping up-track through the water. He had mud and slime all over him, and his language matched the slime.

“What you know!” he blurted. “That one pipe clogged so tight she not running water—just a little mud. I crawl up through there; think I see what’s wrong. What you think jammed in there and blocked the pipes—drowned—a great big hog!”

•

Minute by minute Big Al fought the storm. He could feel the drag of the ice. Lightning crackled all around; the radio roared with static. Now and then the whine of the beam came through or some blurred words—Bay trying to get them. But it was no use trying to follow a beam. He tried to keep to the west. Once an air draft dropped him so fast that he thought he was gone; he looked ahead for the mountain-side that would come crashing through the mist. But nothing came through the mist, and he fought for altitude with his logy, heavy plane. Side gusts tossed him back and forth. (He didn’t dare to think what was happening to the passengers.) He himself was tired as a dog. In the air minutes count like hours. What kept him going was the thought that it couldn’t be so bad as it was, and last very long. Then suddenly he knew that he had wished it would be over pretty soon—one way or the other. That was his first touch of panic.

He tried to think of the plane itself. The engines were sweet as you ever heard. Everything else was fine. Just a little heavy with ice, and that didn’t seem to be getting worse very fast. But the machine’s being so fine, strangely, didn’t make him feel better. It only made him feel that the man, by contrast, was the weak part that was going to pieces. Already he knew that he didn’t trust his instruments, and when a pilot doesn’t trust his instruments, he’s going bad. But just the same, he began trying to look for the ground to know where he was. But there wasn’t any ground—naturally. He was tired; he was going bad; he knew it.

The worst blast of all struck him. He was sure it was the end. He bit his tongue to keep himself alert, and just managed to keep her under control.