At ten miles an hour the snow merely tumbled from the end of the mould-board. But at twenty miles an hour the snow rose in a white curve like the curve of water rising from the prow of a fast motorboat. He pushed up the speed to twenty-five. The great plow with its tons of gravel for ballast held the road firmly, and the snow flew madly. The curve of white stretched out and flattened; in an arc the snow cleared the ditch and deluged little pine trees ten feet back from the pavement. Now and then dirty streaks of yellow and dark brown flashed across the clean white as the plow scooped up gravel from the shoulder.

There was more to running a plow than to running a truck. The share must be kept at just the right height. The speed must be fast enough to throw the snow well off the road, but not so fast as to cause vibration and leave the road-surface washboarded. And always the wheels must be held just at the edge of the road. Since the end of the mould-board extended two feet beyond the wheels, this meant that when crossing fills the outer front wheel seemed to hang clear out into space, and even the experienced Superintendent had to stifle a sudden fright that he had left the road and was about to plunge down the mountain-side.

The powerful windshield wipers clunked rhythmically. The lights shone with a yellow glare, but in the last of the twilight he could see that the visibility was still fair. It would be a wild night, but nothing which they could not handle as routine.

13

The CSO went to bed at ten-thirty, the day had been hard and the next day might be harder. But the rain spattered against his window, and he kept thinking of the big transcontinental plane flying east. At eleven he got up and called the airport. Yes, she was fine; reported from over Buffalo Valley, flying at three thousand under a high ceiling, good visibility. Had some icing over the hump and bad turbulence, but kept at twelve thousand and flew right through it in a few minutes. Just as well, though, we didn’t try Reno—snow squalls there, keep blanketing everything out. Elko reports ceiling at twelve thousand. No trouble ahead. Better get some sleep.

The CSO wanted to ask how things were shaping up for tomorrow, but at the news that the transcontinental was out of the woods he felt suddenly and beautifully relaxed. “O.K., thanks,” he said, and, tumbling back into bed, went to sleep.

14