her lightly. “And you’re good-looking. Seems a strange sort of combination to me.”
“You’re too much of a cynic,” she informed him. “but I know you don’t mean half you say.”
“Remind me to marry you when we come back!” he grinned. When he came back out to the apron again, five minutes later, he was no longer smiling. The tense, grim look of a man who faces considerable odds had hardened, his mouth and narrowed his blue eyes, and he walked smartly towards the Heron without saying anything.
“Control’s all ready for us,” he told Ginger when he reached the cockpit. "We’ll be up above all this in a couple of shakes.”
Alison was surprised how soon and apparently effortlessly his words came true. Looking down from her seat behind him, she could see the bank of fog like a dense grey barrier cutting the Firth in two. It stretched almost in a straight line between the Ayrshire coast and the low foothills of Argyll, a grey trap to shipping, but no longer dangerous to them once they were above it.
Afterwards, Alison was never quite sure when she realized that something had gone wrong. It had been more than a bumpy trip, and at times, over Mull, they had encountered down draught. The plane had lurched and staggered on, but immediately they had climbed higher and the cold had become intense. Away to the north dense cloud had begun to form, and there was a blackness about the sky which began to look more and more ominous as they approached it. Rain slanted at them, but the sturdy little Heron drove steadily into it.
Inside the cabin the windows had iced over, and suddenly Alison noticed that the same sort of thing was happening in the cockpit. The rain was freezing as it struck the plane.
They had climbed to seven thousand five hundred feet, and now that they were in the cloud they seemed to be racing ahead. It was no more than an optical illusion, but she peered out of her window as well as the ice would let her, gathering courage from the suggestion of speed. In less than half an hour they would be at their destination.
The minutes ticked away, and suddenly she was aware of added tension. The two men in the cockpit were fighting the terrors of ice.
Ginger turned to her at last, beckoning her towards him, and in one swift glance she saw that they were down beneath four thousand feet.
“We can’t make it,” he said cryptically. “We’ve iced up along the wings and we’re being forced down. The de-icing has gone. There isn’t anything for it but to land somewhere and have it seen to. We’re trying to make Tiree, but there’s a devil of a wind blowing.” He gave her a quick, critical glance. “At three thousand we’re committed to a landing,” he explained, “but we hope to make Tiree before that. O.K.?”
She heard herself say “O.K.” automatically, and went back to her seat and fastened her seat-belt. She had no idea where they were or what could be done now, but, curiously enough, she had no immediate sense of fear. There was no alteration in the steady sound of the engines and they suggested unlimited power. She found assurance, too, in the sight of the two rigid backs ahead of her in the cockpit, although now Ginger was speaking steadily into the microphone attached to his headphones. She heard him repeat “Mayday”, “Mayday”, “Mayday”, over and over again without knowing what it meant, without realizing that she was listening to the final S.O.S. of the skies.
Then, suddenly, she saw the sea immediately beneath them.
Aware of a strange constriction in her throat, as if her heart had suddenly got there by mistake, she sat frozen into immobility in her seat and waited. It was not in her to panic or even to attempt to ask a needless question. They were in trouble and she knew it, but she would add nothing to their efforts by losing her head.
Their powerful landing lights were switched on, and somewhere beneath them a lighthouse flashed, revealing the curl of white on the
“You’re too much of a cynic,” she informed him. “but I know you don’t mean half you say.”
“Remind me to marry you when we come back!” he grinned. When he came back out to the apron again, five minutes later, he was no longer smiling. The tense, grim look of a man who faces considerable odds had hardened, his mouth and narrowed his blue eyes, and he walked smartly towards the Heron without saying anything.
“Control’s all ready for us,” he told Ginger when he reached the cockpit. "We’ll be up above all this in a couple of shakes.”
Alison was surprised how soon and apparently effortlessly his words came true. Looking down from her seat behind him, she could see the bank of fog like a dense grey barrier cutting the Firth in two. It stretched almost in a straight line between the Ayrshire coast and the low foothills of Argyll, a grey trap to shipping, but no longer dangerous to them once they were above it.
Afterwards, Alison was never quite sure when she realized that something had gone wrong. It had been more than a bumpy trip, and at times, over Mull, they had encountered down draught. The plane had lurched and staggered on, but immediately they had climbed higher and the cold had become intense. Away to the north dense cloud had begun to form, and there was a blackness about the sky which began to look more and more ominous as they approached it. Rain slanted at them, but the sturdy little Heron drove steadily into it.
Inside the cabin the windows had iced over, and suddenly Alison noticed that the same sort of thing was happening in the cockpit. The rain was freezing as it struck the plane.
They had climbed to seven thousand five hundred feet, and now that they were in the cloud they seemed to be racing ahead. It was no more than an optical illusion, but she peered out of her window as well as the ice would let her, gathering courage from the suggestion of speed. In less than half an hour they would be at their destination.
The minutes ticked away, and suddenly she was aware of added tension. The two men in the cockpit were fighting the terrors of ice.
Ginger turned to her at last, beckoning her towards him, and in one swift glance she saw that they were down beneath four thousand feet.
“We can’t make it,” he said cryptically. “We’ve iced up along the wings and we’re being forced down. The de-icing has gone. There isn’t anything for it but to land somewhere and have it seen to. We’re trying to make Tiree, but there’s a devil of a wind blowing.” He gave her a quick, critical glance. “At three thousand we’re committed to a landing,” he explained, “but we hope to make Tiree before that. O.K.?”
She heard herself say “O.K.” automatically, and went back to her seat and fastened her seat-belt. She had no idea where they were or what could be done now, but, curiously enough, she had no immediate sense of fear. There was no alteration in the steady sound of the engines and they suggested unlimited power. She found assurance, too, in the sight of the two rigid backs ahead of her in the cockpit, although now Ginger was speaking steadily into the microphone attached to his headphones. She heard him repeat “Mayday”, “Mayday”, “Mayday”, over and over again without knowing what it meant, without realizing that she was listening to the final S.O.S. of the skies.
Then, suddenly, she saw the sea immediately beneath them.
Aware of a strange constriction in her throat, as if her heart had suddenly got there by mistake, she sat frozen into immobility in her seat and waited. It was not in her to panic or even to attempt to ask a needless question. They were in trouble and she knew it, but she would add nothing to their efforts by losing her head.
Their powerful landing lights were switched on, and somewhere beneath them a lighthouse flashed, revealing the curl of white on the
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