"ArkCovenantPart1" - читать интересную книгу автора (MacClure Victor)

on stability I had pared her wing area down to the absolute minimum, and she
asked for a deal of handling.
As I reached for my watch, I kept my eyes on my father's face. It was as
placidly grim as could be, but I saw that he was betting on me to get him over
to his old bank in quick time. So, almost before I had seen on my watch that the
time was half past six, I had decided to risk his neck and mine on the ancient
bus.
"Get the hangar on the phone, dad," I told him. "Ask Milliken to warm up the
Sieve right away, and have her run out in less than ten minutes. Then put on
some thick clothing, while I get into overalls and pull out the roadster. You'll
find me outside. I'll have you at the Battery inside forty minutes."
The old man took his orders like a soldier.
"The Sieve," he repeated. "Right!"
Off he went, while I got into my flying kit. I went down to the garage, and had
the car out on the drive with her engine turning over prettily before he joined
me again.
"Good man, that mechanic of yours, son," he grunted in approval; "doesn't waste
time in talk--"
Once out on the turnpike, I let the car out full and we were alongside the
hangar well inside of ten minutes. Milliken already had the old seaplane in the
water, and when I saw anew how stubby her wings were, I had to stifle my
misgivings all over again. She looked terribly inadequate to carry the only
father I have. But before I had time to express my qualms, even if I had wanted
to, the old man was out of the car and down on the jetty. With a nod to
Milliken, he climbed into the cockpit, and there was nothing to do but follow
him.
Milliken swung the propeller to contact, and I knew at once that, however patchy
the structure of the Sieve might be, her heart was as sound as ever. The note of
her engine was good to hear. When I felt the strain was right, I dropped the
signal to the mechanic. Milliken released the patent mooring, and we shot out to
sea with a muttered "fluff-flufter-fluff!" from the floats, as of big pebbles
skimmed over the water. Then I pulled the stick, and the old bus took to the air
like a bird. I let her climb east just far enough for the turn, then swung her
into a dead course for the New York Battery, a hundred and thirty kilometres
away.
It was the first time my father had flown with me, though I must say he had
always shown an interest in my aeronautical research work and, before the sale
of a few patents of mine had made me independent of him, had always been ready
to dip his hands deep in his pockets to help me. In the years since the European
War, where I suppose as a cub flyer I got the flying germ into my blood, my
father had never tried me out as a pilot, and I had often wondered what opinion
he had of me. But as I thought, that gray March morning, of the certainty with
which he had depended on my help and of the way he had gone about the business,
I couldn't help growing chesty as I realized how clearly he took my skill for
granted.
As soon as we were properly set on our course, I took a look back at the old
fellow. He was sitting humped up in the passenger's seat, with only his eyes and
the tip of his nose showing through his voluminous wraps. A grim calm was
eloquent even in those features. He caught my eye when I looked back at him, and
he nodded serenely. I don't know how it was, but it dawned on me just then that