At 1:00 p.m. Buenos Aires time, which was 4:00 p.m. standard time, Miss Evans passed him a flight information card that had been written in a beautiful hand. Across the top, it read, ‘Please circulate—Captain R. Cook.’ Star Dust was thirty-two degrees, fifty minutes south; sixty-eight degrees, thirty minutes west. Height: 20,000 feet but ascending to 24,000. Speed: 194 knots. The estimated arrival time for Santiago was 5:34 p.m. standard.
So they were over Mendoza, a city in the eastern foothills of the Andes. The oncoming mountains explained the judders and creaks of the aircraft as it entered the thickening winds. In a few minutes, they would have cleared the highest peaks. Time for Cory to move. Sooner was better; he did not know how long it would take to find the parachute or to induce the crew to tell him.
Cory offered the card to Paul Simpson, who shrugged, as if say, ‘What does it matter what we know?’ He turned and gave it to Jack Gooderham, whose eyes blinked his thanks above his mask.
Miss Evans passed him on her way to the fore alcove. Behind her, the mobile oxygen cart struck the lowest stair. This was a prime opportunity to leave the main cabin, so, playing the gentleman who could not tolerate seeing her struggle, he unbuckled his belt, detached his mask, and grasped the cart by the handle at its base.
He and Miss Evans guided the cart over the threshold and into the kitchen. It was not much larger than a telephone box. Cory helped her settle the cart against the sink. Above it, a stack of dirty plates was lashed to the wall. She passed a strap around the cylinder and buckled it tight. Then slipped her mask upwards and patted her hairpins. She forced a smile of thanks to Cory—betraying an agitation that did not suit her—and motioned for him to return to his seat. It was difficult to talk in the kitchen. The engine noise was louder.
She opened the curtain that separated the cockpit from the passenger cabin and passed through, closing it behind her. Cory remained standing by the sink. It was time. Draughts worked his hair. Nervously, he put his hands into the pockets of his thin, tropical suit. The cold worried him a fraction. The chillier he became, the harder his metabolism would work. The air at 24,000 feet was rarefied but not entirely without oxygen. Cory would be able to respire rather more effectively than the crew. He had enough in reserve to snatch the parachute and escape the aircraft. But it would be close.
The cockpit was no larger than the interior of a family-sized automobile and the considered placement of flight crew made it seem even smaller. It was, however, brighter than he had anticipated. Nearest to him, the radio operator sat against a half-bulkhead of radio equipment reading Life magazine. He wore a bomber jacket, a leather helmet and an oxygen mask. Beyond him was the navigator. This man was oriented at ninety degrees to the fuselage and was holding his map table steady with an ungloved hand. At the front of the cockpit, and higher, was Commander Cook. His knees were resting in the slings of the yoke. To his right was the first officer, Hilton Cook.
Miss Evans unhooked a spare mask and pressed it to her face. With her free hand, she pinched her throat. Cory let his fingers touch the fuselage to aid his eavesdrop of the cabin loop.
‘Hello, Skipper,’ she said.
As one, the men turned. They looked from Miss Evans to Cory. He was prepared to deal with their sudden calls for his dismissal, polite or not, but he was surprised by the silence, which went on long enough for Miss Evans to turn too. Cory realised that they were calm, trained men, and they were waiting for the opinion of Commander Cook.
The time traveller and the commander looked at one another.
Cory tapped his brow in greeting. Commander Cook raised a hand. With that—nothing more—the crew visibly relaxed. They shared glances. Indeed, they could have passed comment on this German intruder safe in the knowledge that he could not hear them. They would never, after all, guess that Cory could eavesdrop on their intercom. Yet they did not. It was undoubtedly some form of English politeness, but it made Cory uneasy. Did they see a hint to their fate in his expression?
Bull, he thought. They don’t have a clue.
‘Miss Evans,’ said Commander Cook, ‘is everything alright?’
‘I’m dreadfully worried about Mrs Limpert,’ she said.
There was another pause. Commander Cook was clearly a man who considered his words.
‘Go on, Iris.’
‘She’s turning blue,’ said Miss Evans. ‘And she might have had a fit. Mr Young, who is looking after her, says her pulse is weak.’
Commander Cook looked at the first officer, Hilton Cook. ‘Right. Since we climbed to twenty-four thousand.’
‘Did you check her oxygen supply?’ asked the first officer.
‘Yes, it’s working properly.’
The captain scratched an eyelid. It was a childlike gesture, and Cory remembered his age. He could not be more than thirty. ‘Serves us right for letting a seventy-year-old woman on board.’
‘If it’s the altitude,’ said Miss Evans, ‘then let’s drop below twenty thousand.’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘But even a small descent might help.’
‘No. Any lower and we’ll be having dinner on the cordillera. Don, how long until we’re certain the Andes are behind us?’
As the navigator twisted from his map, Cory pointed questioningly at the discarded oxygen mask. He knew that the commander had been briefed on Wittenbacher’s life story and, given their friendly exchange prior to his meeting with Bennett, there was a good chance that Cook would not turn down the request. To Cory’s relief, the commander turned his palm upwards at the mask. Be my guest, he seemed to say. He watched, together with Hilton Cook, as Cory shook out the straps.
‘We’ll probably be clear in half an hour or so,’ said the navigator, ‘but I’d recommend we wait until the last moment before we descend. In this visibility, I can’t accurately say when we’re clear. Denis, you’ve been over the bumps more times than anyone. What do you think?’
The man at the radio nodded. ‘No such thing as a standard crossing time, Skipper. The winds can play tricks. The watchword is caution, especially when it’s ten-tenths down there.’
‘There you have it, Iris,’ said Commander Cook. ‘Mrs Limpert will have to grin and bear it. We should be on the ground in three quarters of an hour.’
‘What about the northern route? This is a woman’s life we’re talking about.’
‘Miss Evans.’
She stiffened. There was no mistaking the commander’s tone.
‘I’ll try to make her comfortable,’ Miss Evans said, coldly. ‘Now come along, Mr Wittenbacher.’
‘Our friend can stay,’ said the Commander. ‘We have a few minutes until we get busy.’
‘Very good,’ she replied. She placed her mask on its fuselage hook and straightened her hair. As she exchanged places with Cory in the hatchway, he noticed lines of tiredness at the corners of her eyes where her make-up had cracked.
‘You know what she needs?’ said the first officer.
‘Oh, shut up, Hilton,’ said Commander Cook. ‘Don, redo the ETA. Let’s come down as soon as possible. Mrs Limpert will be alright once she’s lower. I’ve seen it a dozen times.’
‘VG, Skipper.’
‘Colonel Wittenbacher,’ said Commander Cook. His eyebrows flexed. ‘Welcome to the greenhouse. The vegetable on my right is Hilton, whose sense of humour needs no introduction. That’s Don Cheklin at the map table, and that’s Denis Harmer at the wireless. Grab the spare Irvin if you’re cold. It’s underneath Don. Watch his flask doesn’t fall out. Tea is the second most important liquid in this kite, and I wouldn’t want you to see my navigator cry.’