Alan had determined on a record flight. He allowed the Cibola to
rise higher than it had yet flown, about 5,000 feet, and then
setting the aeroplanes on a slight incline he headed the car on a
down slant for Mount Wilson's just visible peak, thirty miles away.
There was no economy in half speed, for time and the utilization of
their gas were more precious than gasoline. "We can always float
without gasoline," the boys had said to themselves, "but we can't
move without gas." Therefore the Cibola was soon at its maximum and
the enthusiastic Alan knew that Ned would have a short sleep.
In an hour and twenty-one minutes the swift dirigible was abreast of
the peak of Mount Wilson, and then, without slackening speed, Alan
altered her course southeast toward the scene of the previous
night's hair-raising experience. Long before he reached the place
he was able to make the juncture of the two rivers his landmark, and
the ship pointed her course as straight as a railroad train. After
thirty minutes sailing from Mount Wilson, Buck's rendezvous could be
made out, three miles beyond.
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