V. THE HORROR OF THE HEIGHTS(WHICH INCLUDES THE MANUSCRIPT KNOWN AS THE JOYCE-ARMSTRONG FRAGMENT)
The idea that the extraordinary narrative which has been called the Joyce-Armstrong Fragment is an elaborate practical joke evolved by some unknownperson, cursed by a perverted and sinister sense of humour, has now beenabandoned by all who have examined the matter. The most _macabre_ andimaginative of plotters would hesitate before linking his morbid fancieswith the unquestioned and tragic facts which reinforce the statement.Though the assertions contained in it are amazing and even monstrous, itis none the less forcing itself upon the general intelligence that theyare true, and that we must readjust our ideas to the new situation. Thisworld of ours appears to be separated by a slight and precarious marginof safety from a most singular and unexpected danger. I will endeavourin this narrative, which reproduces the original document in itsnecessarily somewhat fragmentary form, to lay before the reader the wholeof the facts up to date, prefacing my statement by saying that, if therebe any who doubt the narrative of Joyce-Armstrong, there can be noquestion at all as to the facts concerning Lieutenant Myrtle, R.N., andMr. Hay Connor, who undoubtedly met their end in the manner described.
The Joyce-Armstrong Fragment was found in the field which is called LowerHaycock, lying one mile to the westward of the village of Withyham, uponthe Kent and Sussex border. It was on the fifteenth of September lastthat an agricultural labourer, James Flynn, in the employment of MathewDodd, farmer, of the Chauntry Farm, Withyham, perceived a briar pipelying near the footpath which skirts the hedge in Lower Haycock. A fewpaces farther on he picked up a pair of broken binocular glasses.Finally, among some nettles in the ditch, he caught sight of a flat,canvas-backed book, which proved to be a note-book with detachableleaves, some of which had come loose and were fluttering along the baseof the hedge. These he collected, but some, including the first, werenever recovered, and leave a deplorable hiatus in this all-importantstatement. The notebook was taken by the labourer to his master, who inturn showed it to Dr. J. H. Atherton, of Hartfield. This gentleman atonce recognised the need for an expert examination, and the manuscriptwas forwarded to the Aero Club in London, where it now lies.
The first two pages of the manuscript are missing. There is also onetorn away at the end of the narrative, though none of these affect thegeneral coherence of the story. It is conjectured that the missingopening is concerned with the record of Mr. Joyce-Armstrong'squalifications as an aeronaut, which can be gathered from other sourcesand are admitted to be unsurpassed among the air-pilots of England. Formany years he has been looked upon as among the most daring and the mostintellectual of flying men, a combination which has enabled him to bothinvent and test several new devices, including the common gyroscopicattachment which is known by his name. The main body of the manuscriptis written neatly in ink, but the last few lines are in pencil and are soragged as to be hardly legible--exactly, in fact, as they might beexpected to appear if they were scribbled off hurriedly from the seat ofa moving aeroplane. There are, it may be added, several stains, both onthe last page and on the outside cover, which have been pronounced by theHome Office experts to be blood--probably human and certainly mammalian.The fact that something closely resembling the organism of malaria wasdiscovered in this blood, and that Joyce-Armstrong is known to havesuffered from intermittent fever, is a remarkable example of the newweapons which modern science has placed in the hands of our detectives.
And now a word as to the personality of the author of this epoch-makingstatement. Joyce-Armstrong, according to the few friends who really knewsomething of the man, was a poet and a dreamer, as well as a mechanic andan inventor. He was a man of considerable wealth, much of which he hadspent in the pursuit of his aeronautical hobby. He had four privateaeroplanes in his hangars near Devizes, and is said to have made no fewerthan one hundred and seventy ascents in the course of last year. He wasa retiring man with dark moods, in which he would avoid the society ofhis fellows. Captain Dangerfield, who knew him better than any one, saysthat there were times when his eccentricity threatened to develop intosomething more serious. His habit of carrying a shot-gun with him in hisaeroplane was one manifestation of it.
Another was the morbid effect which the fall of Lieutenant Myrtle hadupon his mind. Myrtle, who was attempting the height record, fell froman altitude of something over thirty thousand feet. Horrible to narrate,his head was entirely obliterated, though his body and limbs preservedtheir configuration. At every gathering of airmen, Joyce-Armstrong,according to Dangerfield, would ask, with an enigmatic smile: "And where,pray, is Myrtle's head?"
On another occasion after dinner, at the mess of the Flying School onSalisbury Plain, he started a debate as to what will be the mostpermanent danger which airmen will have to encounter. Having listened tosuccessive opinions as to air-pockets, faulty construction, andover-banking, he ended by shrugging his shoulders and refusing to putforward his own views, though he gave the impression that they differedfrom any advanced by his companions.
It is worth remarking that after his own complete disappearance it wasfound that his private affairs were arranged with a precision which mayshow that he had a strong premonition of disaster. With these essentialexplanations I will now give the narrative exactly as it stands,beginning at page three of the blood-soaked note-book:--
"Nevertheless, when I dined at Rheims with Coselli and Gustav Raymond Ifound that neither of them was aware of any particular danger in thehigher layers of the atmosphere. I did not actually say what was in mythoughts, but I got so near to it that if they had any corresponding ideathey could not have failed to express it. But then they are two empty,vainglorious fellows with no thought beyond seeing their silly names inthe newspaper. It is interesting to note that neither of them had everbeen much beyond the twenty-thousand-foot level. Of course, men havebeen higher than this both in balloons and in the ascent of mountains. Itmust be well above that point that the aeroplane enters the dangerzone--always presuming that my premonitions are correct.
"Aeroplaning has been with us now for more than twenty years, and onemight well ask: Why should this peril be only revealing itself in ourday? The answer is obvious. In the old days of weak engines, when ahundred horse-power Gnome or Green was considered ample for every need,the flights were very restricted. Now that three hundred horse-power isthe rule rather than the exception, visits to the upper layers havebecome easier and more common. Some of us can remember how, in ouryouth, Garros made a world-wide reputation by attaining nineteen thousandfeet, and it was considered a remarkable achievement to fly over theAlps. Our standard now has been immeasurably raised, and there aretwenty high flights for one in former years. Many of them have beenundertaken with impunity. The thirty-thousand-foot level has beenreached time after time with no discomfort beyond cold and asthma. Whatdoes this prove? A visitor might descend upon this planet a thousandtimes and never see a tiger. Yet tigers exist, and if he chanced to comedown into a jungle he might be devoured. There are jungles of the upperair, and there are worse things than tigers which inhabit them. Ibelieve in time they will map these jungles accurately out. Even at thepresent moment I could name two of them. One of them lies over the Pau-Biarritz district of France. Another is just over my head as I writehere in my house in Wiltshire. I rather think there is a third in theHomburg-Wiesbaden district.
"It was the disappearance of the airmen that first set me thinking. Ofcourse, every one said that they had fallen into the sea, but that didnot satisfy me at all. First, there was Verrier in France; his machinewas found near Bayonne, but they never got his body. There was the caseof Baxter also, who vanished, though his engine and some of the ironfixings were found in a wood in Leicestershire. In that case, Dr.Middleton, of Amesbury, who was watching the flight with a telescope,declares that just before the clouds obscured the view he saw themachine, which was at an enormous height, suddenly rise perpendicularlyupwards in a succession of jerks in a manner that he w
ould have thoughtto be impossible. That was the last seen of Baxter. There was acorrespondence in the papers, but it never led to anything. There wereseveral other similar cases, and then there was the death of Hay Connor.What a cackle there was about an unsolved mystery of the air, and whatcolumns in the halfpenny papers, and yet how little was ever done to getto the bottom of the business! He came down in a tremendous vol-planefrom an unknown height. He never got off his machine and died in hispilot's seat. Died of what? 'Heart disease,' said the doctors. Rubbish!Hay Connor's heart was as sound as mine is. What did Venables say?Venables was the only man who was at his side when he died. He said thathe was shivering and looked like a man who had been badly scared. 'Diedof fright,' said Venables, but could not imagine what he was frightenedabout. Only said one word to Venables, which sounded like 'Monstrous.'They could make nothing of that at the inquest. But I could makesomething of it. Monsters! That was the last word of poor Harry HayConnor. And he _did_ die of fright, just as Venables thought.
"And then there was Myrtle's head. Do you really believe--does anybodyreally believe--that a man's head could be driven clean into his body bythe force of a fall? Well, perhaps it may be possible, but I, for one,have never believed that it was so with Myrtle. And the grease upon hisclothes--'all slimy with grease,' said somebody at the inquest. Queerthat nobody got thinking after that! I did--but, then, I had beenthinking for a good long time. I've made three ascents--how Dangerfieldused to chaff me about my shot-gun!--but I've never been high enough.Now, with this new light Paul Veroner machine and its one hundred andseventy-five Robur, I should easily touch the thirty thousand to-morrow.I'll have a shot at the record. Maybe I shall have a shot at somethingelse as well. Of course, it's dangerous. If a fellow wants to avoiddanger he had best keep out of flying altogether and subside finally intoflannel slippers and a dressing-gown. But I'll visit the air-jungle to-morrow--and if there's anything there I shall know it. If I return, I'llfind myself a bit of a celebrity. If I don't, this note-book may explainwhat I am trying to do, and how I lost my life in doing it. But nodrivel about accidents or mysteries, if _you_ please.
"I chose my Paul Veroner monoplane for the job. There's nothing like amonoplane when real work is to be done. Beaumont found that out in veryearly days. For one thing, it doesn't mind damp, and the weather looksas if we should be in the clouds all the time. It's a bonny little modeland answers my hand like a tender-mouthed horse. The engine is a ten-cylinder rotary Robur working up to one hundred and seventy-five. It hasall the modern improvements--enclosed fuselage, high-curved landingskids, brakes, gyroscopic steadiers, and three speeds, worked by analteration of the angle of the planes upon the Venetian-blind principle.I took a shot-gun with me and a dozen cartridges filled with buck-shot.You should have seen the face of Perkins, my old mechanic, when Idirected him to put them in. I was dressed like an Arctic explorer, withtwo jerseys under my overalls, thick socks inside my padded boots, astorm-cap with flaps, and my talc goggles. It was stifling outside thehangars, but I was going for the summit of the Himalayas, and had todress for the part. Perkins knew there was something on and implored meto take him with me. Perhaps I should if I were using the biplane, but amonoplane is a one-man show--if you want to get the last foot of lift outof it. Of course, I took an oxygen bag; the man who goes for thealtitude record without one will either be frozen or smothered--or both.
"I had a good look at the planes, the rudder-bar, and the elevating leverbefore I got in. Everything was in order so far as I could see. Then Iswitched on my engine and found that she was running sweetly. When theylet her go she rose almost at once upon the lowest speed. I circled myhome field once or twice just to warm her up, and then, with a wave toPerkins and the others, I flattened out my planes and put her on herhighest. She skimmed like a swallow down wind for eight or ten milesuntil I turned her nose up a little and she began to climb in a greatspiral for the cloud-bank above me. It's all-important to rise slowlyand adapt yourself to the pressure as you go.
"It was a close, warm day for an English September, and there was thehush and heaviness of impending rain. Now and then there came suddenpuffs of wind from the south-west--one of them so gusty and unexpectedthat it caught me napping and turned me half-round for an instant. Iremember the time when gusts and whirls and air-pockets used to be thingsof danger--before we learned to put an overmastering power into ourengines. Just as I reached the cloud-banks, with the altimeter markingthree thousand, down came the rain. My word, how it poured! It drummedupon my wings and lashed against my face, blurring my glasses so that Icould hardly see. I got down on to a low speed, for it was painful totravel against it. As I got higher it became hail, and I had to turntail to it. One of my cylinders was out of action--a dirty plug, Ishould imagine, but still I was rising steadily with plenty of power.After a bit the trouble passed, whatever it was, and I heard the full,deep-throated purr--the ten singing as one. That's where the beauty ofour modern silencers comes in. We can at last control our engines byear. How they squeal and squeak and sob when they are in trouble! Allthose cries for help were wasted in the old days, when every sound wasswallowed up by the monstrous racket of the machine. If only the earlyaviators could come back to see the beauty and perfection of themechanism which have been bought at the cost of their lives!
"About nine-thirty I was nearing the clouds. Down below me, all blurredand shadowed with rain, lay the vast expanse of Salisbury Plain. Half-a-dozen flying machines were doing hackwork at the thousand-foot level,looking like little black swallows against the green background. I daresay they were wondering what I was doing up in cloud-land. Suddenly agrey curtain drew across beneath me and the wet folds of vapour wereswirling round my face. It was clammily cold and miserable. But I wasabove the hail-storm, and that was something gained. The cloud was asdark and thick as a London fog. In my anxiety to get clear, I cocked hernose up until the automatic alarm-bell rang, and I actually began toslide backwards. My sopped and dripping wings had made me heavier than Ithought, but presently I was in lighter cloud, and soon had cleared thefirst layer. There was a second--opal-coloured and fleecy--at a greatheight above my head, a white unbroken ceiling above, and a dark unbrokenfloor below, with the monoplane labouring upwards upon a vast spiralbetween them. It is deadly lonely in these cloud-spaces. Once a greatflight of some small water-birds went past me, flying very fast to thewestwards. The quick whirr of their wings and their musical cry werecheery to my ear. I fancy that they were teal, but I am a wretchedzoologist. Now that we humans have become birds we must really learn toknow our brethren by sight.
"The wind down beneath me whirled and swayed the broad cloud-plain. Oncea great eddy formed in it, a whirlpool of vapour, and through it, as downa funnel, I caught sight of the distant world. A large white biplane waspassing at a vast depth beneath me. I fancy it was the morning mailservice betwixt Bristol and London. Then the drift swirled inwards againand the great solitude was unbroken.
"Just after ten I touched the lower edge of the upper cloud-stratum. Itconsisted of fine diaphanous vapour drifting swiftly from the westward.The wind had been steadily rising all this time and it was now blowing asharp breeze--twenty-eight an hour by my gauge. Already it was verycold, though my altimeter only marked nine thousand. The engines wereworking beautifully, and we went droning steadily upwards. The cloud-bank was thicker than I had expected, but at last it thinned out into agolden mist before me, and then in an instant I had shot out from it, andthere was an unclouded sky and a brilliant sun above my head--all blueand gold above, all shining silver below, one vast glimmering plain asfar as my eyes could reach. It was a quarter past ten o'clock, and thebarograph needle pointed to twelve thousand eight hundred. Up I went andup, my ears concentrated upon the deep purring of my motor, my eyes busyalways with the watch, the revolution indicator, the petrol lever, andthe oil pump. No wonder aviators are said to be a fearless race. Withso many things to think of there is no t
ime to trouble about oneself.About this time I noted how unreliable is the compass when above acertain height from earth. At fifteen thousand feet mine was pointingeast and a point south. The sun and the wind gave me my true bearings.
"I had hoped to reach an eternal stillness in these high altitudes, butwith every thousand feet of ascent the gale grew stronger. My machinegroaned and trembled in every joint and rivet as she faced it, and sweptaway like a sheet of paper when I banked her on the turn, skimming downwind at a greater pace, perhaps, than ever mortal man has moved. Yet Ihad always to turn again and tack up in the wind's eye, for it was notmerely a height record that I was after. By all my calculations it wasabove little Wiltshire that my air-jungle lay, and all my labour might belost if I struck the outer layers at some farther point.
"When I reached the nineteen-thousand-foot level, which was about midday,the wind was so severe that I looked with some anxiety to the stays of mywings, expecting momentarily to see them snap or slacken. I even castloose the parachute behind me, and fastened its hook into the ring of myleathern belt, so as to be ready for the worst. Now was the time when abit of scamped work by the mechanic is paid for by the life of theaeronaut. But she held together bravely. Every cord and strut washumming and vibrating like so many harp-strings, but it was glorious tosee how, for all the beating and the buffeting, she was still theconqueror of Nature and the mistress of the sky. There is surelysomething divine in man himself that he should rise so superior to thelimitations which Creation seemed to impose--rise, too, by suchunselfish, heroic devotion as this air-conquest has shown. Talk of humandegeneration! When has such a story as this been written in the annalsof our race?
"These were the thoughts in my head as I climbed that monstrous inclinedplane with the wind sometimes beating in my face and sometimes whistlingbehind my ears, while the cloud-land beneath me fell away to such adistance that the folds and hummocks of silver had all smoothed out intoone flat, shining plain. But suddenly I had a horrible and unprecedentedexperience. I have known before what it is to be in what our neighbourshave called a _tourbillon_, but never on such a scale as this. Thathuge, sweeping river of wind of which I have spoken had, as it appears,whirlpools within it which were as monstrous as itself. Without amoment's warning I was dragged suddenly into the heart of one. I spunround for a minute or two with such velocity that I almost lost mysenses, and then fell suddenly, left wing foremost, down the vacuumfunnel in the centre. I dropped like a stone, and lost nearly a thousandfeet. It was only my belt that kept me in my seat, and the shock andbreathlessness left me hanging half-insensible over the side of thefuselage. But I am always capable of a supreme effort--it is my onegreat merit as an aviator. I was conscious that the descent was slower.The whirlpool was a cone rather than a funnel, and I had come to theapex. With a terrific wrench, throwing my weight all to one side, Ilevelled my planes and brought her head away from the wind. In aninstant I had shot out of the eddies and was skimming down the sky. Then,shaken but victorious, I turned her nose up and began once more my steadygrind on the upward spiral. I took a large sweep to avoid the danger-spot of the whirlpool, and soon I was safely above it. Just after oneo'clock I was twenty-one thousand feet above the sea-level. To my greatjoy I had topped the gale, and with every hundred feet of ascent the airgrew stiller. On the other hand, it was very cold, and I was consciousof that peculiar nausea which goes with rarefaction of the air. For thefirst time I unscrewed the mouth of my oxygen bag and took an occasionalwhiff of the glorious gas. I could feel it running like a cordialthrough my veins, and I was exhilarated almost to the point ofdrunkenness. I shouted and sang as I soared upwards into the cold, stillouter world.
"It is very clear to me that the insensibility which came upon Glaisher,and in a lesser degree upon Coxwell, when, in 1862, they ascended in aballoon to the height of thirty thousand feet, was due to the extremespeed with which a perpendicular ascent is made. Doing it at an easygradient and accustoming oneself to the lessened barometric pressure byslow degrees, there are no such dreadful symptoms. At the same greatheight I found that even without my oxygen inhaler I could breathewithout undue distress. It was bitterly cold, however, and mythermometer was at zero Fahrenheit. At one-thirty I was nearly sevenmiles above the surface of the earth, and still ascending steadily. Ifound, however, that the rarefied air was giving markedly less support tomy planes, and that my angle of ascent had to be considerably lowered inconsequence. It was already clear that even with my light weight andstrong engine-power there was a point in front of me where I should beheld. To make matters worse, one of my sparking-plugs was in troubleagain and there was intermittent missfiring in the engine. My heart washeavy with the fear of failure.
"It was about that time that I had a most extraordinary experience.Something whizzed past me in a trail of smoke and exploded with a loud,hissing sound, sending forth a cloud of steam. For the instant I couldnot imagine what had happened. Then I remembered that the earth is forever being bombarded by meteor stones, and would be hardly inhabitablewere they not in nearly every case turned to vapour in the outer layersof the atmosphere. Here is a new danger for the high-altitude man, fortwo others passed me when I was nearing the forty-thousand-foot mark. Icannot doubt that at the edge of the earth's envelope the risk would be avery real one.
"My barograph needle marked forty-one thousand three hundred when Ibecame aware that I could go no farther. Physically, the strain was notas yet greater than I could bear, but my machine had reached its limit.The attenuated air gave no firm support to the wings, and the least tiltdeveloped into side-slip, while she seemed sluggish on her controls.Possibly, had the engine been at its best, another thousand feet mighthave been within our capacity, but it was still missfiring, and two outof the ten cylinders appeared to be out of action. If I had not alreadyreached the zone for which I was searching then I should never see itupon this journey. But was it not possible that I had attained it?Soaring in circles like a monstrous hawk upon the forty-thousand-footlevel I let the monoplane guide herself, and with my Mannheim glass Imade a careful observation of my surroundings. The heavens wereperfectly clear; there was no indication of those dangers which I hadimagined.
"I have said that I was soaring in circles. It struck me suddenly that Iwould do well to take a wider sweep and open up a new air-tract. If thehunter entered an earth-jungle he would drive through it if he wished tofind his game. My reasoning had led me to believe that the air-junglewhich I had imagined lay somewhere over Wiltshire. This should be to thesouth and west of me. I took my bearings from the sun, for the compasswas hopeless and no trace of earth was to be seen--nothing but thedistant silver cloud-plain. However, I got my direction as best I mightand kept her head straight to the mark. I reckoned that my petrol supplywould not last for more than another hour or so, but I could afford touse it to the last drop, since a single magnificent vol-plane could atany time take me to the earth.
"Suddenly I was aware of something new. The air in front of me had lostits crystal clearness. It was full of long, ragged wisps of somethingwhich I can only compare to very fine cigarette-smoke. It hung about inwreaths and coils, turning and twisting slowly in the sunlight. As themonoplane shot through it, I was aware of a faint taste of oil upon mylips, and there was a greasy scum upon the woodwork of the machine. Someinfinitely fine organic matter appeared to be suspended in theatmosphere. There was no life there. It was inchoate and diffuse,extending for many square acres and then fringing off into the void. No,it was not life. But might it not be the remains of life? Above all,might it not be the food of life, of monstrous life, even as the humblegrease of the ocean is the food for the mighty whale? The thought was inmy mind when my eyes looked upwards and I saw the most wonderful visionthat ever man has seen. Can I hope to convey it to you even as I saw itmyself last Thursday?
"Conceive a jelly-fish such as sails in our summer seas, bell-shaped andof enormous size--far larger, I should judge, than the dome of St
.Paul's. It was of a light pink colour veined with a delicate green, butthe whole huge fabric so tenuous that it was but a fairy outline againstthe dark blue sky. It pulsated with a delicate and regular rhythm. Fromit there depended two long, drooping green tentacles, which swayed slowlybackwards and forwards. This gorgeous vision passed gently withnoiseless dignity over my head, as light and fragile as a soap-bubble,and drifted upon its stately way.
"I had half-turned my monoplane, that I might look after this beautifulcreature, when, in a moment, I found myself amidst a perfect fleet ofthem, of all sizes, but none so large as the first. Some were quitesmall, but the majority about as big as an average balloon, and with muchthe same curvature at the top. There was in them a delicacy of textureand colouring which reminded me of the finest Venetian glass. Paleshades of pink and green were the prevailing tints, but all had a lovelyiridescence where the sun shimmered through their dainty forms. Somehundreds of them drifted past me, a wonderful fairy squadron of strange,unknown argosies of the sky--creatures whose forms and substance were soattuned to these pure heights that one could not conceive anything sodelicate within actual sight or sound of earth.
"But soon my attention was drawn to a new phenomenon--the serpents of theouter air. These were long, thin, fantastic coils of vapour-likematerial, which turned and twisted with great speed, flying round andround at such a pace that the eyes could hardly follow them. Some ofthese ghost-like creatures were twenty or thirty feet long, but it wasdifficult to tell their girth, for their outline was so hazy that itseemed to fade away into the air around them. These air-snakes were of avery light grey or smoke colour, with some darker lines within, whichgave the impression of a definite organism. One of them whisked past myvery face, and I was conscious of a cold, clammy contact, but theircomposition was so unsubstantial that I could not connect them with anythought of physical danger, any more than the beautiful bell-likecreatures which had preceded them. There was no more solidity in theirframes than in the floating spume from a broken wave.
"But a more terrible experience was in store for me. Floating downwardsfrom a great height there came a purplish patch of vapour, small as I sawit first, but rapidly enlarging as it approached me, until it appeared tobe hundreds of square feet in size. Though fashioned of sometransparent, jelly-like substance, it was none the less of much moredefinite outline and solid consistence than anything which I had seenbefore. There were more traces, too, of a physical organization,especially two vast shadowy, circular plates upon either side, which mayhave been eyes, and a perfectly solid white projection between them whichwas as curved and cruel as the beak of a vulture.
"The whole aspect of this monster was formidable and threatening, and itkept changing its colour from a very light mauve to a dark, angry purpleso thick that it cast a shadow as it drifted between my monoplane and thesun. On the upper curve of its huge body there were three greatprojections which I can only describe as enormous bubbles, and I wasconvinced as I looked at them that they were charged with some extremelylight gas which served to buoy-up the misshapen and semi-solid mass inthe rarefied air. The creature moved swiftly along, keeping pace easilywith the monoplane, and for twenty miles or more it formed my horribleescort, hovering over me like a bird of prey which is waiting to pounce.Its method of progression--done so swiftly that it was not easy tofollow--was to throw out a long, glutinous streamer in front of it, whichin turn seemed to draw forward the rest of the writhing body. So elasticand gelatinous was it that never for two successive minutes was it thesame shape, and yet each change made it more threatening and loathsomethan the last.
"I knew that it meant mischief. Every purple flush of its hideous bodytold me so. The vague, goggling eyes which were turned always upon mewere cold and merciless in their viscid hatred. I dipped the nose of mymonoplane downwards to escape it. As I did so, as quick as a flash thereshot out a long tentacle from this mass of floating blubber, and it fellas light and sinuous as a whip-lash across the front of my machine. Therewas a loud hiss as it lay for a moment across the hot engine, and itwhisked itself into the air again, while the huge flat body drew itselftogether as if in sudden pain. I dipped to a vol-pique, but again atentacle fell over the monoplane and was shorn off by the propeller aseasily as it might have cut through a smoke wreath. A long, gliding,sticky, serpent-like coil came from behind and caught me round the waist,dragging me out of the fuselage. I tore at it, my fingers sinking intothe smooth, glue-like surface, and for an instant I disengaged myself,but only to be caught round the boot by another coil, which gave me ajerk that tilted me almost on to my back.
"As I fell over I blazed off both barrels of my gun, though, indeed, itwas like attacking an elephant with a pea-shooter to imagine that anyhuman weapon could cripple that mighty bulk. And yet I aimed better thanI knew, for, with a loud report, one of the great blisters upon thecreature's back exploded with the puncture of the buck-shot. It was veryclear that my conjecture was right, and that these vast clear bladderswere distended with some lifting gas, for in an instant the huge cloud-like body turned sideways, writhing desperately to find its balance,while the white beak snapped and gaped in horrible fury. But already Ihad shot away on the steepest glide that I dared to attempt, my enginestill full on, the flying propeller and the force of gravity shooting medownwards like an aerolite. Far behind me I saw a dull, purplish smudgegrowing swiftly smaller and merging into the blue sky behind it. I wassafe out of the deadly jungle of the outer air.
"Once out of danger I throttled my engine, for nothing tears a machine topieces quicker than running on full power from a height. It was aglorious spiral vol-plane from nearly eight miles of altitude--first, tothe level of the silver cloud-bank, then to that of the storm-cloudbeneath it, and finally, in beating rain, to the surface of the earth. Isaw the Bristol Channel beneath me as I broke from the clouds, but,having still some petrol in my tank, I got twenty miles inland before Ifound myself stranded in a field half a mile from the village ofAshcombe. There I got three tins of petrol from a passing motor-car, andat ten minutes past six that evening I alighted gently in my own homemeadow at Devizes, after such a journey as no mortal upon earth has everyet taken and lived to tell the tale. I have seen the beauty and I haveseen the horror of the heights--and greater beauty or greater horror thanthat is not within the ken of man.
"And now it is my plan to go once again before I give my results to theworld. My reason for this is that I must surely have something to showby way of proof before I lay such a tale before my fellow-men. It istrue that others will soon follow and will confirm what I have said, andyet I should wish to carry conviction from the first. Those lovelyiridescent bubbles of the air should not be hard to capture. They driftslowly upon their way, and the swift monoplane could intercept theirleisurely course. It is likely enough that they would dissolve in theheavier layers of the atmosphere, and that some small heap of amorphousjelly might be all that I should bring to earth with me. And yetsomething there would surely be by which I could substantiate my story.Yes, I will go, even if I run a risk by doing so. These purple horrorswould not seem to be numerous. It is probable that I shall not see one.If I do I shall dive at once. At the worst there is always the shot-gunand my knowledge of . . ."
Here a page of the manuscript is unfortunately missing. On the next pageis written, in large, straggling writing:--
"Forty-three thousand feet. I shall never see earth again. They arebeneath me, three of them. God help me; it is a dreadful death to die!"
Such in its entirety is the Joyce-Armstrong Statement. Of the mannothing has since been seen. Pieces of his shattered monoplane have beenpicked up in the preserves of Mr. Budd-Lushington upon the borders ofKent and Sussex, within a few miles of the spot where the note-book wasdiscovered. If the unfortunate aviator's theory is correct that this air-jungle, as he called it, existed only over the south-west of England,then it would seem that he had fled from it at the full speed of hismonoplane, but had been overtaken
and devoured by these horriblecreatures at some spot in the outer atmosphere above the place where thegrim relics were found. The picture of that monoplane skimming down thesky, with the nameless terrors flying as swiftly beneath it and cuttingit off always from the earth while they gradually closed in upon theirvictim, is one upon which a man who valued his sanity would prefer not todwell. There are many, as I am aware, who still jeer at the facts whichI have here set down, but even they must admit that Joyce-Armstrong hasdisappeared, and I would commend to them his own words: "This note-bookmay explain what I am trying to do, and how I lost my life in doing it.But no drivel about accidents or mysteries, if _you_ please."