One of the wireless operators at the Commodoro Rivadavia station in Patagonia made a startled gesture and all the others keeping helpless vigil there crowded round to read the message.
A harsh light fell upon the blank sheet of paper over which they bent. The operator’s hand seemed loath to do its task and his pencil shook. The words to write were prisoned in his hand, but already his fingers twitched.
“Storms?”
He nodded assent; he could hardly hear for interferences. Then he scrawled some illegible signs, then words; then, at last, the text came out.
“Cut off at 12,000 feet, above the storm. Proceeding due west toward interior; found we had been carried above sea. No visibility below. Impossible know if still flying over sea. Report if storm extends interior.”
By reason of the storms the telegram had to be relayed from post to post to Buenos Aires, bearing its message through the night like balefires lit from tower to tower.
Buenos Aires transmitted a reply. “Storm covers all interior area. How much gasoline left?”
“For thirty minutes.” These words sped back from post to post to Buenos Aires.
In under half an hour the plane was doomed to plunge into a cyclone which would crash it to the earth.