Hooded dials, brightly lighted push-buttons, a telephone headpiece and receiver combined, and switches all lay in easy reach.  Here was the tachometer, that would give to a fraction the revolutions of each screw per minute; here the altimeter, to indicate height; here the air-speed indicator, the compass with reflector, the inclinometer, the motometers—­to show the heat in each engine—­and there, the switch to throw on the gigantic searchlight, with the little electric wheel to control its direction, as accurately as you would point a wand.

Throttle and spark, of course, there were none.  All engine control was by telephone, with the engine-room which lay a little aft of midships.  But the controls of the vacuum apparatus were within easy reach, so that at will the pilot could exhaust the floats, or fill them.

Here were the starting, stopping, and speed controls of the helicopters, which were under direct electrical motivation by the pilot.  Here also were the magnetic-anchor release and the air-skid pump control; here were telephonic connections with the wireless-room and with the fore-and-aft observation pits, where observers were already lying on their cushions upon the heavy, metal-reinforced glass floor-plates.

“This is really very complete,” approved the Master.  Not Alden, but he, had been first to speak.  The Master spoke half against his own wish, but a resistless impulse to make some comment, in this moment of triumph, possessed him.

“Only as expected, sir,” replied Alden.  The Master bit his lip a second, and said no more.

Bohannan’s return with several champagne bottles in his arms, put an end to any possible developments the terse conversation might have had.

“Well, sir,” said the major, “here it all is.  And I’ve got glasses in my pocket—­and a corkscrew, sir.  It never does to forget the corkscrew!  We’ll drink to happy days, eh, sir?”

Already the Celt’s mouth was watering for draughts of the precious liquid.  Joy pervaded him that, for once at least, the iron rule of the Master was to be broken, and that the journey was to begin with proper libations.  The Master’s curt syllables, however, instantly dispelled any illusions he might have entertained on that score.

“Drop them all out that open window, there,” commanded the Master.

“What, sir?  Good Pommery?  Veuve?”

“No argument, Bohannan!  Out they go!”

Dismayed, the Celt did the other’s bidding, while Alden smiled grimly.  Far below, glass crashed and jangled.

“What’s the idea?” demanded the major ruefully.

“You know very well, Major, my ruling on alcohol.  It doesn’t mix with any motive power on this trip.  Moreover, it’s customary to christen every launching with champagne.  We’ve done it!”

“Well, that’s not so bad an idea, at that,” Bohannan admitted, scratching his fiery head.  “What name have you given this bus?”