A good deal of vibration and of shuddering whipped the wing-tip, too; all was different, here, from the calm warmth, comfort, and security of the fuselage.
The men seemed standing on the very pinion-feathers of some fabled roc, sweeping through space.

Above, below, complete and overwhelming vacancy clutched for them.

The human is not yet born who can stand thus upon the tip of such a plane, and feel himself wholly at ease.
As darkness faded, however, and as approaching dawn began to burn its slow way up the stupendous vaults of space above the eastern cloud-battlements--battlements flicked with dull crimson, blood-tinged blotches, golden streaks and a whole phantasmagoria of shifting hues--something of the oppression of night fell from the two men.
"Well, we're still carrying on.

Things are still going pretty much O.K., sir," proffered the major, squinting into the East--the cold, red East, infinitely vast, empty, ripe with possibilities.

"A good start! Close to a thousand miles we've made; engines running to a hair; men all fitting into the jobs like clockwork.