the entries
in the log were laconic and negative.
Altitude 3000—or 3500—2500 feet;
nothing visible; ocean empty . The same words recurred over and
over again.
Then, at 16.40 hours: A red mist rising. Visibility
700 yards. Ocean empty.
17.00 hours: fog thickening; visibility 400 yards,
with clear patches. Descending to 600 feet.
17.20 hours: in fog. Altitude 600. Visibility 20-40
yards. Climbing to 1200.
17.45: altitude 1500. Pall of fog to horizon.
Funnel-shaped openings through which I can see ocean surface.
Attempting to enter one of these clearings; something is
moving.
17.52: have spotted what appears to be a
waterspout; it is throwing up a yellow foam. Surrounded by a wall
of fog. Altitude 300. Descending to 60 feet.
The extract from Berton's log stopped at this point. There
followed his case-history, or, more precisely, the statement
dictated by Berton and interrupted at intervals by questions from
the members of the Commission of Enquiry.
BERTON: When I reached 100 feet it became very difficult to
maintain altitude because of the violent gusts of wind inside the
cone. I had to hang on to the controls and for a short
period—about ten or fifteen minutes—I did not look
outside. I realized too late that a powerful undertow was dragging
me back into the fog. It wasn't like an ordinary fog, it was a
thick colloidal substance which coated my windows. I had a lot of
trouble cleaning them; that fog—or glue rather—was
obstinate stuff. Due to this resistance, the speed of my
rotor-blades was reduced by thirty percent and I began losing
height. I was afraid of capsizing on the waves; but, even at full
power, I could maintain altitude but not increase it. I still had
four booster-rockets left but felt the situation was not yet
desperate enough to use them. The aircraft was shaken by shuddering
vibrations that grew more and more violent. Thinking my
rotor-blades must have become coated with the gluey substance, I
glanced at the overload indicator, but to my surprise it read zero.
Since entering the fog, I had not seen the sun—only a red
glow. I continued to fly around in the hope of emerging into one of
the funnels, which, after half an hour, was what happened. I found
myself in a new 'well,' perfectly cylindrical in shape, and several
hundred yards in diameter. The walls of the cylinder were formed by
an enormous whirlpool of fog, spiralling upwards. I struggled to
keep in the middle, where the wind was less violent. It was then
that I noticed a change in the ocean's surface. The waves had
almost completely disappeared, and the upper layer of the
fluid—or whatever the ocean is made of—was becoming
transparent, with murky streaks here and there which gradually
dissolved until, finally, it was perfectly clear. I could see
distinctly to a depth of several yards. I saw a sort of yellow
sludge which was sprouting vertical filaments. When these filaments
emerged above the surface, they had a glassy sheen. Then they began
to exuam—they frothed—until the foam solidified; it was
like a very thick treacle. These glutinous filaments merged and
became intertwined; great bubbles swelled up on the surface and
slowly began to change shape. Suddenly I realized that my machine
was being driven towards the wall of fog. I had to manoeuver
against the wind, and when I was able to look down again, I saw
something which looked like a garden. Yes, a garden. Trees, hedges,
paths—but it wasn't a real garden; it was all made of the
same substance, which had hardened and by now looked like yellow
plaster. Beneath this garden, the ocean glittered. I came down as
low as I dared in order to take a closer look.
QUESTION: Did the trees and plants you saw have leaves on
them?
BERTON: No, the shapes were only approximate, like a model
garden. That's exactly what it was like: a model, but lifesize. All
of a sudden, it began to crack; it broke up and split into dark
crevices; a thick white liquid ran out and collected into pools,
in the log were laconic and negative.
Altitude 3000—or 3500—2500 feet;
nothing visible; ocean empty . The same words recurred over and
over again.
Then, at 16.40 hours: A red mist rising. Visibility
700 yards. Ocean empty.
17.00 hours: fog thickening; visibility 400 yards,
with clear patches. Descending to 600 feet.
17.20 hours: in fog. Altitude 600. Visibility 20-40
yards. Climbing to 1200.
17.45: altitude 1500. Pall of fog to horizon.
Funnel-shaped openings through which I can see ocean surface.
Attempting to enter one of these clearings; something is
moving.
17.52: have spotted what appears to be a
waterspout; it is throwing up a yellow foam. Surrounded by a wall
of fog. Altitude 300. Descending to 60 feet.
The extract from Berton's log stopped at this point. There
followed his case-history, or, more precisely, the statement
dictated by Berton and interrupted at intervals by questions from
the members of the Commission of Enquiry.
BERTON: When I reached 100 feet it became very difficult to
maintain altitude because of the violent gusts of wind inside the
cone. I had to hang on to the controls and for a short
period—about ten or fifteen minutes—I did not look
outside. I realized too late that a powerful undertow was dragging
me back into the fog. It wasn't like an ordinary fog, it was a
thick colloidal substance which coated my windows. I had a lot of
trouble cleaning them; that fog—or glue rather—was
obstinate stuff. Due to this resistance, the speed of my
rotor-blades was reduced by thirty percent and I began losing
height. I was afraid of capsizing on the waves; but, even at full
power, I could maintain altitude but not increase it. I still had
four booster-rockets left but felt the situation was not yet
desperate enough to use them. The aircraft was shaken by shuddering
vibrations that grew more and more violent. Thinking my
rotor-blades must have become coated with the gluey substance, I
glanced at the overload indicator, but to my surprise it read zero.
Since entering the fog, I had not seen the sun—only a red
glow. I continued to fly around in the hope of emerging into one of
the funnels, which, after half an hour, was what happened. I found
myself in a new 'well,' perfectly cylindrical in shape, and several
hundred yards in diameter. The walls of the cylinder were formed by
an enormous whirlpool of fog, spiralling upwards. I struggled to
keep in the middle, where the wind was less violent. It was then
that I noticed a change in the ocean's surface. The waves had
almost completely disappeared, and the upper layer of the
fluid—or whatever the ocean is made of—was becoming
transparent, with murky streaks here and there which gradually
dissolved until, finally, it was perfectly clear. I could see
distinctly to a depth of several yards. I saw a sort of yellow
sludge which was sprouting vertical filaments. When these filaments
emerged above the surface, they had a glassy sheen. Then they began
to exuam—they frothed—until the foam solidified; it was
like a very thick treacle. These glutinous filaments merged and
became intertwined; great bubbles swelled up on the surface and
slowly began to change shape. Suddenly I realized that my machine
was being driven towards the wall of fog. I had to manoeuver
against the wind, and when I was able to look down again, I saw
something which looked like a garden. Yes, a garden. Trees, hedges,
paths—but it wasn't a real garden; it was all made of the
same substance, which had hardened and by now looked like yellow
plaster. Beneath this garden, the ocean glittered. I came down as
low as I dared in order to take a closer look.
QUESTION: Did the trees and plants you saw have leaves on
them?
BERTON: No, the shapes were only approximate, like a model
garden. That's exactly what it was like: a model, but lifesize. All
of a sudden, it began to crack; it broke up and split into dark
crevices; a thick white liquid ran out and collected into pools,
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