He might fail, but it wouldn't be their fault nor would it be the fault of this lovely plane. He himself represented the intangible element. Then ahead he sees specks which grow into fishing shacks. He's only 600 miles from Paris. He speeds on.
Time is no longer endless, or the horizon destitute of hope.
The strain of take-off, storm and ocean lies behind. There'll be no second night above the clouds, no more grappling with misty walls of ice. Life is real. It was always real. My mind is able to command, and my body follows out its orders with precision.