Altitude

In a chilly hangar that smells of rope, oil and fresh‑cut canvas, the massive balloon Marie IV sits tethered like a patient beast waiting to be set loose. Captain Conway, a sturdy army air‑service officer, and his wiry aide Kisner fuss over sandbags, parachutes and a handful of stubbornly‑tied knots while a third crewman, Welkfurn, delivers delicate instruments that will record every ascent. Their banter is peppered with practical jokes and a hint of anxiety, but the camaraderie is unmistakable, turning a cold, early‑morning preparation into a lively ritual.

Outside, a small crowd of curious townspeople and a keen newspaper reporter gather, their excitement crackling as much as the static on the barographs. Conway knows the flight will test both skill and courage; the hydrogen‑filled marvel promises a daring plunge into the sky, a chance to push altitude records and prove the limits of early aviation. Listeners are invited to feel the anticipation, the clatter of gear, and the breath‑holding moment just before the balloon finally slips its moorings.