24th February 1876. The English Channel

Our journey begins! A large crowd gathered this morning in Berkeley Square as we made our final preparations for what is to be one of the most daring expeditions ever undertaken.

Our vessel, which I have christened Titania, consists of a strong wicker basket borne aloft by a sealed balloon containing 30,000 cubic feet of hydrogen, an amount which, according to my calculations, should be quite sufficient to carry myself, Mr. Booby and all our supplies and equipment.

Mr. Booby is travelling with me as a last-minute replacement for Doctor Cox, who was suddenly taken ill with a serious case of the dreaded badly-bruised knees just days before the launch. Dressed in a huge, shapeless overcoat, he cuts rather a strange figure, but I am confident that he will prove to be as good company as his predecessor, and as competent an aeronaut as he claims.

At eleven o' clock, amid cries of "Huzzah!" I cut the ropes binding the balloon to the earth and we soared aloft on the first leg of our journey...

14th September 1876. Fujian province, China

I began to have my doubts about Mr. Booby almost as soon as the balloon had made its ascent from Berkeley Square. The instant we left the Earth, Mr. Booby got into such convulsions of nausea that I began to doubt his credentials as a balloonist, and as a suitable replacement for poor Dr. Cox, who was suddenly taken ill just days before our take-off.

Though I have expressed to him many times the importance of keeping the weight of the balloon down to a minimum, I am beginning to suspect that Mr. Booby has, against my wishes, been smuggling souvenirs of our journey into the balloon under that great coat of his.

Only this morning I caught sight of him in a marketplace, haggling over the price of a particularly ugly vase.

He was not exactly a small man even before we set out, and he seems to grow larger and larger as our journey progresses. There is something about that strange, mis-shapen coat of his that arouses my suspicions.

26th June 1877. The Ecudorian Andes

Our situation is desperate. A fierce wind from the south-west carries us ever closer to the mouth of an erupting volcano. If my calculations are correct (and there is no reason to suppose otherwise) we are headed directly for the mouth of Mount Cotopaxi, highest volcano in the Americas!

Our altitude is twelve thousand feet, and, in spite of all my efforts, I am unable to raise the balloon any higher.

I have been forced to throw out all four sandbags, our food and water supplies, our first-aid kit, our compass, variometer and theodolite, and yet still we are too low to safely clear the volcano!

In a moment, I shall be compelled to throw out this very log-book, along with the pencil I am writing with, and all my other garments, in a last ditch effort to gain the necessary altitude of twenty thousand feet.

Mr. Booby assures me that he has disposed of all unnecessary weight, and yet somehow I doubt his veracity. If there is anything at all concealed beneath that voluminous coat of his, I must find it now and dispose of it over the side of the basket, or we are both doomed!

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