Two men in pale blue were lying in the irregular line that stretched
along the edge of the captured Roehampton stage from end to end,
grasping their carbines and peering into the shadows of the stage called
Wimbledon Park. Now and then they spoke to one another. They spoke the
mutilated English of their class and period. The fire of the Ostrogites
had dwindled and ceased, and few of the enemy had been seen for some
time. But the echoes of the fight that was going on now far below in
the lower galleries of that stage, came every now and then between the
staccato of shots from the popular side. One of these men was describing
to the other how he had seen a man down below there dodge behind a
girder, and had aimed at a guess and hit him cleanly as he dodged too
far. “He’s down there still,” said the marksman. “See that little patch.
Yes. Between those bars.” A few yards behind them lay a dead stranger,
face upward to the sky, with the blue canvas of his jacket smoldering
in a circle about the neat bullet hole on his chest. Close beside him a
wounded man, with a leg swathed about, sat with an expressionless face
and watched the progress of that burning. Gigantic behind them, athwart
the carrier lay the captured aeropile.
“I can’t see him _now_,” said the second man in a ton of provocation.
The marksman became foul-mouthed and high-voiced in his earnest
endeavour to make things plain. And suddenly, interrupting him, came a
noisy shouting from the substage.
“What’s going on now,” he said, and raised himself on one arm to stare
at the stairheads in the central groove of the stage. A number of blue
figures were coming up these, and swarming across the stage to the
aeropile.
“We don’t want all these fools,” said his friend. “They only crowd up
and spoil shots. What are they after?”
“Ssh!--they’re shouting something.”
The two men listened. The swarming new-comers had crowded densely about
the aeropile. Three Ward Leaders, conspicuous by their black mantles and
badges, clambered into the body and appeared above it. The rank and file
flung themselves upon the vans, gripping hold of the edges, until the
entire outline of the thing was manned, in some places three deep. One
of the marksmen knelt up. “They’re putting it on the carrier--that’s
what they’re after.”
He rose to his feet, his friend rose also. “What’s the good?” said his
friend. “We’ve got no aeronauts.”
“That’s what they’re doing anyhow.” He looked at his rifle, looked at
the struggling crowd, and suddenly turning to the wounded man. “Mind
these, mate,” he said, handing his carbine and cartridge belt; and in a
moment he was running towards the aeropile. For a quarter of an hour he
was a perspiring Titan, lugging, thrusting, shouting and heeding shouts,
and then the thing was done, and he stood with a multitude of others
cheering their own achievement. By this time he knew, what indeed
everyone in the city knew, that the Master, raw learner though he
was, intended to fly this machine himself, was coming even now to take
control of it, would let no other man attempt it. “He who takes the
greatest danger, he who bears the heaviest burthen, that man is King,”
so the Master was reported to have spoken. And even as this man cheered,
and while the beads of sweat still chased one another from the disorder
of his hair, he heard the thunder of a greater tumult, and in fitful
snatches the beat and impulse of the revolutionary song. He saw through
a gap in the people that a thick stream of heads still poured up
the stairway. “The Master is coming,” shouted voices, “the Master is
coming,” and the crowd about him grew denser and denser. He began to
thrust himself towards the central groove. “The Master is coming!” “The
Sleeper, the Master!” “God and the Master!” roared the Voices.
And suddenly quite close to him were the black uniforms of the
revolutionary guard, and for the first and last time in his life he saw
Graham, saw him quite nearly. A tall, dark man in a flowing black robe,
with a white, resolute face and eyes fixed steadfastly before him; a man
who for all the little things about him held neither ears nor eyes
nor thoughts.... For all his days that man remembered the passing of
Graham’s bloodless face. In a moment it had gone and he was fighting
in the swaying crowd. A lad weeping with terror thrust against him,
pressing towards the stairways, yelling “Clear for the aeropile!” The
bell that clears the flying stage became a loud unmelodious clanging.
With that clanging in his ears Graham drew near the aeropile, marched
into the shadow of its tilting wing. He became aware that a number of
people about him were offering to accompany him, and waved their offers
aside. He wanted to think how one started the engine. The bell clanged
faster and faster, and the feet of the retreating people roared faster
and louder. The man in yellow was assisting him to mount through the
ribs of the body. He clambered into the aeronaut’s place, fixing himself
very carefully and deliberately. What was it? The man in yellow was
pointing to two aeropiles driving upward in the southern sky. No doubt
they were looking for the coming aeroplanes. That--presently--the thing
to do now was to start. Things were being shouted at him, questions,
warnings. They bothered him. He wanted to think about the aeropile, to
recall every item of his previous experience. He waved the people from
him, saw the man in yellow dropping off through the ribs, saw the crowd
cleft down the line of the girders by his gesture.
For a moment he was motionless, staring at the levers, the wheel by
which the engine shifted, and all the delicate appliances of which he
knew so little. His eye caught a spirit level with the bubble towards
him, and he remembered something, spent a dozen seconds in swinging the
engine forward until the bubble floated in the centre of the tube.
He noted that the people were not shouting, knew they watched his
deliberation. A bullet smashed on the bar above his head. Who fired? Was
the line clear of people? He stood up to see and sat down again.
In another second the propeller was spinning, and he was rushing down
the guides. He gripped the wheel and swung the engine back to lift the
stem. Then it was the people shouted. In a moment he was throbbing with
the quiver of the engine, and the shouts dwindled swiftly behind, rushed
down to silence. The wind whistled over the edges of the screen, and the
world sank away from him very swiftly.
Throb, throb, throb--throb, throb, throb; up he drove. He fancied
himself free of all excitement, felt cool and deliberate. He lifted the
stem still more, opened one valve on his left wing and swept round and
up. He looked down with a steady head, and up. One of the Ostrogite
aeropiles was driving across his course, so that he drove obliquely
towards it and would pass below it at a steep angle. Its little
aeronauts were peering down at him. What did they mean to do? His mind
became active. One, he saw held a weapon pointing, seemed prepared to
fire. What did they think he meant to do? In a moment he understood
their tactics, and his resolution was taken. His momentary lethargy was
past. He opened two more valves to his left, swung round, end on to this
hostile machine, closed his valves, and shot straight at it, stem and
wind-screen shielding him from the shot. They tilted a little as if to
clear him. He flung up his stem.
Throb, throb, throb--pause--throb, throb--he set his teeth, his face
into an involuntary grimace, and crash! He struck it! He struck upward
beneath the nearer wing.
Very slowly the wing of his antagonist seemed to broaden as the impetus
of his blow turned it up. He saw the full breadth of it and then it slid
downward out of his sight.
He felt his stem going down, his hands tightened on the levers, whirled
and rammed the engine back. He felt the jerk of a clearance, the nose
of the machine jerked upward steeply, and for a moment he seemed to be
lying on his back. The machine was reeling and staggering, it seemed to
be dancing on its screw. He made a huge effort, hung for a moment on the
levers, and slowly the engine came forward again. He was driving upward
but no longer so steeply. He gasped for a moment and flung himself at
the levers again. The wind whistled about him. One further effort and
he was almost level. He could breathe. He turned his head for the first
time to see what had become of his antagonists. Turned back to the
levers for a moment and looked again. For a moment he could have
believed they were annihilated. And then he saw between the two stages
to the east was a chasm, and down this something, a slender edge, fell
swiftly and vanished, as a sixpence falls down a crack.
At first he did not understand, and then a wild joy possessed him. He
shouted at the top of his voice, an inarticulate shout, and drove higher
and higher up the sky. Throb, throb, throb, pause, throb, throb, throb.
“Where was the other aeropile?” he thought. “They too--.” As he looked
round the empty heavens he had a momentary fear that this machine had
risen above him, and then he saw it alighting on the Norwood stage. They
had meant shooting. To risk being rammed headlong two thousand feet in
the air was beyond their latter-day courage. The combat was declined.
For a little while he circled, then swooped in a steep descent towards
the westward stage. Throb throb throb, throb throb throb. The twilight
was creeping on apace, the smoke from the Streatham stage that had been
so dense and dark, was now a pillar of fire, and all the laced curves
of the moving ways and the translucent roofs and domes and the chasms
between the buildings were glowing softly now, lit by the tempered
radiance of the electric light that the glare of the way overpowered.
The three efficient stages that the Ostrogites held--for Wimbledon Park
was useless because of the fire from Roehampton, and Streatham was a
furnace--were glowing with guide lights for the coming aeroplanes. As
he swept over the Roehampton stage he saw the dark masses of the people
thereon. He heard a clap of frantic cheering, heard a bullet from the
Wimbledon Park stage tweet through the air, and went beating up above
the Surrey wastes. He felt a breath of wind from the south-west, and
lifted his westward wing as he had learnt to do, and so drove upward
heeling into the rare swift upper air. Throb throb throb--throb throb
throb.
Up he drove and up, to that pulsating rhythm, until the country beneath
was blue and indistinct, and London spread like a little map traced in
light, like the mere model of a city near the brim of the horizon. The
south-west was a sky of sapphire over the shadowy rim of the world, and
ever as he drove upward the multitude of stars increased.
And behold! In the southward, low down and glittering swiftly nearer,
were two little patches of nebulous light. And then two more, and then a
nebulous glow of swiftly driving shapes. Presently he could count them.
There were four and twenty. The first fleet of aeroplanes had come!
Beyond appeared a yet greater glow.
He swept round in a half circle, staring at this advancing fleet.
It flew in a wedge-like shape, a triangular flight of gigantic
phosphorescent shapes sweeping nearer through the lower air. He made a
swift calculation of their pace, and spun the little wheel that brought
the engine forward. He touched a lever and the throbbing effort of the
engine ceased. He began to fall, fell swifter and swifter. He aimed at
the apex of the wedge. He dropped like a stone through the whistling
air. It seemed scarce a second from that soaring moment before he struck
the foremost aeroplane.
No man of all that black multitude saw the coming of his fate, no man
among them dreamt of the hawk that struck downward upon him out of
the sky. Those who were not limp in the agonies of air-sickness, were
craning their black necks and staring to see the filmy city that was
rising out of the haze, the rich and splendid city to which “Massa Boss”
had brought their obedient muscles. Bright teeth gleamed and the glossy
faces shone. They had heard of Paris. They knew they were to have lordly
times among the “poor white” trash. And suddenly Graham struck them.
He had aimed at the body of the aeroplane, but at the very last instant
a better idea had flashed into his mind. He twisted about and struck
near the edge of the starboard wing with all his accumulated weight. He
was jerked back as he struck. His prow went gliding across its smooth
expanse towards the rim. He felt the forward rush of the huge fabric
sweeping him and his aeropile along with it, and for a moment that
seemed an age he could not tell what was happening. He heard a thousand
throats yelling, and perceived that his machine was balanced on the edge
of the gigantic float, and driving down, down; glanced over his shoulder
and saw the backbone of the aeroplane and the opposite float swaying up.
He had a vision through the ribs of sliding chairs, staring faces, and
hands clutching at the tilting guide bars. The fenestrations in the
further float flashed open as the aeronaut tried to right her. Beyond,
he saw a second aeroplane leaping steeply to escape the whirl of its
heeling fellow. The broad area of swaying wings seemed to jerk upward.
He felt his aeropile had dropped clear, that the monstrous fabric, clean
overturned, hung like a sloping wall above him.
He did not clearly understand that he had struck the side float of the
aeroplane and slipped off, but he perceived that he was flying free on
the down glide and rapidly nearing earth. What had he done? His heart
throbbed like a noisy engine in his throat and for a perilous instant
he could not move his levers because of the paralysis of his hands. He
wrenched the levers to throw his engine back, fought for two seconds
against the weight of it, felt himself righting driving horizontally,
set the engine beating again.
He looked upward and saw two aeroplanes glide shouting far overhead,
looked back, and saw the main body of the fleet opening out and rushing
upward and outward; saw the one he had struck fall edgewise on and
strike like a gigantic knife-blade along the wind-wheels below it.
He put down his stern and looked again. He drove up heedless of his
direction as he watched. He saw the wind-vanes give, saw the huge fabric
strike the earth, saw its downward vans crumple with the weight of its
descent, and then the whole mass turned over and smashed, upside down,
upon the sloping wheels. Throb, throb, throb, pause. Suddenly from
the heaving wreckage a thin tongue of white fire licked up towards the
zenith. And then he was aware of a huge mass flying through the air
towards him, and turned upwards just in time to escape the charge--if
it was a charge--of a second aeroplane. It whirled by below, sucked
him down a fathom, and nearly turned him over in the gust of its close
passage.
He became aware of three others rushing towards him, aware of the urgent
necessity of beating above them. Aeroplanes were all about him, circling
wildly to avoid him, as it seemed. They drove past him, above, below,
eastward and westward. Far away to the westward was the sound of a
collision, and two falling flares. Far away to the southward a second
squadron was coming. Steadily he beat upward. Presently all the
aeroplanes were below him, but for a moment he doubted the height he had
of them, and did not swoop again. And then he came down upon a second
victim and all its load of soldiers saw him coming. The big machine
heeled and swayed as the fear maddened men scrambled to the stern
for their weapons. A score of bullets sung through the air, and there
flashed a star in the thick glass wind-screen that protected him. The
aeroplane slowed and dropped to foil his stroke, and dropped too low.
Just in time he saw the wind-wheels of Bromley hill rushing up towards
him, and spun about and up as the aeroplane he had chased crashed among
them. All its voices wove into a felt of yelling. The great fabric
seemed to be standing on end for a second among the heeling and
splintering vans, and then it flew to pieces. Huge splinters came flying
through the air, its engines burst like shells. A hot rush of flame shot
overhead into the darkling sky.
“_Two!_” he cried, with a bomb from overhead bursting as it fell, and
forthwith he was beating up again. A glorious exhilaration possessed
him now, a giant activity. His troubles about humanity, about his
inadequacy, were gone for ever. He was a man in battle rejoicing in his
power. Aeroplanes seemed radiating from him in every direction, intent
only upon avoiding him, the yelling of their packed passengers came in
short gusts as they swept by. He chose his third quarry, struck hastily
and did but turn it on edge. It escaped him, to smash against the tall
cliff of London wall. Flying from that impact he skimmed the darkling
ground so nearly he could see a frightened rabbit bolting up a slope. He
jerked up steeply, and found himself driving over south London with the
air about him vacant. To the right of him a wild riot of signal rockets
from the Ostrogites banged tumultuously in the sky. To the south the
wreckage of half a dozen air ships flamed, and east and west and north
the air ships fled before him. They drove away to the east and north,
and went about in the south, for they could not pause in the air.
In their present confusion any attempt at evolution would have meant
disastrous collisions. He could scarcely realize the thing he had done.
In every quarter aeroplanes were receding. They were receding. They
dwindled smaller and smaller. They were in flight!
He passed two hundred feet or so above the Roehampton stage. It was
black with people and noisy with their frantic shouting. But why was
the Wimbledon Park stage black and cheering, too? The smoke and flame of
Streatham now hid the three further stages. He curved about and rose
to see them and the northern quarters. First came the square masses of
Shooter’s Hill into sight from behind the smoke, lit and orderly with
the aeroplane that had landed and its disembarking negroes. Then came
Blackheath, and then under the corner of the reek the Norwood stage. On
Blackheath no aeroplane had landed but an aeropile lay upon the guides.
Norwood was covered by a swarm of little figures running to and fro in a
passionate confusion. Why? Abruptly he understood. The stubborn
defence of the flying stages was over, the people were pouring into the
under-ways of these last strongholds of Ostrog’s usurpation. And then,
from far away on the northern border of the city, full of glorious
import to him, came a sound, a signal, a note of triumph, the leaden
thud of a gun. His lips fell apart, his face was disturbed with emotion.
He drew an immense breath. “They win,” he shouted to the empty air; “the
people win!” The sound of a second gun came like an answer. And then he
saw the aeropile on Blackheath was running down its guides to launch.
It lifted clean and rose. It shot up into the air, driving straight
southward and away from him.
In an instant it came to him what this meant. It must needs be Ostrog
in flight. He shouted and dropped towards it. He had the momentum of
his elevation and fell slanting down the air and very swiftly. It rose
steeply at his approach. He allowed for its velocity and drove straight
upon it.
It suddenly became a mere flat edge, and behold! he was past it, and
driving headlong down with all the force of his futile blow.
He was furiously angry. He reeled the engine back along its shaft and
went circling up. He saw Ostrog’s machine beating up a spiral before
him. He rose straight towards it, won above it by virtue of the impetus
of his swoop and by the advantage and weight of a man. He dropped
headlong--dropped and missed again! As he rushed past he saw the face of
Ostrog’s aeronaut confident and cool and in Ostrog’s attitude a wincing
resolution. Ostrog was looking steadfastly away from him--to the south.
He realized with a gleam of wrath how bungling his flight must be. Below
he saw the Croyden hills. He jerked upward and once more he gained on
his enemy.
He glanced over his shoulder and his attention was arrested by a strange
thing. The eastward stage, the one on Shooter’s Hill, appeared to lift;
a flash changing to a tall grey shape, a cowled figure of smoke and
dust, jerked into the air. For a moment this cowled figure stood
motionless, dropping huge masses of metal from its shoulders, and then
it began to uncoil a dense head of smoke. The people had blown it up,
aeroplane and all! As suddenly a second flash and grey shape sprang
up from the Norwood stage. And even as he stared at this came a dead
report, and the air wave of the first explosion struck him. He was flung
up and sideways.
For a moment the aeropile fell nearly edgewise with her nose down,
and seemed to hesitate whether to overset altogether. He stood on his
wind-shield wrenching the wheel that swayed up over his head. And then
the shock of the second explosion took his machine sideways.
He found himself clinging to one of the ribs of his machine, and the air
was blowing past him and upward. He seemed to be hanging quite still in
the air, with the wind blowing up past him. It occurred to him that he
was falling. Then he was sure that he was falling. He could not look
down.
He found himself recapitulating with incredible swiftness all that had
happened since his awakening, the days of doubt the days of Empire, and
at last the tumultuous discovery of Ostrog’s calculated treachery, he
was beaten but London was saved. London was saved!
The thought had a quality of utter unreality. Who was he? Why was he
holding so tightly with his hands? Why could he not leave go? In such
a fall as this countless dreams have ended. But in a moment he would
wake....
His thoughts ran swifter and swifter. He wondered if he should see Helen
again. It seemed so unreasonable that he should not see her again. It
_must_ be a dream! Yet surely he would meet her. She at least was real.
She was real. He would wake and meet her.
Although he could not look at it, he was suddenly aware that the earth
was very near.