THE NEST OF THE GREAT BIRD
As the little group of four penetrated into the enclosure which but a
few moments before had been guarded all round its perimeter by a small
army of determined men, more and more of the Legionaries began to
concentrate toward the entrance.
Silently they came, with almost the precision of automata in some
complex mechanical process. All were obeying the Master's will,
because obedience was sweet to them; because it spelled adventure,
freedom, life.
Now and then one stopped, bent, arose with some added burden taken
from a fallen guard. Not one guard was to be injured in any manner.
Human life was not to be taken. But nothing in the way of armament was
to be left, by way of possible danger to the Legion. And already the
telephone-wires had been effectively cut.
All the approaching Legionaries wore rucksacks, and all were in their
respective uniforms, though every man still wore a long coat that
concealed it. A few groups of two appeared, bearing rather heavy
burdens.
The Master smiled again, and nodded, as he paused a moment at the
gate to peer down, along the line of the clearing between stockade and
forest.
"Here come some of the machine-guns," said he. "I shall be vastly
surprised if one man or one single bit of equipment fails to appear on
schedule time. Nothing like system, Bohannan--that, and knowing how to
choose your men!"
He turned, and the other three followed him into the enclosure.
Outside, all was developing according to plans and specifications.
They four were to be pioneers into the jealously guarded space
that for so long had been the mystery of the continent, yes, of the
civilized world.
The whole enclosure was well lighted with a profusion of electric
lamps. At first view, quite a bewildering mass of small buildings
appeared; but second glance showed order in them all. Streets had been
laid out, as in a town; and along these streets stood drafting-sheds,
workshops, storehouses, commissary offices, dwellings for the workers,
guards, and bosses. A well-built cottage on the main, forward-going
road that led from the gate to an inner stockade, was probably
headquarters for the chief engineers.
Not one sign of conscious life appeared. Men were lying here, there,
in the roadways, in the porches, in the shadow of the power-plant
where dynamos were still merrily singing. Few were armed. Most of them
here were workers, judging by their garb and by the tools still in
some hands.
The four pioneers gave them no heed, but pushed steadily on. In the
road lay a couple of pigeons, farther on a sparrow, and still farther
a sleeping dog, showed how complete had been the effect of the lethal
pellets.
The inner stockade was now close. It stood about twice as high as the
outer, was also topped with live wires and lights, and was loopholed
for defense. This formidable barrier was pierced by a small gate,
flanked by two machine-guns. On the gate-post was affixed an elaborate
set of rules regarding those who might and might not enter. The Master
smiled dryly, and opened the gate.
Even from without, the loom of the monstrous airship had been visible.
The eye could hardly at first glance take in the vastness of this
stupendous thing, that overshadowed all the central portion of the
huge enclosure. It gave a sense of power, of swift potentialities, of
speed unlimited. It stood there, tense, ready, waiting, with a hum
of engines audible in its vast heart, a thing almost of life, man's
creation but how illimitably greater than man!
For a moment, as this tremendous winged fabric came to the Master's
view, he halted, and a look of exultation, pride, and joy came over
his face. But only for a moment. Quite at once his dark eyes veiled
themselves with their habitual impassivity. Once more he strode
forward, the others following him.
Now that they were inside the second barrier--where sleeping men were
scattered more thickly than ever--they stood under the very wings of
the most stupendous hydroplane ever conceived by the brain of man or
executed by the cunning of his hand.
That this hydroplane had been almost on the moment of departure for
its trial trip, was proved by the sleepers. Two were on the gangplank
leading up to the entrance door in the fuselage. A number who had been
knocking out the last holding-pins of the last shackles that bound it
to its cradle, had fallen to earth, their sledge-hammers near at hand.
In the pilot-house, a figure had collapsed across the sill of an
observation window. And the engines, purring softly, told that all had
been in readiness for the throwing-in of the clutches that would have
set the vast propellers spinning with roaring speed.
"Yes, they were certainly just on the dot of getting away," said the
Master, nodding as he glanced at his watch. "This couldn't be better.
Gas, oil, stores, everything ready. What more proof do you require, my
dear Bohannan, of the value of exact coordination?"
The major could only answer: "Yes, yes--" He seemed quite amazed by
this extraordinary mechanism--gigantic, weird, unreal in the garish
electric lights. Rrisa was frankly staring, for once shaken out of his
fatalistic Mussulman tranquillity.
As for Captain Alden, he stood there a compact, small figure in his
long coat with the rucksack strapped to his shoulders, peering up with
the eye of the connoisseur. His smile was of contentment absolute.
"My beauty--ah, my beauty!" he was murmuring.
Then, in the presence of this mighty thing, silence fell on all. The
major set hands on hips, blinked, puckered his lips, and silently
whistled. His expression was half incredulous, half enthusiastic.
What Alden was thinking revealed itself by the sparkle of his eyes
through the holes of the mask behind the goggles. Expressionless
though that terribly mutilated face had to remain, you could sense in
the man's whole attitude the exultation of the expert ace as he beheld
the perfect machine.
The droning of the engines came distinctly to them all, a low, steady,
powerful note, beautiful in its steady undertones of strength. Behind
the little group, a few involuntary exclamations of astonishment and
joy became audible, as some of the Legionaries came into the second
enclosure.
Without, blows on metal sharply resounded. The Master smiled again, as
he realized his orders were going on with exact precision.
"That's the wireless they're putting out of commission," thought he,
glancing at his watch again. "No mere untuning of wave-lengths.
Good, old-fashioned hammer-blows! This station won't work again for a
while!"
Bohannan, meantime, was trying to get some general impression of the
giant plane. Not all the Master's descriptions of it, to him, had
quite prepared him for the reality. Though he well knew all the
largest, biggest machines in the world, this stupendous creation
staggered him. By comparison with the Handley-Page, the Caproni, the
D.H.-4, the Gotha 90-120, the Sikorsky, it spread itself as an eagle
spreads beside a pigeon.
It lay in a kind of metallic cradle, almost like a ship ready for
launching on its ways. Ahead of it, metal plates stretched away like
rails, running toward the lip of the Palisades. Its quadruple floats,
each the size of a tugboat and each capable of being exhausted of air,
constituted a potential lifting-force of enclosed vacuums that
very largely offset the weight of the mechanism. It was still a
heavier-than-air machine, but the balance could be made nearly
perfect. And the six helicopters, whose cylindrical, turbine-like
drums gleamed with metallic glitters--three on each side along the
fuselage--could at will produce an absolutely static condition of lift
or even make the plane hover and soar quite vertically.
There the monster lay, outstretching its enormous sextuple wings, each
wing with an area of 376 by 82.5 feet. The non-inflammable celluloid
surfaces shone white as fresh-cut ivory, clean, smooth, unbreakable.
The plane reminded one of some Brobdingnagian dragon-fly, resting for
flight, shimmering with power as it poised for one swift leap aloft
into the night.
Bohannan, still a bit confused, noted the absence of any exhaust from
the speeding engines. This, too, gave a sense of vast, self-contained
power. He saw stupendous propeller-blades, their varnished surfaces
flicking out high-lights as the incandescents struck them. Motionless
these propellers were; but something in their tense, clean sweep
told of the raging cyclone to which they could whip the air, once the
spinning engines should be clutched in on their shafts.
The captain's eyes wandered over the whole enormous construction,
towering there above him. He saw rows of lighted windows, each cased
in shining metal; a V-pointed pilot-house--the same where the still
figure had dropped over the sill of the open window--a high-raised
rudder of artful curve, vast as the broadside of a barn; railed
galleries running along the underbody of the fuselage, between the
floats and far aft of them.
Everything gleamed and flickered with bright metal, varnish, snowy
celluloid. The body of the machine looked capable of housing twice as
many men as the Legion numbered. But everything, after all, was quite
shrunk by the overpowering sweep of the wings. These dwarfed the
fast-gathering group that stood peering up at them, like pygmies under
the pinions of the fabled roc in Sinbad the Sailor's story.
These stupendous wings, the captain now saw, were not braced together
by hampering struts and wires, but seemed cantilevered into position,
giving a clean run to the structure, great simplicity, and the acme of
mechanical beauty. This giant bird of heaven lay in its nest, free of
pattern, powerful beyond any air-mechanism ever built by man, almost
a living thing, on whose back its captors might ride aloft defying man
and nature, to whatsoever goal they chose.
"Everything is ready," said the Master. "That is quite obvious. Let us
get aboard now, with no further delay, and be off!"
He drew a little notebook from his pocket, took a pencil, and faced
the gathering group inside the second stockade.
"Stow your equipment," he directed "according to your orders. Ten
minutes will be enough for you to unload your machine-guns and all
gear, each in the assigned space. Bring out all the sleeping men and
lay them down along the stockade, here. Injure no man. Valdez, are the
take-off gates, over the Palisade, correctly opened?"
A dark, thin man saluted, as he answered with a Spanish accent:
"Yes, sir. Everything is ready, sir."
"Very well. Now, all to work! And then, each to his place, in
engine-room, cabins, or however and where assigned. Come, come!"
As the men trailed up the gangplank, that steeply rose to the sliding
door in the fuselage, the Master checked them on his list. Not one was
absent. He shut the notebook with a snap, and slid it back into his
pocket.
"This goes on well," he commented to the major. "So far, we are within
three minutes, eighteen seconds, of schedule."
The little group of four stood waiting, watching, while the others
carried out all orders, aboard. There was no hesitation, no confusion.
Each had already learned the exact plan of the airship. Each knew
precisely where every door led, what each passageway meant; each
understood perfectly his own post and what to do there.
Two by two, Legionaries came down the gangplank, bearing limp bodies.
These they laid in a row along the stockade, till seventeen had
accumulated. No more came.
A figure appeared in the sliding doorway, and saluted.
"The last sleeper is out, sir," he reported.
The Master nodded, and gestured to his three companions. The group of
four ascended the sharp tilt of the plank and entered the airship. As
they did so, Legionaries hoisted the plank aboard, with its tackle,
and lashed it to the waiting chocks. Others could be heard, in the
penetralia of the vast structure, coming, going, busily at work.
The entrance door slid shut. A bolt shot home. All the Legion was now
aboard, and communication with the ground had been broken.
The four men found themselves in a brightly lighted corridor that led
directly across the fuselage to a similar door on the other side. This
corridor was of some metal, painted a glossy white. Doors opened out
of it, on either hand. Its length was just a few inches over
forty-two feet. Half-way along it, a wider corridor crossed it at right
angles--the main passage of the ship.
The Master led the way toward this median corridor. His tall,
big-shouldered figure swung along, triumphant, impressive in the long
coat, dominant and free. Followed by the other three, he turned to the
left, forward of the ship.
The main corridor, like the other, was flanked by doors. Two or three
stood open, giving glimpses of comfortable staterooms. The men's
footfalls sounded with softened tread on a strip of thick, brown
carpet that made pleasant contrast with the gleaming white walls.
Light from frosted glass circles, flush with walls and ceiling, made
the corridor bright as day.
The Master walked with the confident precision of one who already
had passed that way a score of times. He opened the third door on the
left--it slid into the wall, instead of swinging, thus economizing
space--and all entered what was obviously the main saloon of the giant
plane.
This saloon measured seventeen feet six inches, from corridor to
windows, and twenty-nine fore-and-aft. It was furnished with a
center-table, book-cases, easy-chairs, two commodious sofa-lockers,
and had an excellent carpet. Bohannan noted a Victrola, with many
records.
Like all parts of the ship, its lighting was splendid. Well-curtained
windows gave it a homelike air. At first glance, one would have
thought oneself in a rather luxurious private house; but second
inspection showed all possible construction and furnishings were
of aluminum alloy, of patterns designed to cut weight to the lowest
minimum.
The walls bore lightly framed photographs of men famous in the
annals of flying, from Santos-Dumont and the Wrights to Gruynemer
and Nosworthy; also pictures of famous machines--the Spad, Bristol
Fighter, Sopwith Pup, 120-135, and others. More conspicuous than
any of these was a framed copy of the International Air Commission's
latest condensed rules.
Signs of recent occupancy were not wanting. An extinct cigar lay on
the carpet, where it had fallen from the mouth of some airman swiftly
overtaken by sleep. The table bore an open cigar-box, several packs
of cigarettes with loose "fags" scattered round, and a number of
champagne bottles.
Two of these were opened; one had been emptied. The other had lost
part of its contents. Several champagne glasses stood on the table,
and one lay on its side, where perhaps a falling hand had overset it.
In one of the glasses, a few last, vagrant little bubbles were still
rising from the tall, hollow stem.
"Hm!" grunted the Master contemptuously. "Fools! Well--there'll be no
alcohol aboard this craft!" He loosened the buckles of his rucksack,
and cast the burden on one of the sofa-lockers. The others did as
much.
"Shall we stow the gear in our cabins?" asked Bohannan, gesturing at
the doors that led off the saloon.
"Not yet," answered the Master, glancing at the chronometer that hung
beside the air-rules. "Time enough to get settled, later. Every second
counts, now. We're due to start in seven minutes, you know. Rrisa will
attend to all this. We three have got to be getting forward to the
pilot-house."
Bohannan nodded.
"Let's have some air in here, anyhow," said he, turning toward one of
the windows. "This place is damned hot!"
"We'll need all the heat, soon," the Master commented. "At a few
thousand feet, the engine-exhaust through those radiators won't be any
too much. Forward!"