Whirr, whirr, whirr.
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
southwest 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
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.
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