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 they 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 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.
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