THE MONOPLANE
The Flying Stages of London were together in an on the southern of the river. They three groups of two each and the names of or villages. They were named in order, Roehampton, Wimbledon Park, Streatham, Norwood, Blackheath, and Shooter's Hill. They were high above the surfaces. Each was about four thousand yards long and a thousand broad, and of the of and iron that had replaced iron in architecture. Their higher an of through which and ascended. The upper surface was a expanse, with portions—the starting carriers—that be and were then able to on very rails to the end of the fabric.
Graham to the by the public ways. He was by Asano, his Japanese attendant. Lincoln was called away by Ostrog, who was with his concerns. A of the Wind-Vane police the Master the Wind-Vane offices, and they a space for him on the upper moving platform. His passage to the was unexpected, a and him to his destination. As he along, he the people his name, and saw men and and children in come up the in the path, and shouting. He not what they shouted. He was again by the of a among the of the city. When at last he descended, his were by a crowd. Afterwards it to him that some had to him with petitions. His a passage for him with difficulty.
He a in of an him on the stage. Seen close this was no longer small. As it on its upon the wide of the stage, its was as big as the of a twenty-ton yacht. Its supporting and with metal nerves almost like the nerves of a bee's wing, and of some of membrane, their over many hundreds of square yards. The chairs for the and his free to by a tackle, the protecting of the and well the middle. The passenger's chair was protected by a wind-guard and about with air cushions. It could, if desired, be closed in, but Graham was for experiences, and that it should be left open. The sat a that his face. The secure himself in his seat, and this was almost on landing, or he move along by means of a little rail and to a at the of the machine, where his personal luggage, his and were placed, and which also with the seats, as a to the parts of the engine that to the at the stern.
The stage about him was empty save for Asano and their of attendants. Directed by the he himself in his seat. Asano through the of the hull, and on the stage his hand. He to along the stage to the right and vanish.
The engine was loudly, the spinning, and for a second the stage and the were and past Graham's eye; then these to up abruptly. He the little on either of him instinctively. He himself moving upward, the air over the top of the wind screen. The moved with powerful impulses—one, two, three, pause; one, two, three—which the very delicately. The machine a that the flight, and the away to very and smaller. He looked from the of the through the of the machine. Looking sideways, there was nothing very in what he saw—a railway might have the same sensations. He the Council House and the Highgate Ridge. And then he looked his feet.
For a moment physical terror him, a of insecurity. He tight. For a second or so he not his eyes. Some hundred or more him was one of the big wind-vanes of south-west London, and it the stage with little black dots. These to be away from him. For a second he had an to the earth. He set his teeth, he his by a effort, and the moment of panic passed.
He for a space with his teeth set hard, his into the sky. Throb, throb, throb—beat, the engine; throb, throb, throb—beat. He his tightly, at the aeronaut, and saw a upon his sun-tanned face. He in return—perhaps a little artificially. "A little at first," he he his dignity. But he not look again for some time. He over the aeronaut's to where a of up the sky. For a little while he not the of possible from his mind. Throb, throb, throb—beat; some in that supporting engine! Suppose—! He a to all such suppositions. After a while they did at least the of his thoughts. And up he steadily, higher and higher into the clear air.
Once the of moving through the air was over, his to be unpleasant, very pleasurable. He had been of air sickness. But he the movement of the as it up the south-west was very little in of the of a on to in a gale, and he was a good sailor. And the of the more air into which they produced a of and exhilaration. He looked up and saw the sky above with clouds. His came through the and to a of white that in the sky. For a space he these. Then going and less apprehensively, he saw the of the Wind-Vane keeper's crow's in the and smaller every moment. As his with more now, there came a line of hills, and then London, already to leeward, an space of roofing. Its near came and clear, and his last in a of surprise. For the of London was like a wall, like a cliff, a of three or four hundred feet, a only by here and there, a façade.
That passage of town into country through an of suburbs, which was so a of the great of the nineteenth century, no longer. Nothing of it here but a waste of ruins, and with of the that had once the gardens of the belt, among of ground, and of winter greens. The spread among the of houses. But for the most part the and of ruins, the of villas, among their and roads, the of green and brown, by the years since, but too substantial, it seemed, to be out of the way of the of the time.
The of this waste and the of house walls, and along the of the city in a of and and and and tall grasses. Here and there the of Victorian times, and to them from the city. That winter day they deserted. Deserted, too, were the gardens among the ruins. The city limits were as as in the days when the gates were at and the to the very walls. A semi-circular out a traffic upon the Eadhamite Bath Road. So the of the world the city on Graham, and dwindled. And when at last he look again, he saw him the vegetable of the Thames valley—innumerable minute of brown, by threads, the ditches.
His rapidly, a of intoxication. He himself of air, laughing aloud, to shout. After a time that too for him, and he shouted. They about the south. They with a list to leeward, and with a slow of movement, a short, and then a long that was very and pleasing. During these the was altogether. These gave Graham a of successful effort; the through the air were all experience. He wanted to the upper air again.
For a time he was upon the that ran him. Its minute, clear detail pleased him exceedingly. He was by the of the houses that had once the country, by the of country from which all and villages had gone, save for ruins. He had the thing was so, but it so was an different matter. He to make out familiar places the of the world below, but at he no data now that the Thames was left behind. Soon, however, they were over a hill that he as the Guildford Hog's Back, of the familiar of the at its end, and of the of the town that rose on either lip of this gorge. And from that he out other points, Leith Hill, the of Aldershot, and so forth. Save where the Eadhamite Portsmouth Road, with shapes, the of the old railway, the of the was with thickets.
The whole of the Downs escarpment, so as the permitted him to see, was set with wind-wheels to which the largest of the city was but a brother. They with a motion the south-west wind. And here and there were with the sheep of the British Food Trust, and here and there a a spot of black. Then under the of the came the Wealden Heights, the line of Hindhead, Pitch Hill, and Leith Hill, with a second of wind-wheels that to the of their of breeze. The was with yellow gorse, and on the a of black a of men. Swiftly these behind, and and colour, and moving that were up in haze.
And when these had in the Graham a close at hand. He he was now above the South Downs, and over his saw the of Portsmouth Landing Stage over the of Portsdown Hill. In another moment there came into a spread of like cities, the little white of the Needles and sunlit, and the and of the narrow sea. They to the Solent in a moment, and in a the Isle of Wight was past, and then him spread a and of sea, here with the of a cloud, here grey, here a mirror, and here a spread of cloudy blue. The Isle of Wight smaller and smaller. In a more minutes a of itself from other that were clouds, out of the sky and a coast-line—sunlit and pleasant—the of northern France. It rose, it took colour, and detailed, and the of the Downland of England was by below.
In a little time, as it seemed, Paris came above the horizon, and there for a space, and out of again as the about to the north. But he the Eiffel Tower still standing, and it a by a pin-point Colossus. And he perceived, too, though he did not it at the time, a of smoke. The said something about "trouble in the under-ways," that Graham did not heed. But he marked the and towers and that above the city wind-vanes, and that in the of at least Paris still in of her larger rival. And as he looked a shape very from the city like a up a gale. It and them, larger and larger. The was saying something. "What?" said Graham, to take his from this. "London aeroplane, Sire," the aeronaut, pointing.
They rose and about as it nearer. Nearer it came and nearer, larger and larger. The throb, throb, throb—beat, of the monoplane's flight, that had so potent, and so swift, appeared slow by with this rush. How great the seemed, how and steady! It passed closely them, along silently, a spread of wire-netted wings, a thing alive. Graham had a of the and of wrapped-up passengers, in their little wind-screens, of a white-clothed against the along a way, of together, of the wind screw, and of a wide waste of wing. He in the sight. And in an the thing had passed.
It rose and their own little in the of its flight. It and smaller. Scarcely had they moved, as it seemed, it was again only a thing that in the sky. This was the that to and London and Paris. In weather and in peaceful times it came and four times a day.
They across the Channel, slowly as it now to Graham's ideas, and Beachy Head rose to the left of them.
"Land," called the aeronaut, his voice small against the of the air over the wind-screen.
"Not yet," Graham, laughing. "Not land yet. I want to learn more of this machine."
"I meant—" said the aeronaut.
"I want to learn more of this machine," Graham.
"I'm to you," he said, and had himself free of his chair and taken a step along the rail them. He stopped for a moment, and his colour and his hands tightened. Another step and he was close to the aeronaut. He a weight on his shoulder, the pressure of the air. His was a behind. The wind came in over his wind-screen and his in past his cheek. The some for the shifting of the of and pressure.
"I want to have these explained," said Graham. "What do you do when you move that engine forward?"
The hesitated. Then he answered, "They are complex, Sire."
"I don't mind," Graham. "I don't mind."
There was a moment's pause. "Aeronautics is the secret—the privilege—"
"I know. But I'm the Master, and I to know." He laughed, full of this of power that was his gift from the upper air.
The about, and the fresh wind cut across Graham's and his at his as the pointed to the west. The two men looked into each other's eyes.
"Sire, there are rules—"
"Not where I am concerned," said Graham, "You to forget."
The his "No," he said. "I do not forget, Sire. But in all the earth—no man who is not a aeronaut—has a chance. They come as passengers—"
"I have something of the sort. But I'm not going to argue these points. Do you know why I have slept two hundred years? To fly!"
"Sire," said the aeronaut, "the rules—if I the rules—"
Graham the aside.
"Then if you will watch me—"
"No," said Graham, and tight as the machine its nose again for an ascent. "That's not my game. I want to do it myself. Do it myself if I for it! No! I will. See I am going to by this—to come and your seat. Steady! I to of my own if I at the end of it. I will have something to pay for my sleep. Of all other things—. In my past it was my to fly. Now—keep your balance."
"A dozen are me, Sire!"
Graham's was at end. Perhaps he it should be. He swore. He himself the of and the swayed.
"Am I Master of the earth?" he said. "Or is your Society? Now. Take your hands off those levers, and my wrists. Yes—so. And now, how do we turn her nose to the glide?"
"Sire," said the aeronaut.
"What is it?"
"You will protect me?"
"Lord! Yes! If I have to London. Now!"
And with that promise Graham his lesson in navigation. "It's to your advantage, this journey," he said with a loud laugh—for the air was like wine—"to teach me and well. Do I this? Ah! So! Hullo!"
"Back, Sire! Back!"
"Back—right. One—two—three—good God! Ah! Up she goes! But this is living!"
And now the machine to the in the air. Now it would a of a hundred yards diameter, now up into the air and again, steeply, swiftly, like a hawk, to in a that it high again. In one of these it at the park of in the southeast, and only about and them by a of dexterity. The and of the motion, the of the air upon his constitution, Graham into a careless fury.
But at last a came to him, to send him once more to the life with all its dark riddles. As he swooped, came a and something past, and a like a of rain. Then as he on he saw something like a white in his wake. "What was that?" he asked. "I did not see."
The glanced, and then at the to recover, for they were down. When the was again he a and replied, "That," and he the white thing still down, "was a swan."
"I saw it," said Graham.
The no answer, and Graham saw little upon his forehead.
They while Graham to the passenger's place out of the of the wind. And then came a down, with the wind-screw to check their fall, and the stage and dark them. The sun, over the in the west, with them, and left the sky a of gold.
Soon men be as little specks. He a noise up to meet him, a noise like the of upon a beach, and saw that the about the stage were with his people over his safe return. A black was together under the stage, a with faces, and with the minute of white and hands.
