The Aerophile
:
When The Sleeper Wakes
For a while, as Graham went through the passages of the Wind-Vane
offices with Lincoln, he was preoccupied. But, by an effort, he attended
to the things which Lincoln was saying. Soon his preoccupation vanished.
Lincoln was talking of flying. Graham had a strong desire to know more
of this new human attainment. He began to ply Lincoln with questions.
He had followed the crude beginnings of aerial navigation very keenly in
his previous life; he was delighted to find the familiar names of
Maxim and Pilcher, Langley and Chanute, and, above all, of the aerial
proto-martyr Lillienthal, still honoured by men.
Even during his previous life two lines of investigation had pointed
clearly to two distinct types of contrivance as possible, and both of
these had been realised. On the one hand was the great engine-driven
aeroplane, a double row of horizontal floats with a big aerial screw
behind, and on the other the nimbler aeropile. The aeroplanes flew
safely only in a calm or moderate wind, and sudden storms, occurrences
that were now accurately predictable, rendered them for all practical
purposes useless. They were built of enormous size--the usual stretch
of wing being six hundred feet or more, and the length of the fabric a
thousand feet. They were for passenger traffic alone. The lightly swung
car they carried was from a hundred to a hundred and fifty feet in
length. It Was hung in a peculiar manner in order to minimise the
complex vibration that even a moderate wind produced, and for the same
reason the little seats within the car--each passenger remained seated
during the voyage--were slung with great freedom of movement. The
starting of the mechanism was only possible from a gigantic car on
the rail of a specially constructed stage. Graham had seen these vast
stages, the flying stages, from the crow's nest very well. Six huge
blank areas they were, with a giant "carrier" stage on each.
The choice of descent was equally circumscribed, an accurately plane
surface being needed for safe grounding. Apart from the destruction that
would have been caused by the descent of this great expanse of sail and
metal, and the impossibility of its rising again, the concussion of an
irregular surface, a tree-set hillside, for instance, or an embankment,
would be sufficient to pierce or damage the framework, to smash the ribs
of the body, and perhaps kill those aboard.
At first Graham felt disappointed with these cumbersome contrivances,
but he speedily grasped the fact that smaller machines would have been
unremunerative, for the simple reason that their carrying power would be
disproportionately diminished with diminished size. Moreover, the huge
size of these things enabled them--and it was a consideration of primary
importance--to traverse the air at enormous speeds, and so run no risks
of unanticipated weather. The briefest journey performed, that from
London to Paris, took about three-quarters of an hour, but the velocity
attained was not high; the leap to New York occupied about two hours,
and by timing oneself carefully at the intermediate stations it was
possible in quiet weather to go around the world in a day.
The little aeropiles (as for no particular reason they were
distinctively called) were of an altogether different type. Several of
these were going to and fro in the air. They were designed to carry only
one or two persons, and their manufacture and maintenance was so costly
as to render them the monopoly of the richer sort of people. Their
sails, which were brilliantly coloured, consisted only of two pairs of
lateral air floats in the same plane, and of a screw behind. Their
small size rendered a descent in any open space neither difficult nor
disagreeable, and it was possible to attach pneumatic wheels or even the
ordinary motors for terrestrial tragic to them, and so carry them to a
convenient starting place. They required a special sort of swift car to
throw them into the air, but such a car was efficient in any open place
clear of high buildings or trees. Human aeronautics, Graham perceived,
were evidently still a long way behind the instinctive gift of the
albatross or the fly-catcher. One great influence that might have
brought the aeropile to a more rapid perfection had been withheld; these
inventions had never been used in warfare. The last great international
struggle had occurred before the usurpation of the Council.
The Flying Stages of London were collected together in an irregular
crescent on the southern side of the river. They formed three groups of
two each and retained the names of ancient suburban hills or villages.
They were named in order, Roehampton, Wimbledon Park, Streatham,
Norwood, Blackheath, and Shooter's Hill. They were uniform structures
rising high above the general roof surfaces. Each was about four
thousand yards long and a thousand broad, and constructed of the
compound of aluminium and iron that had replaced iron in architecture.
Their higher tiers formed an openwork of girders through which lifts
and staircases ascended. The upper surface was a uniform expanse, with
portions--the starting carriers--that could be raised and were then able
to run on very slightly inclined rails to the end of the fabric. Save
for any aeropiles or aeroplanes that were in port these open surfaces
were kept clear for arrivals.
During the adjustment of the aeroplanes it was the custom for passengers
to wait in the system of theatres, restaurants, news-rooms, and places
of pleasure and indulgence of various sorts that interwove with the
prosperous shops below. This portion of London was in consequence
commonly the gayest of all its districts, with something of the
meretricious gaiety of a seaport or city of hotels. And for those who
took a more serious view of aeronautics, the religious quarters had
flung out an attractive colony of devotional chapels, while a host
of brilliant medical establishments competed to supply physical
preparatives for the journey. At various levels through the mass of
chambers and passages beneath these, ran, in addition to the main moving
ways of the city which laced and gathered here, a complex system of
special passages and lifts and slides, for the convenient interchange of
people and luggage between stage and stage. And a distinctive feature of
the architecture of this section was the ostentatious massiveness of the
metal piers and girders that everywhere broke the vistas and spanned the
halls and passages, crowding and twining up to meet the weight of the
stages and the weighty impact of the aeroplanes overhead.
Graham went to the flying stages by the public ways. He was accompanied
by Asano, his Japanese attendant. Lincoln was called away by Ostrog,
who was busy with his administrative concerns. A strong guard of the
Wind-Vane police awaited the Master outside the Wind-Vane offices, and
they cleared a space for him on the upper moving platform. His passage
to the flying stages was unexpected, nevertheless a considerable crowd
gathered and followed him to his destination. As he went along, he could
hear the people shouting his name, and saw numberless men and women and
children in blue come swarming up the staircases in the central path,
gesticulating and shouting. He could not hear what they shouted. He was
struck again by the evident existence of a vulgar dialect among the
poor of the city. When at last he descended, his guards were immediately
surrounded by a dense excited crowd. Afterwards it occurred to him that
some had attempted to reach him with petitions. His guards cleared a
passage for him with difficulty.
He found an aeropile in charge of an aeronaut awaiting him on the
westward stage. Seen close this mechanism was no longer small. As it lay
on its launching carrier upon the wide expanse of the flying stage, its
aluminium body skeleton was as big as the hull of a twenty-ton yacht.
Its lateral supporting sails braced and stayed with metal nerves
almost like the nerves of a bee's wing, and made of some sort of glassy
artificial membrane, cast their shadow over many hundreds of square
yards. The chairs for the engineer and his passenger hung free to swing
by a complex tackle, within the protecting ribs of the frame and well
abaft the middle. The passenger's chair was protected by a wind-guard
and guarded about with metallic rods carrying air cushions. It could,
if desired, be completely closed in, but Graham was anxious for novel
experiences, and desired that it should be left open. The aeronaut
sat behind a glass that sheltered his face. The passenger could secure
himself firmly in his seat, and this was almost unavoidable on landing,
or he could move along by means of a little rail and rod to a locker
at the stem of the machine, where his personal luggage, his wraps and
restoratives were placed, and which also with the seats, served as a
makeweight to the parts of the central engine that projected to the
propeller at the stern.
The engine was very simple in appearance. Asano, pointing out the
parts of this apparatus to him, told him that, like the gas-engine of
Victorian days, it was of the explosive type, burning a small drop of
a substance called "fomile" at each stroke. It consisted simply of
reservoir and piston about the long fluted crank of the propeller shaft.
So much Graham saw of the machine.
The flying stage about him was empty save for Asano and their suite of
attendants. Directed by the aeronaut he placed himself in his seat. He
then drank a mixture containing ergot--a dose, he learnt, invariably
administered to those about to fly, and designed to counteract the
possible effect of diminished air pressure upon the system. Having done
so, he declared himself ready for the journey. Asano took the empty
glass from him, stepped through the bars of the hull, and stood below on
the stage waving his hand. Suddenly he seemed to slide along the stage
to the right and vanish.
The engine was beating, the propeller spinning, and for a second the
stage and the buildings beyond were gliding swiftly and horizontally
past Graham's eye; then these things seemed to tilt up abruptly. He
gripped the little rods on either side of him instinctively. He felt
himself moving upward, heard the air whistle over the top of the
wind screen. The propeller screw moved round with powerful rhythmic
impulses--one, two, three, pause; one, two, three--which the engineer
controlled very delicately. The machine began a quivering vibration that
continued throughout the flight, and the roof areas seemed running away
to starboard very quickly and growing rapidly smaller. He looked from
the face of the engineer through the ribs of the machine. Looking
sideways, there was nothing very startling in what he saw--a rapid
funicular railway might have given the same sensations. He recognised
the Council House and the Highgate Ridge. And then he looked straight
down between his feet.
For a moment physical terror possessed him, a passionate sense of
insecurity. He held tight. For a second or so he could not lift his
eyes. Some hundred feet or more sheer below him was one of the big
windvanes of south-west London, and beyond it the southernmost flying
stage crowded with little black dots. These things seemed to be falling
away from him. For a second he had an impulse to pursue the earth. He
set his teeth, he lifted his eyes by a muscular effort, and the moment
of panic passed.
He remained for a space with his teeth set hard, his eyes staring into
the sky. Throb, throb, throb--beat, went the engine; throb, throb,
throb,--beat. He gripped his bars tightly, glanced at the aeronaut, and
saw a smile upon his sun-tanned face. He smiled in return--perhaps a
little artificially. "A little strange at first," he shouted before he
recalled his dignity. But he dared not look down again for some time.
He stared over the aeronaut's head to where a rim of vague blue horizon
crept up the sky. For a little while he could' not banish the thought
of possible accidents from his mind. Throb, throb, throb--beat; suppose
some trivial screw went wrong in that supporting engine! Suppose--! He
made a grim effort to dismiss all such suppositions. After a while they
did at least abandon the foreground of his thoughts. And up he went
steadily, higher and higher into the clear air.
Once the mental shock of moving unsupported through the air was
over, his sensations ceased to be unpleasant, became very speedily
pleasurable. He had been warned of air sickness. But he found the
pulsating movement of the aeropile as it drove up the faint south-west
breeze was very little in excess of the pitching of a boat head on to
broad rollers in a moderate gale, and he was constitutionally a good
sailor. And the keenness of the more rarefied air into which they
ascended produced a sense of lightness and exhilaration. He looked up
and saw the blue sky above fretted with cirrus clouds. His eye came
cautiously down through the ribs and bars to a shining flight of white
birds that hung in the lower sky. For a space he watched these. Then
going lower and less apprehensively, he saw the slender figure of
the Wind-Vane keeper's crow's nest shining golden in the sunlight and
growing smaller every moment. As his eye fell with more confidence now,
there came a blue line of hills, and then London, already to leeward,
an intricate space of roofing. Its near edge came sharp and clear, and
banished his last apprehensions in a shock of surprise. For the boundary
of London was like a wall, like a cliff, a steep fall of three or four
hundred feet, a frontage broken only by terraces here and there, a
complex decorative facade.
That gradual passage of town into country through an extensive sponge
of suburbs, which was so characteristic a feature of the great cities of
the nineteenth century, existed no longer. Nothing remained of it but
a waste of ruins here, variegated and dense with thickets of the
heterogeneous growths that had once adorned the gardens of the belt,
interspersed among levelled brown patches of sown ground, and verdant
stretches of winter greens. The latter even spread among the vestiges
of houses. But for the most part the reefs and skerries of ruins, the
wreckage of suburban villas, stood among their streets and roads, queer
islands amidst the levelled expanses of green and brown, abandoned
indeed by the inhabitants years since, but too substantial, it seemed',
to be cleared out of the way of the wholesale horticultural mechanisms
of the time.
The vegetation of this waste undulated and frothed amidst the countless
cells of crumbling house walls, and broke along the foot of the city
wall in a surf of bramble and holly and ivy and teazle and tall grasses.
Here and there gaudy pleasure palaces towered amidst the puny remains
of Victorian times, and cable ways slanted to them from the city. That
winter day they seemed deserted. Deserted, too, were the artificial
gardens among the ruins. The city limits were indeed as sharply defined
as in the ancient days when the gates were shut at nightfall and the
robber foreman prowled to the very walls. A huge semi-circular throat
poured out a vigorous traffic upon the Eadhamite Bath Road. So the first
prospect of the world beyond the city flashed on Graham, and dwindled.
And when at last he could look vertically downward again, he saw below
him the vegetable fields of the Thames valley--innumerable minute
oblongs of ruddy brown, intersected by shining threads, the sewage
ditches.
His exhilaration increased rapidly, became a sort of intoxication. He
found himself drawing deep breaths of air, laughing aloud, desiring
to shout. After a time that desire became too strong for him, and he
shouted.
The machine had now risen as high as was customary with aeropiles, and
they began to curve about towards the south. Steering, Graham perceived,
was effected by the opening or closing of one or two thin strips of
membrane in one or other of the otherwise rigid wings, and by the
movement of the whole engine backward or forward along its supports. The
aeronaut set the engine gliding slowly forward along its rail and
opened the valve of the leeward wing until the stem of the aeropile was
horizontal and pointing southward. And in that direction they drove with
a slight list to leeward, and with a slow alternation of movement, first
a short, sharp ascent and' then a long downward glide that was very
swift and pleasing. During these downward glides the propellor was
inactive altogether. These ascents gave Graham a glorious sense of
successful effort; the descents through the rarefied air were beyond all
experience. He wanted never to leave the upper air again.
For a time he was intent upon the minute details of the landscape that
ran swiftly northward beneath him. Its minute, clear detail pleased him
exceedingly. He was impressed by the ruin of the houses that had once
dotted the country, by the vast treeless expanse of country from which
all farms and villages had gone, save for crumbling ruins. He had known
the thing was so, but seeing it so was an altogether different matter.
He tried to make out places he had known within the hollow basin of
the world below, but at first he could distinguish no data now that the
Thames valley was left behind. Soon, however, they were driving over a
sharp chalk hill that he recognised as the Guildford Hog's Back, because
of the familiar outline of the gorge at its eastward end, and because of
the ruins of the town that rose steeply on either lip of this gorge.
And from that he made out other points, Leith Hill, the sandy wastes
of Aldershot, and so forth. The Downs escarpment was set with gigantic
slow-moving wind-wheels. Save where the broad Eadhamite Portsmouth
Road, thickly dotted with rushing shapes, followed the course of the old
railway, the gorge of the Wey was choked with thickets.
The whole expanse of the Downs escarpment, so far as the grey haze
permitted him to see, was set with wind-wheels to which the largest of
the city was but a younger brother. They stirred with a stately motion
before the south-west wind. And here and there were patches dotted
with the sheep of the British Food Trust, and here and there a mounted
shepherd made a spot of black. Then rushing under the stern of the
aeropile came the Wealden Heights, the line of Hindhead, Pitch Hill, and
Leith Hill, with a second row of wind-wheels that seemed striving to rob
the downland whirlers of their share of breeze. The purple heather was
speckled with yellow gorse, and on the further side a drove of black
oxen stampeded before a couple of mounted men. Swiftly these swept
behind, and dwindled and lost colour, and became scarce moving specks
that were swallowed up in haze.
And when these had vanished in the distance Graham heard a peewit
wailing close at hand. He perceived he was now above the South Downs,
and staring over his shoulder saw the battlements of Portsmouth Landing
Stage towering over the ridge of Portsdown Hill. In another moment there
came into sight a spread of shipping like floating cities, the little
white cliffs of the Needles dwarfed and sunlit, and the grey and
glittering waters of the narrow sea. They seemed to leap the Solent in
a moment, and in a few seconds the Isle of Wight was running past, and
then beneath him spread a wider and wide extent of sea, here purple with
the shadow of a cloud, here grey, here a burnished mirror, and here
a spread of cloudy greenish blue. The Isle of Wight grew smaller and
smaller. In a few more minutes a strip of grey haze detached itself from
other strips that were clouds, descended out of the sky and became a
coastline--sunlit and pleasant--the coast of northern France. It rose,
it took colour, became definite and detailed, and the counterpart of the
Downland of England was speeding by below.
In a little time, as it seemed, Paris came above the horizon, and hung
there for a space, and sank out of sight again as the aeropile circled
about to the north again. But he perceived the Eiffel Tower still
standing, and beside it a huge dome surmounted by a pinpoint Colossus.
And he perceived, too, though he did not understand it at the time, a
slanting drift of smoke. The aeronaut said something about "trouble in
the underways," that Graham did not heed at the time. But he marked the
minarets and towers and slender masses that streamed skyward above the
city windvanes, and knew that in the matter of grace at least Paris
still kept in front of her larger rival. And even as he looked a pale
blue shape ascended very swiftly from the city like a dead leaf driving
up before a gale. It curved round and soared towards them growing
rapidly larger and larger. The aeronaut was saying something. "What?"
said Graham, loath to take his eyes from this. "Aeroplane, Sire," bawled
the aeronaut pointing.
They rose and curved about northward as it drew nearer. Nearer it came
and nearer, larger and larger. The throb, throb, throb--beat, of the
aeropile's flight, that had seemed so potent and so swift, suddenly
appeared slow by comparison with this tremendous rush. How great the
monster seemed, how swift and steady! It passed quite closely beneath
them, driving along silently, a vast spread of wirenetted translucent
wings, a thing alive. Graham had a momentary glimpse of the rows and
rows of wrapped-up passengers, slung in their little cradles behind
wind-screens, of a white-clothed engineer crawling against the gale
along a ladder way, of spouting engines beating together, of the
whirling wind screw, and of a wide waste of wing. He exulted in the
sight. And in an instant the thing had passed.
It rose slightly and their own little wings swayed in the rush of its
flight. It fell and grew smaller. Scarcely had they moved, as it seemed,
before it was again only a flat blue thing that dwindled in the sky.
This was the aeroplane that went to and fro between London and Paris. In
fair weather and in peaceful times it came and went four times a day.
They beat across the Channel, slowly as it seemed now, to Graham's
enlarged ideas, and Beachy Head rose greyly to the left of them.
"Land," called the aeronaut, his voice small against the whistling of
the air over the wind-screen.
"Not yet," bawled 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," repeated Graham.
"I'm coming to you," he said, and had flung himself free of his chair
and taken a step along the guarded rail between them. He stopped for a
moment, and his colour changed and his hands tightened. Another step and
he was clinging close to the aeronaut. He felt a weight on his shoulder,
the pressure of the air. His hat was a whirling speck behind. The wind
came in gusts over his wind-screen and blew his hair in streamers past
his cheek. The aeronaut made some hasty adjustments for the shifting of
the centres of gravity and pressure.
"I want to have these things explained," said Graham. "What do you do
when you move that engine forward?"
The aeronaut hesitated. Then he answered, "They are complex, Sire."
"I don't mind," shouted 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 mean to know." He laughed, full of
this novel realisation of power that was his gift from the upper air.
The aeropile curved about, and the keen fresh wind cut across Graham's
face and his garment lugged at his body as the stem pointed round to the
west. The two men looked into each other's eyes.
"Sire, there are rules--"
"Not where I am concerned," said Graham. "You seem to forget."
The aeronaut scrutinised his face. "No," he said. "I do not forget,
Sire. But in all the earth--no man who is not a sworn aeronaut--has ever
a chance. They come as passengers--"
"I have heard 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 break the rules--"
Graham waved the penalties aside.
"Then if you will watch me--"
"No," said Graham, swaying and gripping tight as the machine lifted its
nose again for an ascent. "That's not my game. I want to do it myself.
Do it myself if I smash for it! No! I will. See. I am going to clamber
by this to come and share your seat. Steady! I mean to fly of my own
accord if I smash at the end of it. I will have something to pay for
my sleep. Of all other things--. In my past it was my dream to fly.
Now--keep your balance."
"A dozen spies are watching me, Sire!"
Graham's temper was at end. Perhaps he chose it should be. He swore.
He swung himself round the intervening mass of levers and the aeropile
swayed.
"Am I Master of the earth?" he said. "Or is your Society? Now. Take your
hands off those levers, and hold my wrists. Yes--so. And now, how do we
turn her nose down to the glide?"
"Sire," said the aeronaut.
"What is it?"
"You will protect me?"
"Lord! Yes! If I have to burn London. Now!"
And with that promise Graham bought his first lesson in aerial
navigation. "It's clearly to your advantage, this journey," he said with
a loud laugh--for the air was like strong wine--"to teach me quickly and
well. Do I pull 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 began to dance the strangest figures in the air. Now
it would sweep round a spiral of scarcely a hundred yards diameter, now
it would rush up into the air and swoop down again, steeply, swiftly,
falling like a hawk, to recover in a rushing loop that swept it high
again. In one of these descents it seemed driving straight at the
drifting park of balloons in the southeast, and only curved about
and cleared them by a sudden recovery of dexterity. The extraordinary
swiftness and smoothness of the motion, the extraordinary effect of the
rarefied air upon his constitution, threw Graham into a careless fury.
But at last a queer incident came to sober him, to send him flying down
once more to the crowded life below with all its dark insoluble riddles.
As he swooped, came a tap and something flying past, and a drop like a
drop of rain. Then as he went on down he saw something like a white rag
whirling down in his wake. "What was that?" he asked. "I did not see."
The aeronaut glanced, and then clutched at the lever to recover, for
they were sweeping down. When the aeropile was rising again he drew a
deep breath and replied. "That," and he indicated the white thing still
fluttering down, "was a swan."
"I never saw it," said Graham.
The aeronaut made no answer, and Graham saw little drops upon his
forehead.
They drove horizontally while Graham clambered back to the passenger's
place out of the lash of the wind. And then came a swift rush down,
with the wind-screw whirling to check their fall, and the flying stage
growing broad and dark before them. The sun, sinking over the chalk
hills in the west, fell with them, and left the sky a blaze of gold.
Soon men could be seen as little specks. He heard a noise coming up to
meet him, a noise like the sound of waves upon a pebbly beach, and
saw that the roofs about the flying stage were dark with his people
rejoicing over his safe return. A dark mass was crushed together under
the stage, a darkness stippled with innumerable faces, and quivering
with the minute oscillation of waved white handkerchiefs and waving
hands.