I groped for reality in this succession of bewildering scenes, and hardly found it. Rain began to fall, spattering on the crystal walls of the adjacent gardens, in which the flickering colored lights still twinkled. My face was wet with it. I was thinking of the old days, when life was free: Sir Spofforth’s rain-swept garden, the scent of Esther’s tea-roses, and the hum of the ungainly, noisy town of Croydon that last evening. I saw Esther’s face vividly upon the velvet screen of the night. Elizabeth’s hand stole into mine. “You are our hope, Arnold. You can inspire us to victory,” she whispered. Jones had gotten the scoutplane ready, and the vessel now rested on the flat roof, as a bird on its perching place. It was a little craft, even smaller than my memory of it had been, and it carried no Ray shield to betray its presence. Jones drew David aside and held a whispered colloquy with him. “We are about ready,” he said, as they came back to us. “I’ve shifted the searchlight to the rear socket to balance the extra weight. She’ll carry us. I’ll have time to take you to your destination and report for scout duty when Hancock comes the round. But if I fly with the searchlight showing, any of the planes may signal me to stop—” He rubbed his chin, and the old irresolution came upon his face. “If I fly dark it’s a leather vat offense,” he added. “And the battleplanes would fire on us.” He paused and rubbed his chin again. “I’ll fly dark,” he said, and so settled the matter firmly in his own mind. And, his mind thus made up, I knew nothing would change it. There was some difficulty in disposing of us. Finally Jones placed us three in the double seat, Elizabeth in the center and David and I on either side of her. He himself squatted upon the chassis before us, the wheel in his hands. He touched the starting lever with his right foot, and the craft rose heavily into the air, straining beneath her burden. In spite of the counterbalance of the searchlight behind, the nose of the plane dipped constantly, so that our flight was a succession of abrupt ascents and declinations. It was freezing cold up in the air. Gradually we ascended, till I felt the fresh wind from the Thames estuary beat on my face. Presently the south was cleft by flaming serpents, with eyes of fire. “The food airvans from France,” said David, pointing. Now we soared over the outlying factories and warehouses. A huge, glow-painted building sprang into view out of the shadows below. “The defectives’ workshops for this district,” David continued. “Yonder is the Council’s art factory.” The darkness in front of us began to be studded with long parallelograms of dazzling glow, set at wide intervals, each capped with the conical Ray guns. From these, extending fanwise toward the ground, appearing pink in contrast with the glow’s intensely purple white, the searchlights wavered.