When the Sleeper Wakes, H. G. Wells [best electronic book reader .txt] 📗

bell, the sound of feet and the gabble of a phonographic message. The man in yellow appeared. “Yes?” said Graham.

“They are at Vichy.”

“Where are the attendants who were in the great Hall of the Atlas?” asked Graham abruptly.

Presently the Babble Machine rang again. “We may win yet,” said the man in yellow, going out to it. “If only we can find where Ostrog has hidden his guns. Everything hangs on that now. Perhaps this —”

Graham followed him. But the only news was of the aeroplanes. They had reached Orleans.

Graham returned to Helen. “No news,” he said “No news.”

“And we can do nothing?”

“Nothing.”

He paced impatiently. Suddenly the swift anger that was his nature swept upon him. “Curse this complex world!” he cried, “and all the inventions of men! That a man must die like a rat in a snare and never see his foe! Oh, for one blow! …”

He turned with an abrupt change in his manner. “That’s nonsense,” he said. “I am a savage.”

He paced and stopped. “After all London and Paris are only two cities. All the temperate zone has risen. What if London is doomed and Paris destroyed? These are but accidents. “Again came the mockery of news to call him to fresh enquiries. He returned with a graver face and sat down beside her.

“The end must be near,” he said. “The people it seems have fought and died in tens of thousands, the ways about Roehampton must be like a smoked beehive. And they have died in vain. They are still only at the sub stage. The aeroplanes are near Paris. Even were a gleam of success to come now, there would be nothing to do, there would be no time to do anything before they were upon us. The guns that might have saved us are mislaid. Mislaid! Think of the disorder of things! Think of this foolish tumult, that cannot even find its weapons! Oh, for one aeropile — just one! For the want of that I am beaten. Humanity is beaten and our cause is lost! My kingship, my headlong foolish kingship will not last a night. And I have egged on the people to fight — .”

“They would have fought anyhow.”

“I doubt it. I have come among them —”

“No,” she cried,” not that. If defeat comes — if you die — . But even that cannot be, it cannot be, after all these years.”

“Ah! We have meant well. But — do you indeed believe — ?”

“If they defeat you,” she cried, “you have spoken. Your word has gone like a great wind through the world, fanning liberty into a flame. What if the flame sputters a little! Nothing can change the spoken word. Your message will have gone forth. .. .”

“To what end? It may be. It may be. You know I said, when you told me of these things dear God! but that was scarcely a score of hours ago! — I said that I had not your faith. Well — at any rate there is nothing to do now… .”

“You have not my faith! Do you mean — ? You are sorry?”

“No,” he said hurriedly, “no! Before God — no!” His voice changed. “But — . I think — I have been indiscreet. I knew little — I grasped too hastily.. ..”

He paused. He was ashamed of this avowal. “There is one thing that makes up for all. I have known you. Across this gulf of time I have come to you. The rest is done. It is done. With you, too, it has been something more — or something less —”

He paused with his face searching hers, and without clamoured the unheeded message that the aeroplanes were rising into the sky of Amiens.

She put her hand to her throat, and her lips were . white. She stared before her as if she saw some horrible possibility. Suddenly her features changed. “Oh, but I have been honest!” she cried, and then, “Have I been honest? I loved the world and freedom, I hated cruelty and oppression. Surely it was that.”

“Yes,” he said, “yes. And we have done what it lay in us to do. We have given our message, our message! We have started Armageddon! But now — . Now that we have, it may be our last hour, together, now that all these greater things are done… .”

He stopped. She sat in silence. Her face was a white riddle.

For a moment they heeded nothing of a sudden stir outside, a running to and fro, and cries. Then Helen started to an attitude of tense attention. “It is — ,” she cried and stood up, speechless, incredulous, triumphant. And Graham, too, heard. Metallic voices were shouting “Victory!” Yes it was “Victory!” He stood up also with the light of a desperate hope in his eyes.

Bursting through the curtains appeared the man in yellow, startled and dishevelled with excitement. “Victory,” he cried, “victory! The people are winning. Ostrog’s people have collapsed.”

She rose. “Victory?” And her voice was hoarse and faint.

“What do you mean?” asked Graham. “Tell me! What?”

“We have driven them out of the under galleries at Norwood, Streatham is afire and burning wildly, and Roehampton is ours. Ours! — and we have taken the aeropile that lay thereon.”

For an instant Graham and Helen stood in silence, their hearts were beating fast, they looked at one another. For one last moment there gleamed in Graham his dream of empire, of kingship, with Helen by his side. It gleamed, and passed.

A shrill bell rang. An agitated grey-headed man appeared from the room of the Ward Leaders.” It is all over,” he cried.

“What matters it now that we have Roehampton? The aeroplanes have been sighted at Boulogne!”

“The Channel!” said the man in yellow. He calculated swiftly.” Half an hour.”

“They still have three of the flying stages,” said the old man.

“Those guns?” cried Graham.

“We cannot mount them — in half an hour.”

“Do you mean they are found?”

“Too late,” said the old man.

“If we could stop them another hour!” cried the man in yellow.

“Nothing can stop them now,” said the old man. they have near a hundred aeroplanes in the first fleet.”

“Another hour?” asked Graham.

“To be so near!” said the Ward Leader. “Now that we have found those guns. To be so near — . If once we could get them out upon the roof spaces.”

“How long would that take?” asked Graham suddenly.

“An hour — certainly.”

“Too late,” cried the Ward Leader, “too late.”

“Is it too late?” said Graham. “Even now — . An hour!”

He had suddenly perceived a possibility. He tried to speak calmly, but his face was white. “There is one chance. You said there was an aeropile — ?”

“On the Roehampton stage, Sire.”

“Smashed?”

“No. It is lying crossways to the carrier. It might be got upon the guides — easily. But there is no aeronaut — .”

Graham glanced at the two men and then at Helen. He spoke after a long pause. “We have no aeronauts?”

“None.”

“The aeroplanes are clumsy,” he said thoughtfully, “compared with the aeropiles.”

He turned suddenly to Helen. His decision was made. “I must do it.”

“Do what?”

“Go to this flying stage — to this aeropile.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am an aeronaut. After all — . Those days for which you reproached me were not wasted.”

He turned to the old man in yellow. “Put the aeropile upon the guides.”

The man in yellow hesitated.

“What do you mean to do?” cried Helen.

“This aeropile — it is a chance — .”

“You don’t mean — ?”

“To fight — yes. To fight in the air. I have thought before — . An aeroplane is a clumsy thing. A resolute man — !”

“But — never since flying began —” cried the man in yellow.

“There has been no need. But now the time has come. Tell them now — send them my message — to put it upon the guides.”

The old man dumbly interrogated the man in yellow, nodded, and hurried out.

Helen made a step towards Graham. Her face was white.” But — How can one fight? You will be killed.”

“Perhaps. Yet, not to do it — or to let someone else attempt it — .”

He stopped, he could speak no more, he swept the alternative aside by a gesture, and they stood looking at one another.

“You are right,” she said at last in a low tone. “You are right. If it can be done… must go.”

Those days for not altogether

He moved a step towards her, and she stepped back, her white face struggled against him and resisted him. “No,” she gasped. “I cannot bear — . Go now.”

He extended his hands stupidly. She clenched her fists. “Go now,” she cried. “Go now.”

He hesitated and understood. He threw his hands up in a queer half-theatrical gesture. He had no word to say. He turned from her.

The man in yellow moved towards the door with clumsy belated tact. But Graham stepped past him. He went striding through the room where the Ward Leader bawled at a telephone directing that the aeropile should be put upon the guides.

The man in yellow glanced at Helen’s still figure, hesitated and hurried after him. Graham did not once look back, he did not speak until the curtain of the antechamber of the great hall fell behind him. Then he turned his head with curt swift directions upon his bloodless lips.