rs on white on
either flank, and forward the Imperial eagle sprawled, an overwhelming
bird in the dimness.

Bugles sounded, mono-rail cars of quiet soldiers slithered burbling
by. The cabins under the heads of the airships were being lit up; doors
opened in them, and revealed padded passages.

Now and then a voice gave directions to workers indistinctly seen.

There was a matter of sentinels, gangways and a long narrow passage, a
scramble over a disorder of baggage, and then Bert found himself lowered
to the ground and standing in the doorway of a spacious cabin--it was
perhaps ten feet square and eight high, furnished with crimson padding
and aluminium. A tall, bird-like young man with a small head, a
long nose, and very pale hair, with his hands full of things like
shaving-strops, boot-trees, hair-brushes, and toilet tidies, was saying
things about Gott and thunder and Dummer Booteraidge as Bert entered. He
was apparently an evicted occupant. Then he vanished, and Bert was lying
back on a couch in the corner with a pillow under his head and the door
of the cabin shut upon him. He was alone. Everybody had hurried out
again astonishingly.

"Gollys!" said Bert. "What next?"

He stared about him at the room.

"Butteridge! Shall I try to keep it up, or shan't I?"

The room he was in puzzled him. "'Tisn't a prison and 'tisn't a norfis?"
Then the old trouble came uppermost. "I wish to 'eaven I 'adn't these
silly sandals on," he cried querulously to the universe. "They give the
whole blessed show away."

3

His door was flung open, and a compact young man in uniform appeared,
carrying Mr. Butteridge's portfolio, rucksac, and shaving-glass.

"I say!" he said in faultless English as he entered. He had a beaming
face, and a sort of pinkish blond hair. "Fancy you being Butteridge." He
slapped Bert's meagre luggage down.

"We'd have started," he said, "in another half-hour! You didn't give
yourself much time!"

He surveyed Bert curiously. His gaze rested for a fraction of a moment
on the sandals. "You ought to have come on your flying-machine, Mr.
Butteridge."

He didn't wait for an answer. "The Prince says I've got to look after
you. Naturally he can't see you now, but he thinks your coming's
providential. Last grace of Heaven. Like a sign. Hullo!"

He stood still and listened.

Outside there was a going to and fro of feet, a sound of distant bugles
suddenly taken up and echoed close at hand, men called out in