"Ah," replied Mollineux, enlightened, "the man with a cra—an idea for individual flying."
"No," corrected Reed in sharp raillery, "the man who had a craze for individual flying three years ago; the man who has something very like the perfection of individual flying to-day. No obligation to your department, Sir William. You saw nothing in it."
"We were advised that the project of self-propelled flight was chimerical. The tendency was all towards aeroplanes and dirigibles. You were out of the movement."
"We shall be in it to-night if we come to terms," said Reed, with grim humour. "What would you give to be able to plant a patriotic Englishman, carrying five pounds of thorite, on each of the Krupplins—to control a flight of human aerial torpedoes, eh, Sir William?"
"Can you do this, Mr. Reed?" demanded the Premier, with a tortured incredulity. Taylor was forgotten. All looked towards the man who suggested the bare possibility of the miracle of salvation.
"I will be frank with you," replied Reed, coming up to the table. "I can—but at the same time I should have preferred this to have come in six months' time."
"You can make a flight even in this weather?"
"The wind is nothing—nothing. On the contrary, it helps a practised wingman. But there are other details—technical details. We have had to do everything in the face of terrible discouragement. We wanted men, reliable, devoted men, such as you could have put in our way. We wanted facilities of a dozen kinds. Most of all, we wanted time. Practice, unending practice, is the secret of alatics. We even wanted money; money, good lord! and you are on the point of paying an indemnity of a hundred millions to save London!"
