Although of a mind given to taking for granted all mechanical details, Dolores could not but wonder at this craft. Its wings looked more like those of a huge hawk than the rigid spread of the aeroplanes she had seen flying low over Central Park. Instead of standing upon wheeled running-gear, bird feet of a proportionate size clawed into the ground. In its head glittered a constantly moving pair of eyes.
“How ever do you rise in that?” Dolores asked. “And once you do get up, how make it go? And up and off, how do you land?”
He was frankly gratified by her interest.
“They call me,” he exulted, “‘Prince of the Power of the Air.’ From its essence I create whatsoever I will.”
“Then this, too, is only illusion?”
“But illusion realer than the Rock of Ages. Effects made by electricity are indestructible. You can switch them off, as you can transfer existence from one state to another, but you cannot destroy them.” His look intensified: “This element and the immortal soul are the only two absolutely steadfast quantities.”
“Except—” she hesitated—“except good in the heart.”
“Except evil in the mind, you mean.”
He snapped the correction at her, evidently displeased, but soon returned to the subject of his “Hell Hawk.” In a round of the machine, he showed her a propeller placed beneath the fuselage by which it might be lifted straight or lowered on reverse; explained the encased “pusher” at the stern and “puller” at the bow which furnished silent, horizontal speed; described the shock absorbers with which the talons were equipped and the practicability of reflecting scenes below in the moving, mirror-like eyes.
“Experience is the best demonstrator. May I hand you in?”