“Yes,” he said, “fly.”
I went on into a little bower, and sat down.
“It is all over with humanity,” I said. “If they can do that they will simply go round the world.”
He nodded.
“They will. But—— It will relieve things over here a bit. And besides——” He looked at me. “Aren’t you satisfied it is up with humanity? I am. We’re down; we’re beat.”
I stared. Strange as it may seem, I had not arrived at this fact—a fact perfectly obvious so soon as he spoke. I had still held a vague hope; rather, I had kept a lifelong habit of mind. He repeated his words, “We’re beat.” They carried absolute conviction.
“It’s all over,” he said. “They’ve lost one—just one. And they’ve made their footing good and crippled the greatest power in the world. They’ve walked over us. The death of that one at Weybridge was an accident. And these are only pioneers. They kept on coming. These green stars—I’ve seen none these five or six days, but I’ve no doubt they’re falling somewhere every night. Nothing’s to be done. We’re under! We’re beat!”
I made him no answer. I sat staring before me, trying in vain to devise some countervailing thought.
“This isn’t a war,” said the artilleryman. “It never was a war, any more than there’s war between man and ants.”
Suddenly I recalled the night in the observatory.