He halted, as an officer had just come in, and was standing after saluting, waiting for Edestone to stop speaking.
“The look-outs report, sir, that there are several Taubes climbing up toward us. What are your orders, sir?”
“Close everything down, except one of these.” Edestone pointed to a window. “Expose no lights.”
After the man had retired, he said to one of the servants in the room: “Put out the lights, and bring us two cloaks.”
When the lights had been put out, Lawrence saw for the first time that during dinner the solid cubes of steel, the size of the windows, had noiselessly rolled back, leaving a square aperture or passage-way through the six-foot thickness of the armour-plate, and forming a sort of loggia into which they stepped. It was a beautiful night, and through the clear, rarefied atmosphere the stars seemed to Lawrence brighter than he had ever seen them before, while down below them he could just see the lights of Berlin.
The explosions of the motors of the Taubes could be plainly heard, but as yet nothing could be seen of them.
“What do you suppose those mosquitoes expect to do against us with their pop-guns and tomato cans?” asked Lawrence.
“I do not know.” Edestone shook his head. “Perhaps they are just coming up to look us over. They will keep out of sight, and as they may not know that we are protected on top, will perhaps try to drop one of their tomato cans on us. That is, if they can get close enough. I hardly think that they will risk a miss, and drop bombs on their own capital, so long as the Only One Who Seems To Count In Germany is in the midst of his beloved people.”
The Taubes could be heard on all sides, as if they were climbing in great circles around the Little Peace Maker. There seemed to be at least a dozen of them, although owing to the confusion of sounds as they crossed and re-crossed, it was impossible to count them.
At last, though, when judging by the noise they were about on the same level as the ship, Edestone turned to an officer who was standing by him.