"Aye, aye, sir."
The yacht heeled over as she swung.
"South!"
The yacht came to an even keel, swung a point or two back, and steadied.
"South it is."
Far up against the sun a distant film of land blurred the horizon.
"Starboard a little; a little more; keep her at that."
Brand shipped a powerful telescope on slings and focussed the Lands End. There in a trembling mirage the granite city lay, the long glass roofs of her factories gleaming like silver scales.
"Half speed," he murmured; then, as the vessel steadied: "There's the Gigantic—broadside on—starboard a very little—too much—so. Keep her at that. She must be very low down—scarcely a mile above the roofs. She'll see us against the sky, so drop to ten thousand feet, Mr. Simpson."
The Mary Rose fell for a minute or so.