"He's gone!" the navigator said stupidly. "Poor Conroy's gone!"
They stood a moment silent, looking at each other in white horror. The commander came out of the shadows. He took his peaked cap off.
"God be good to a gallant officer!" he said.
"Amen!" Meriwell answered.
The engineer strode forward silently through the passage. The commander touched the navigating officer on the arm.
"Ahead, Mr. Brennan," he said simply.
The navigator caught up his tube.
"Full ahead," he ordered. He turned to the steersman. "Southeast by east," he directed.
"Southeast by east," the steersman repeated mechanically. The propellers throbbed, whirred, hummed. The night air cut against them like a whip. A lone star showed up for a moment in a break of cloud, and then disappeared again, as a stage disappears between closing curtains.
Meriwell felt dazed. War—this wasn't war! This was a puny fooling with the engines of destiny, children pulling the triggers of firearms. He remembered how a great-uncle of his had died at Balaklava: a bright morning with the battle-drums beating; guns pealing, soldiers cheering; Cardigan riding gallantly at the head of the Light Brigade. Pro patria mori! Yes—but to fall two thousand feet in the night-time and to strike an alien ground with a sickening thud—that was not war. That was horror. He remembered inconsequently how he had heard that a man would be dead before he struck the ground and the thought consoled him somewhat.