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England, George Allan, 1877-1936

"The Flying Legion"


Vast empty spaces on all hands, above, below, engulfed _Nissr_. The
Master felt himself alone with air and sky, with power, with throbbing
dreams and visions.
"If it can be done!" he repeated. "But--there's no 'if' to it, at
all. It _can_ be! It _shall_! The biggest thing ever attempted in this
world! A dream that's never been dreamed, before! And if it can't,
well, a dream like that is far more than worth dying for. A dream that
can come true--by God, that shall come true!"
His hands tightened on the wheel. You would have said he was trying to
infuse some of his own overflowing strength into the mechanism that,
whirling, zooning with power, needed no more. The gleam in his eyes,
there in the dark pilot-house, seemed almost that of a fanatic. His
jaw hardened, his nostrils expanded.
This strange man's face was now wholly other than it had been only a
week before, drawn and lined by ennui. Now vast ambitions dominated
and infused it with virile force.
As he held the speeding air-liner to her predetermined course through
voids of night and mystery, he peered with burning eagerness at the
beckoning stars along the world's far, eastern rim.


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