As a fighter pilot Bish had become conditioned by months of scrambling at the sound of air raid sirens. He jumped to his feet as soon as he heard the unwelcome sound, grabbed the tunic off the back of his chair and swung his arms through it. By the time he had fished out his wallet and dropped a pound note on the table, she was gone.<br/><br/>He raced outside and looked around. The few people that had been on the street were walking quickly towards nearby bomb shelters. Since Bish was on leave and a hundred miles from his squadron, there was no place in particular he needed to be. He didn’t see ‘Prez’ anywhere, but he had a pretty good idea where she was.<br/><br/>Bish arrived at the unguarded hangar just in time to see the covering tarp slide off of what was now a gigantic, smooth, gleaming metallic orb that hovered impossibly above the ground. What he remembered as an aeroplane now resembled an enormous, slightly flattened, egg-shaped device. His 20th century mind was simply unable to process what his eyes were seeing, and he froze in place with his eyes wide and mouth hanging open. Unblinking, he stared at the wondrous contraption, unable to remove his gaze from it.<br/><br/>“Wha…” was all he could say.<br/><br/>A distant, persistent droning sound could be heard from outside, together with the noise of nearby aeroplane propellers spinning to life.