For a time the Master of the Earth was not even master of his own mind.  Even his will seemed a will not his own, his own acts surprised him and were but a part of the confusion of strange experiences that poured across his being.  These things were definite, the negroes were coming, Helen Wotton had warned the people of their coming, and he was Master of the Earth.  Each of these facts seemed struggling for complete possession of his thoughts.  They protruded from a background of swarming halls, elevated passages, rooms jammed with ward leaders in council, kinematograph and telephone rooms, and windows looking out on a seething sea of marching men.  The men in yellow, and men whom he fancied were called Ward Leaders, were either propelling him forward or following him obediently; it was hard to tell.  Perhaps they were doing a little of both.  Perhaps some power unseen and unsuspected propelled them all.  He was aware that he was going to make a proclamation to the People of the Earth, aware of certain grandiose phrases floating in his mind as the thing he meant to say.  Many little things happened, and then he found himself with the man in yellow entering a little room where this proclamation of his was to be made.

This room was grotesquely latter-day in its appointments.  In the centre was a bright oval lit by shaded electric lights from above.  The rest was in shadow, and the double finely fitting doors through which he came from the swarming Hall of the Atlas made the place very still.  The dead thud of these as they closed behind him, the sudden cessation of the tumult in which he had been living for hours, the quivering circle of light, the whispers and quick noiseless movements of vaguely visible attendants in the shadows, had a strange effect upon Graham.  The huge ears of a phonographic mechanism gaped in a battery for his words, the black eyes of great photographic cameras awaited his beginning, beyond metal rods and coils glittered dimly, and something whirled about with a droning hum.  He walked into the centre of the light, and his shadow drew together black and sharp to a little blot at his feet.

The vague shape of the thing he meant to say was already in his mind.  But this silence, this isolation, the withdrawal from that contagious crowd, this audience of gaping, glaring machines, had not been in his anticipation.  All his supports seemed withdrawn together; he seemed to have dropped into this suddenly, suddenly to have discovered himself.  In a moment he was changed.  He found that he now feared to be inadequate, he feared to be theatrical, he feared the quality of his voice, the quality of his wit; astonished, he turned to the man in yellow with a propitiatory gesture.  “For a moment,” he said, “I must wait.  I did not think it would be like this.  I must think of the thing I have to say.”

While he was still hesitating there came an agitated messenger with news that the foremost aeroplanes were passing over Madrid.