Pause.

"Your machine is different from that, Mr. Butteridge?"

"Quite different," said Bert. "More like an insect, and less
like a bird. And it buzzes, and don't drive about so. What can
those things do?"

Kurt was not very clear upon that himself, and was still
explaining when Bert was called to the conference we have
recorded with the Prince.

And after that was over, the last traces of Butteridge fell from
Bert like a garment, and he became Smallways to all on board.
The soldiers ceased to salute him, and the officers ceased to
seem aware of his existence, except Lieutenant Kurt. He was
turned out of his nice cabin, and packed in with his belongings
to share that of Lieutenant Kurt, whose luck it was to be junior,
and the bird-headed officer, still swearing slightly, and
carrying strops and aluminium boot-trees and weightless
hair-brushes and hand-mirrors and pomade in his hands, resumed
possession. Bert was put in with Kurt because there was nowhere
else for him to lay his bandaged head in that close-packed
vessel. He was to mess, he was told, with the men.

Kurt came and stood with his legs wide apart and surveyed, him
for a moment as he sat despondent in his new quarters.

"What's your real name, then?" said Kurt, who was only
imperfectly informed of the new state of affairs.