The glory before them was deepening to ruby red that glowed and darkened.

Beneath the heaped radiance lay a sea of stars--and beyond, a smooth floor of polished purple.
"There's Los Angeles--and over beyond is the ocean!" called Bland, turning his head a little.
Johnny sucked in his breath and nodded, forgetting that Bland could not see the motion.
"Gimme the control--I gotta pick out a landing! I'll head for Inglewood.

They's a big field--" Inglewood meant nothing at all to Johnny, even had he heard the name distinctly, which he did not.

It cost him an effort to yield the control, but he pulled hands and feet away and sat passive, breathing quickly, gazing down at the wonders spread beneath him.

For this was his first amazed sight of Los Angeles, though he had twice passed through the city in a train that clung to dingy streets and left him an impression of grime and lumbering trucks and clanging street cars and more grime, and Chinese signs painted on shacks, and slinking figures.
But this was a magic city spread beneath him.