Perhaps it was the draught from the ventilator or something—but Mr. Bondy felt a peculiar breeze upon his brow, and an eerie sensation as though his hair were standing on end; and then it seemed as if he were being borne through boundless space; and then as though he were floating in the air without any sensation of his own weight. G. H. Bondy fell on his knees, lost in a bewildering, shining ecstasy. He felt as if he must shout and sing, he seemed to hear about him the rustle of unceasing and innumerable wings. And suddenly someone seized him violently by the hand and dragged him from the cellar. It was Marek, wearing over his head a mask or a helmet like a diver’s, and he hauled Bondy up the stairs.

Up in the room he pulled off his metal head-covering and wiped away the sweat that soaked his brow.

“Only just in time,” he gasped, showing tremendous agitation.

1This name which Marek gave to his atomic boiler is, of course, quite incorrect, and is one of the melancholy results of the ignorance of Latin among technicians. A more exact term would have been Komburator, Atomic Kettle, Karbowatt, Disintegrator, Motor M, Bondymover, Hylergon, Molecular Disintegration Dynamo, E. W., and other designations which were later proposed. It was, of course, the bad one that was generally adopted.

III. Pantheism

CHAPTER III

PANTHEISM

G. H. BONDY felt rather as though he were dreaming. Marek settled him in an easy chair with quite maternal solicitude, and made haste to bring some brandy.

“Here, drink this up quickly,” he jerked out hoarsely, offering him the glass with a trembling hand. “You came over queer down there too, didn’t you?”

“On the contrary,” Bondy answered unsteadily. “It was . . . it was beautiful, old chap! I felt as if I were flying, or something like that.”

“Yes, yes,” said Marek quickly. “That’s exactly what I mean. As though you were flying along, or rather soaring upward, wasn’t that it?”

“It was a feeling of perfect bliss,” said Mr. Bondy. “I think it’s what you’d call being transported. As if there was something down there . . . something . . .”

“Something—holy?” asked Marek hesitatingly.

“Perhaps. Yes, man alive, you’re right. I never go to church, Rudy, never in my life, but down in that cellar I felt as if I were in church. Tell me, man, what did I do down there?”

“You went on your knees,” Marek muttered with a bitter smile, and began striding up and down the room.

Bondy stroked his bald head in bewilderment.

“That’s extraordinary. But come, on my knees? Well, then, tell me what . . . what is there in the cellar that acts on one so queerly?”

“The Karburator,” growled Marek, gnawing his lips. His cheeks seemed even more sunken than before, and were as pale as death.

“But, confound it, man,” cried Bondy in amazement, “how can it be?”