“Won’t you come with me?” asked Bondy in astonishment.
“No, you go alone. And … I say, Bondy … don’t stay down there long.”
“Why not?” asked Bondy, growing a trifle suspicious.
“Oh, nothing much. Only I’ve a notion that perhaps it’s not quite healthy down there. Turn on the light, the switch is just by the door. That noise down in the cellar doesn’t come from my machine. It works noiselessly, steadily, and without any smell … The roaring is only a … a ventilator. Well, now, you go on. I’ll wait here. Then you can tell me …”
Bondy went down the cellar steps, quite glad to be away from that madman for a while (quite mad, no doubt whatever about it) and rather worried as to the quickest means of getting out of the place altogether. Why, just look, the cellar had a huge thick reinforced door just like an armour-plated safe in a bank. And now let’s have a light. The switch was just by the door. And there in the middle of the arched concrete cellar, clean as a monastery cell, lay a gigantic copper cylinder resting on cement supports. It was closed on all sides except at the top, where there was a grating bedecked with seals. Inside the machine all was darkness and silence. With a smooth and regular motion the cylinder thrust forth a piston which slowly rotated a heavy flywheel. That was all. Only the ventilator in the cellar window kept up a ceaseless rattle.
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.
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?”
The engineer only shrugged his shoulders, and with bent head went on pacing up and down the room.
G. H. Bondy’s eyes followed him with childish astonishment. “The man’s crazy,” he said to himself. “All the same, what the devil is it that comes over one in that cellar? That tormenting bliss, that tremendous security, that terror, that overwhelming feeling of devotion, or whatever you like to call it.” Mr. Bondy arose and poured himself out another dash of brandy.
“I say, Marek,” he said, “I’ve got it now.”
“Got what?” exclaimed Marek, halting.
“That business in the cellar. That queer psychical condition. It’s some form of poisoning, isn’t it? …”
Marek gave an angry laugh. “Oh, yes, of course, poisoning!”
“I thought so at once,” declared Bondy, his mind at rest in an instant. “That apparatus of yours produces something, ah … er … something like ozone, doesn’t it? Or more likely poisonous gas. And when anyone inhales it, it … er … poisons him or excites him somehow, isn’t that it? Why, of course, man, it’s nothing but poisonous gases; they’re probably given off somehow by the combustion of the coal in that … that Karburator of yours. Some sort of illuminating gas or paradise gas, or phosgene or something of the sort. That’s why you’ve put in the ventilator, and that’s why you wear a gas-mask when you go into the cellar, isn’t it? Just some confounded gases.”
“If only there were nothing but gases!” Marek burst out, shaking his fists threateningly. “Look here, Bondy, that’s why I must sell that Karburator! I simply can’t stand it—I can’t stand it … I can’t stand it,” he shouted, well-nigh weeping. “I never dreamed my Karburator would
