Essential Science Fiction Novels - Volume 10. Edward Bellamy

unanalysable, immaterial residue, which shows no spectrum lines, neither atomic weight nor chemical affinity, no obedience to Boyle’s law, none, none whatever, of the properties of matter. What is left behind is pure God. A chemical nullity which acts with monstrous energy. Being immaterial, it is not subject to the laws of matter. Thence it already follows that its manifestations are contrary to nature and downright miraculous. All this proceeds from the assumption that God is present in all matter. Can you imagine, for the sake of argument, that He is really so present?”

      “I certainly can,” said Bondy. “What then?”

      “Good,” said Marek, rising to his feet. “Then it’s the solemn truth.”

      IV

      GOD IN THE CELLAR

      G. H. Bondy sucked meditatively at his cigar.

      “And how did you find it out, old chap?” he asked at last.

      “By the effect on myself,” said the engineer, resuming his march up and down the room. “As a result of its complete disintegration of matter, my Perfect Karburator manufactures a by-product: pure and unconfined Absolute, God in a chemically pure form. At one end, so to speak, it emits mechanical power, and at the other, the divine principle. Just as when you split water up into hydrogen and oxygen, only on an immensely larger scale.”

      “Hm,” said Mr. Bondy. “And then—?”

      “I’ve an idea,” continued Marek cautiously, “that there are many of the elect who can separate the material substance in themselves from the divine substance. They can release or distil the Absolute, as it were, from their material selves. Christ and the miracle-workers, fakirs, mediums, and prophets have achieved it by means of their psychic power. My Karburator does it by a purely mechanical process. It acts, you might say, as a factory for the Absolute.”

      “Facts,” said G. H. Bondy. “Stick to facts.”

      “These are facts. I constructed my Perfect Karburator only in theory to begin with. Then I made a little model, which wouldn’t go. The fourth model was the first that really worked. It was only about so big, but it ran quite nicely. But even while I was working with it on this small scale, I felt peculiar psychical effects—a strange exhilaration—a ‘fey’ feeling. But I thought it was due to being so pleased about the invention, or to being overworked, perhaps. It was then that I first began to prophesy and perform miracles.”

      “To do what?” Bondy cried.

      “To prophesy and perform miracles,” Marek repeated gloomily. “I had moments of astounding illumination. I saw, for instance, quite clearly, things that would happen in the future. I predicted even your visit here. And once I tore my nail off on a lathe. I looked at the damaged finger, and all at once a new nail grew on it. Very likely I’d formed the wish, but all the same it’s queer and . . . terrible. Another time—just think of it—I rose right up into the air. It’s called levitation, you know. I never believed in any rubbish of that kind, so you can imagine the shock it gave me.”

      “I can quite believe it,” said Bondy gravely. “It must be most distressing.”

      “Extremely distressing. I thought it must be due to nerves, a kind of auto-suggestion or something. In the meanwhile I erected the big Karburator in the cellar and started it off. As I told you, it’s been running now for six weeks, day and night. And it was there that I first realized the full significance of the business. In a single day the cellar was chock-full of the Absolute, ready to burst with it; and it began to spread all over the house. The pure Absolute penetrates all matter, you know, but it takes a little longer with solid substances. In the air it spreads as swiftly as light. When I went in, I tell you, man, it took me like a stroke. I shrieked out aloud. I don’t know where I got the strength to run away. When I got upstairs, I thought over the whole business. My first notion was that it must be some new intoxicating, stimulating gas, developed by the process of complete combustion. That’s why I had that ventilator fixed up, from the outside. Two of the fitters on the job “saw the light” and had visions; the third was a drinker and so perhaps to some extent immune. As long as I thought it was only a gas, I made a series of experiments with it, and it’s interesting to find that any light burns much more brightly in the Absolute. If it would let itself be confined in glass bulbs, I’d fill lamps with it; but it escapes from any vessel, however thick you make it. Then I decided it must be some sort of Ultra-X-ray, but there’s no trace of any form of electricity, and it makes no impression on photo-sensitive plates. On the third day, the porter and his wife, who live just over the cellar, had to be taken off to the sanatorium.”

      “What for?” asked Bondy.

      “He got religion. He was inspired. He gave religious addresses and performed miracles. His wife uttered prophecies. My porter had been a thoroughly hard-headed chap, a monist and a free-thinker, and an unusually steady fellow. Well, just fancy, from no visible cause whatever, he started healing people by laying on of hands. Of course, Bondy, he was reported at once. The district health officer, who is a friend of mine, was tremendously upset about it; so, to avoid any scandal, I had the porter sent to a sanatorium. They say he’s better now; quite cured. He has lost the power to perform miracles. I’m going to send him on the land to recuperate . . . Then I began to work miracles myself and see into the future. Among other things, I had visions of gigantic, swampy primeval forests, overgrown with mosses and inhabited by weird monsters—probably because the Karburator was burning Upper Silesian coal, which is of the oldest formation. Possibly the God of the Carboniferous Age is in it.”

      Mr. Bondy shuddered. “Marek, this is frightful!”

      “It is indeed,” said Marek sorrowfully. “Gradually I began to see that it wasn’t gas, but the Absolute. The symptoms were terrible. I could read people’s thoughts, light emanated from me, I had a desperate struggle not to become absorbed in prayer and preach belief in God. I tried to clog the Karburator up with sand, but I was seized with a bout of levitation. That machine won’t let anything stop it. I don’t sleep at home nowadays. Even in the factory there have been several serious cases of illumination among the workmen. I don’t know where to turn, Bondy. Yes, I’ve tried every possible isolating material that might prevent the Absolute from getting out of the cellar. Ashes, sand, metal walls, nothing can keep it back. I’ve even tried covering the cellar with the works of Professor Krejči, Spencer, Haeckel, and all the Positivists you can think of: would you believe it, the Absolute goes calmly through even that stuff! Even papers, prayer-books, Lives of the Saints, Patriotic Songbooks, university lectures, best-sellers, political treatises, and Parliamentary Reports, present no obstacle to it. I’m simply desperate. You can’t shut it up, you can’t soak it up. It’s mischief let loose.”

      “Oh, but why?” said Mr. Bondy. “Does it really mean such mischief? Even if all this were true . . . is it such a disaster?”

      “Bondy, my Karburator is a terrific thing. It will overturn the whole world, mechanically and socially. It will cheapen production to an unbelievable extent. It will do away with poverty and hunger. It will some day save our planet from freezing up. But, on the other hand, it hurls God as a by-product into the world. I implore you, Bondy, don’t underrate what it means. We aren’t used to reckoning with God as a reality. We don’t know what His presence may bring about—say, socially, morally, and so on. Why, man, this thing affects the whole of human civilization!”

      “Wait a minute!” said Bondy thoughtfully. “Perhaps there’s some charm or other that would exorcise it. Have you called in the clergy?”

      “What kind of clergy?”

      “Any kind. The denomination probably makes no difference in this case, you know. Perhaps they could do something to stop it.”

      “Oh, that’s all superstition!” burst out Marek. “Leave me alone with your parsons! Catch me giving them a chance to make a miraculous shrine out of my cellar! Me, with my views!”

      “Very well,” declared Mr. Bondy. “Then I’ll call