Essential Science Fiction Novels - Volume 10. Edward Bellamy

active. The fact is that all present declare that nothing in their experience has ever made so powerful an impression upon them. Every citizen has the right to fall to the earth and worship God, and the performance of miracles is not in conflict with any official position whatever in a democratic State. It is in any case decidedly improper to connect the Chief of State with regrettable incidents occasioned only by insufficient ventilation, combined with excessive strain upon the nerves.

      X

      SAINT ELLEN

      A few days after these occurrences G. H. Bondy was wandering through the streets of Prague, a cigar between his teeth, thinking things over. Anyone who met him would have thought that he was looking at the pavement; but Mr. Bondy was really looking into the future. “Marek was right,” he was saying to himself, “Bishop Linda even more so. It was simply impossible to bring God to earth without a confounded lot coming of it. People could do what they liked, but it was going to shake the banks and do goodness knows what with industry. A religious strike broke out at the Industrial Bank to-day. We installed a Karburator there, and within two days the officials declared the bank’s property to be a sacred trust for the poor. That couldn’t have happened when Preis was manager. No, it certainly would never have happened.”

      Bondy sucked at his cigar in great depression. “Well, what about it?” he said to himself. “Are we to throw the whole thing up? Orders worth twenty-three millions came in to-day. It can’t be stopped now. It means the end of the world, or something. In two years’ time everything will have come down crash. There are several thousand Karburators at work in the world already, every one of them pouring forth the Absolute day and night. And this Absolute is fiendishly clever, too. It has an insane desire to exert itself, no matter how. There you are, it hasn’t anything to do, for thousands of years it’s had nothing to do, and now we’ve let it off the chain. Just look at what it’s doing at the Industrial Bank, for instance. It keeps the bank’s books all on its own, does the accounts, carries on the correspondence. It gives orders to the Board of Directors in writing. It sends its clients fervent epistles about showing love by works. What’s the result? The Industrial Bank shares are mere waste paper: it would take a kilo of them to buy a bit of cheese. That’s what happens when God starts meddling with banking.

      “The Oberlander firm, a textile factory in Upice, is bombarding us with despairing telegrams. A month ago they put in a Karburator in place of a boiler. Splendid, the machines are going strong: all’s well. But suddenly the spinning-jennies and looms begin to work all by themselves. When a thread breaks, it simply splices itself again, and on they go. The workmen just look on with their hands in their pockets. They’re supposed to knock off at six o’clock. The spinners and weavers go home. But the looms go running on by themselves. They go on running all night and all day, for three whole weeks, weaving, weaving, weaving without a pause. The firm wires us: ‘In the devil’s name, take the finished goods off us, send us raw material, stop the machines!’ And now it has got hold of the factory of Buxbaum Brothers, Morawetz and Co., by sheer long-range infection. There are no raw materials in the place. They lose their heads and fling rags, straw, earth, whatever comes handy, into the machines; well, even that stuff, if you please, gets woven into kilometres of towels, calico, cretonne, and everything imaginable. There’s a terrific upheaval; the prices of textiles are coming down with a crash; England is raising her protective tariff; and our neighbouring states are threatening us with a boycott. And the factories are wailing, ‘For the love of Heaven, take the finished goods away at least. Cart them away; send us men, lorries, motor trains; stop the machines!’ In the meantime, they’re suing us for damages. A damnable life! And we hear the same thing from all sides, from everywhere where a Karburator has been installed.

      “The Absolute wants work. It clings furiously to life. Once it created the earth; now it has flung itself into manufacture. It has captured Liberec and the Brno cotton works, Trutnov, twenty sugar factories, sawmills, the City Brewery in Pilsen; it is threatening the Skoda arsenal; it is busy at Jablonec and in the Jachymov mines. In many places people are dismissing their workmen; in others they’ve taken fright, closed the factories, and are just letting the machines go ahead inside. It’s insane over-production. Factories that haven’t got the Absolute are stopping production altogether. It’s ruin.

      “And I,” said Mr. Bondy to himself, “am a patriot. I will not let our country be brought to ruin. Besides, there are our own establishments here. Very well, from to-day onward we will cancel all orders from Czechoslovakia. What has been done is done; but from this moment not a single Karburator shall be set up in the land of the Czechs. We’ll flood the Germans and the French with them; then we’ll bombard England with the Absolute. England is conservative, and won’t have anything to do with our Karburators. Well, we’ll drop them on her from airships like big bombs. We’ll infect the whole industrial and financial world with God, and preserve only our own country as an island of civilization and honest labour free from God. It is a patriotic duty, so to speak, and besides, we have our own factories to consider.”

      The prospect gladdened G. H. Bondy’s heart.

      “At any rate we’ll gain time to invent some sort of protective mask against the Absolute. Damn it, I’ll set aside three millions myself for purposes of research into protective measures against God. Better say two millions to start with. All the Czechs will go about wearing their masks, while all the rest—ha! ha!—will be getting drowned in the Absolute. At any rate their industries will go under.”

      Mr. Bondy began to look upon the world less darkly. “There’s a young woman going by. Nice springy walk. I wonder what she looks like from the front.” Mr. Bondy quickened his step, passed her, suddenly stepped respectfully to one side, then seemed to change his mind again, and turned on his heel so abruptly that he almost ran right into her.

      “You, Ellen,” he said hastily. “I had no idea, that—that——”

      “I knew that you were following me,” said the girl, standing still with downcast eyes.

      “You knew it?” said Bondy, greatly pleased. “I was just thinking about you.”

      “I could feel your bestial desires,” said Ellen quietly.

      “My what?”

      “Your bestial desires. You did not recognize me. You only appraised me with your eyes as if I were for sale.”

      G. H. Bondy frowned. “Ellen, why do you wish to hurt my feelings?”

      Ellen shook her head. “They all do it. They’re all alike, every one of them. One rarely meets a look that is pure.”

      Mr. Bondy pursed his lips for a whistle. Aha, so that’s what it is! Old Machat’s religious community!

      “Yes,” Ellen replied to his thoughts. “You ought to come and join us.”

      “Oh, of course,” cried Mr. Bondy; and in his mind he said, “A nice girl like this! It’s a shame.”

      “Why is it a shame?” asked Ellen gently.

      “Oh, come, Ellen,” protested Bondy. “You are a thought-reader. That isn’t fair. If people were to read each other’s thoughts they could never decently associate with one another. It’s very indiscreet of you to know what I am thinking.”

      “What am I to do?” said Ellen. “Everyone who knows God has this same gift. Every one of your thoughts is born in my mind as soon as in yours. I don’t read it, I have it myself. If you only knew how purifying it is when one can judge of every hidden baseness!”

      “Hm,” muttered Mr. Bondy, trembling lest anything should cross his mind.

      “It is indeed,” Ellen assured him. “It has cured me, with the help of God, of the love of riches. I should be ever so glad if the scales were to fall from your eyes, too.”

      “God forbid,” exclaimed G. H. Bondy, horrified. “But tell me, do you understand everything that you . . . er . . . see in people like this?”

      “Yes, perfectly.”