Essential Novelists - Karel Capek E-Book

Karel Čapek

• Herausgeber: Tacet Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Essential Novelists
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Seitenzahl: 699

Beschreibung

Welcome to the Essential Novelists book series, were we present to you the best works of remarkable authors. For this book, the literary critic August Nemo has chosen the two most important and meaningful novels of Karel Capek which are The Absolute at Large and The War with the Newts. Karel apek was a Czech writer, playwright and critic. He has become best known for his science fiction, including his novel War with the Newts and play R.U.R., which introduced the word robot. He also wrote many politically charged works dealing with the social turmoil of his time. Influenced by American pragmatic liberalism, he campaigned in favor of free expression and strongly opposed the rise of both fascism and communism in Europe. Novels selected for this book: - The Absolute at Large - The War with the NewtsThis is one ofmany books in the series Essential Novelists. If you liked this book, look for the other titles in the series, we are sure you will like some of the authors.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Title Page

Author

The Absolute at Large

The War with the Newts

About the Publisher

Author

KAREL ČAPEK, (BORN Jan. 9, 1890, Malé Svatoňovice, Bohemia, Austria-Hungary [now in Czech Republic]—died Dec. 25, 1938, Prague, Czech.), Czech novelist, short-story writer, playwright, and essayist.

The son of a country doctor, Čapek suffered all his life from a spinal disease, and writing seemed a compensation. He studied philosophy in Prague, Berlin, and Paris and in 1917 settled in Prague as a writer and journalist. From 1907 until well into the 1920s, much of his work was written with his brother Josef, a painter, who illustrated several of Karel’s books.

Almost all Čapek’s literary works are inquiries into philosophical ideas. The early short stories—in Zářivé hlubiny (with Josef, 1916; “The Luminous Depths”), Krakonošova zahrada (with Josef, 1918; “The Garden of Krakonoš”), and Trapné povídky (1921; in Money and Other Stories, 1929)—are mainly concerned with man’s efforts to break out of the narrow circle of destiny and grasp ultimate values. Another series of works presents Čapek’s “black utopias,” showing how scientific discoveries and technological progress tempt man into titanic rebellions. Thus, in the play R.U.R.: Rossum’s Universal Robots (published 1920, performed 1921), a scientist discovers the secret of creating humanlike machines that are more precise and reliable than human beings. Years later the machines dominate the human race and threaten it with extinction, though at the last moment it is saved. For this play Čapek invented the word “robot,” deriving it from the Czech word for forced labour.

In another vein, Čapek’s comic fantasy Ze života hmyzu (with Josef, 1921; The Insect Play) satirizes human greed, complacency, and selfishness, emphasizing the relativity of human values and the need to come to terms with life. His faith in democracy made him support his friend Tomáš Garrigue Masaryk and write a biography of him. The quest for justice inspired most of the stories in Povídky z jedné kapsy and Povídky z druhé kapsy (both 1929; published together as Tales from Two Pockets).

The problem of identity and the mystery of people’s underlying motivations are the theme of Čapek’s most mature work, a trilogy of novels that together present three aspects of knowledge. Hordubal (1933) contrasts an inarticulate man’s awareness of the causes of his actions with the world’s incomprehension; Povětroň (1934; Meteor) illustrates the subjective causes of objective judgments; and Obyčejný život (1934; An Ordinary Life) explores the complex layers of personality underlying the “self” an “ordinary” man thinks himself to be.

The growing threat posed by Nazi Germany to Czechoslovakia’s independent existence in the mid-1930s prompted Čapek to write several works intended to warn and mobilize his countrymen. The realistic novel Prvni parta (1937; The First Rescue Party) stressed the need for solidarity. In his last plays the appeal became more direct. Bílá nemoc (1937; Power and Glory) presented the tragedy of the noble pacifist; and Matka (1938; The Mother) vindicated armed resistance to barbaric invasion.

The Absolute at Large

Preface

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I WANTED TO WRITE THIS preface to go with the first edition of The Absolute at Large, but I didn’t, partly, I suppose, because of a fit of laziness that I’ve forgotten all about now, and partly because of a sense of fatalism. By that, I mean writing a preface doesn’t correct anything. When the book first went out there were several well-deserved criticisms published about it: they said it didn’t compare with Balzac’s Quest of the Absolute, that a fry-up in a pub was an undignified end to it, and, most of all, that it wasn’t really a proper novel. This last criticism hit the nail on the head. I confess, it is not really a proper novel. Now, as a form of apology, I’d like to explain the circumstances under which the book was written and why it’s not a proper novel.

One Spring day, at four in the afternoon, I finished writing RUR; with relief I put down my pen and went out for a walk. At first I felt a pleasant sense of release at having got a chore over with; but this sense then developed into one of emptiness and I gradually became aware that I was unbearably bored. I told myself that the day had been spoiled, so it would be best if I went home and wrote an article for the paper. When someone makes a decision like that it usually means he has no idea of what he’s actually going to write about; that he will walk up and down the room for a while, he will whistle a tune to himself which he can’t get out of his head, he will swat a fly or two; and then something will come into his head and he will start writing. What came into my head was an idea I had had long before, so I cut myself some paper and started writing the article.

By the time I had started on the third page I noticed I had written too much for an article of this sort, that I could make six articles out of all this, and so the whole thing became bogged down.

After two months in the countryside I was overcome by loneliness and the constant rain; there was no getting away from it; so I got some paper and sat down to write these six articles. The rain was incessant, and I clearly must have liked my subject, as I had soon written twelve chapters and divided the material into another six prospective articles. Then I sent these twelve chapters to the newspaper so that they could publish them, one at a time each Monday, swearing that I would write the final chapters in the meantime.

But, you can never tell what is going to happen; eleven chapters had already been published and I still had not written another line; I had forgotten it was due to be published and, worst of all, I had forgotten what happened next. The printers chivvied me to send them the final parts; so, like the girl in the fairy story, I quickly let them have another chapter so that they would leave me in peace for a few days. In the effort to escape their persecution I tossed off one chapter after another; I tried to get ahead of them but they stayed right on my heels. I jumped about like a hare being chased; I threw myself in all directions just in order to gain more time and get the chance to put right the errors I had committed while being chased. You can judge for yourselves whether I gained enough time. It took another eighteen chapters before I could hoist the white flag and declare the work finished. So why is it that the chapters of this book don’t form a connected whole? Well, is it not an exciting and epic story when the author, persecuted by the Erinyes, flees into the solitude of the mountains or the quiet of the editorial room, onto Saint Kilda, to a Pacific atoll, to the city of Hradec Králové or the village of Seven Chalets, and finally finds himself sitting with a beer in U Damohorských, where, his arms crossed and throwing his closing arguments in his persecutors’ faces, he eventually surrenders? Follow with baited breath how the author, despite the ruthlessness of his persecutors, presses on to the end and remains firm in his belief that he can reach his objective and pursue his ideas; he may have lost his breath in chapter 30, but he did not lose the remarkable faith that drove him through tortuous paths and kept a single idea alive in his breast. If there is a story in this novel—which really is not a novel but a series of articles you might read in a Sunday paper—then this is it, whatever description you might want to attach to it yourselves.

Karel Čapek

October 1926

Chapter 1

A CLASSIFIED AD.

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ON NEW YEAR’S DAY, 1943, Mister G.H. Bondy, the president of MEAS manufacturing industries, read the newspaper just as he did any other day; he ignored reports about the war, avoided the crisis in the government and, with all sails unfurled (as “The People’s News” had long since increased its page size to five times what it had been, so that one sheet of it could have been used as the sail on a ship), went straight to the business section. He cruised along the columns for a good while, then he furled his sails and drifted into reverie.

“Coal crisis,” he muttered to himself, “pits exhausted; north Moravian coalfields stop operation for summer. Disaster everywhere. We’ll have to import coal from Upper Silesia; now, try and work out how much that’ll raise the costs of our products, and they talk to me about competition! We’re facing disaster; and if the Germans raise their tariffs we might as well just shut up shop. And bank shares have gone down. Oh God, these are tough circumstances! Straitened circumstances, stupid circumstances, circumstances when it’s impossible to produce anything! Damn this crisis!”

Mister G.H. Bondy, president of the board of directors, stopped himself. There was something annoying him, and he could not put it off any longer. He wondered what it could be and looked down at the newspaper he had discarded. On the last page he saw three letters that spelt out ION. It must have been just half a word, as the paper had been folded over just in front of these three letters, but he realised that it was these three letters that had been bothering him so oddly. “My God, that must be something to do with inflation,” Bondy surmised, “or creation. Or perhaps refrigeration. Shares in the nitrogen industry must have fallen. More recession, that’s awful. Petty, ridiculous straitened times. But that’s nonsense, who’d put an advert in the paper about refrigeration? More likely it’s something that’s been lost. It’ll say something’s been lost, yes, that’ll be it.”

Still in his bad mood, Mister G.H. Bondy opened his paper once again so that he could dispel the annoyance caused by this unpleasant word, and the word was immediately lost in the chessboard of classified advertisements. He looked hurriedly down one column after another; the word was deliberately hiding from him and that made him all the more cross. Now Mister Bondy started again from the bottom, and finally he was looking in the right place. This vexatious ION was in there somewhere.

G.H. Bondy did not give up. He folded the paper once more and there was the hateful word, clear to see on the edge of the page; he put his finger on the place, hurriedly re-opened the paper and found . . . Mister Bondy cursed under his breath. It was nothing more than a very short, very mundane announcement:

INVENTION,

very lucrative, suitable for any production process, quick sale for personal reasons.

Enquiries, R. Marka, Břevnov 1651.

“All that effort just for this!” Mister G.H. Bondy said to himself. “Some kind of patenting joke; some kind of confidence trick or stupid game; and I wasted five minutes looking for it! More fool me. Bad times. And no sign anywhere of coming out of them!”

President Bondy went to sit in his rocking chair so that he could appreciate these bad times in a little more comfort. True, MEAS had ten factories and thirty-four thousand employees, MEAS led the field in iron working, none could compete with MEAS in making boilers, the MEAS brand was known all round the world, but after twenty years of operation, for God’s sake, there should be somewhere with bigger . . .

G.H, Bondy suddenly sat upright. “R. Marek, R. Marek! Hold on, could that be Gingerhead Marek? What was he called again? Rudolf, Ruda Marek. We studied science and technology together. It is! It’s him in this advert, R. Marek, Ruda you blighter, is it really possible? Poor old Ruda, hit on hard times, have you? ‘Very lucrative invention for sale’, ha, ‘personal reasons’, we all know what your personal reasons will be; got no money, have you? Trying to lure some industrialist into some crafty deal you’ve thought up; but you were always obsessed with trying to change the world. Ruda, what happened to all our high ideas? All the idealism and delusions of youth?”

President Bondy sat back down. “It really could be Marek,” he considered. “But Marek had such a scientific talent. He talked a bit too much, but there was a hint of genius about him. He had some great ideas. Hopelessly impractical in other ways though. Complete nutcase in fact. How come he isn’t a professor by now somewhere?”, Mister Bondy said to himself. “Haven’t seen him for more than twenty years, God knows what he’s been doing all this time; maybe he’s simply lost it. Yes, that’ll be it, he’s simply lost all that promise that he had; lived out in the provinces somewhere, poor lad . . . and now he’s trying to make a living by selling inventions! What a way to end up!”

Mister Bondy tried to imagine what hard times the inventor could have sunk to. The image came to his mind of a man with an amazing beard and unkempt shock of hair; living in dismal conditions, walls as flimsy as a film set. No furniture; mattress in the corner, some pitiful model of something on the table made of spools and bobbins and combs and spent matches, a dirty window looking out on a yard. And this inexpressible penury was about to receive a visit from someone in a fur coat; “I’ll come and have a look at this invention of yours, Ruda”. This inventor, half blind, wouldn’t even recognise his old college friend; he’ll sink his uncombed head, look round to see where he can offer his guest a seat, and then, dear God, with his poor, frozen, trembling fingers he’ll try to start up his pitiful invention, some ridiculous perpetual motion machine, he’ll mutter confusedly about how it worked last time he tried it, he’s sure it works, if only, if only he could buy himself . . . The visitor in his fur coat would look distractedly around the garret; then suddenly reach into his pocket, draw out his wallet and place a thousand korun note on the table, then another one (“That’s enough now!” Mister Bondy admonished himself) and then a third one. (“One thousand ought to be enough to be getting on with for the time being,” something from within Mister Bondy said to him.) “Something . . . something to help you with your work, Mister Marek; no no, you don’t owe me anything. What’s that? Who am I? Don’t worry about that Mister Marek, just think of me as a friend.”

President Bondy was very satisfied and touched by this image. “I’ll send my secretary out to Marek,” he thought, “I’ll do it straight away, or perhaps tomorrow. And so what shall I do now? It’s a bank holiday, no point in going to the factory; in fact my diary’s empty—Oh these are difficult times! Nothing to do all day long! What if . . .” G.H. Bondy considered, “what if . . . it would be a bit of an adventure . . . what if I went to see about Marek’s hard conditions personally? We were good friends, after all! Memories like that have their benefits. I will do!” Mister Bondy decided. And off he went.

Sitting in his car, cruising about that provincial town looking for number 1651, the poorest little house in the city, he became slightly bored, and finally had to go and ask at the police station. “Marek, Marek,” the policeman tried to remember, “that must be Mister Marek at the factory, Marek and Co. Ltd., manufacturers of lighting equipment. Mixova Street, 1651.”

A factory for lighting equipment! President Bondy was disappointed—even slightly cross. So Ruda Marek doesn’t live in a garret! He’s a manufacturer, and for some reasons of his own he’s selling some kind of invention! Something smells fishy here, lad, some kind of business trick, or my name’s not ‘Bondy’. “Do you know, perhaps, whether Mister Marek is, er, well off?” he asked the policeman as he went back to his car, trying to seem casual.

“Oh, he’s certainly well off!” the policeman replied. “Lovely big factory like that, a famous brand-name!” The policeman was clearly proud of his neighbour. “He’s a rich gentleman, Mister Marek,” he continued, “and everyone’s got a lot of respect for him. Spends all his time doing experiments.”

“Mixova Street!” Mister Bondy told his chauffeur.

“Third street on the right,” the policeman called after them as the car drove off.

Mister Bondy soon found himself outside a small but substantial factory, where he rang at the door of the residential wing. “It’s clean here; flowers in the front garden, vines growing up the walls. Hm,” Mister Bondy thought, “Marek always did have a strong humanitarian and reformist side, the blighter.” And there coming out on the steps to meet him was Marek himself, Ruda Marek; he’s lost a lot of weight, and he looks very serious, noble in some way; something deep inside of Mister Bondy was uneasy that Ruda was no longer as young as he had been, and nor was he amazingly shaggy like that inventor. Everything about him was quite different from what Mister Bondy had been expecting, he could hardly recognise him. But before he had time to become fully aware of his disappointment Marek was offering his hand and saying, as if it were a matter of course:

“So you’ve finally got here, Bondy! I’ve been expecting you!”

Chapter 2

THE CARBURATOR

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“BEEN EXPECTING YOU!” Marek repeated as he directed his guest to a leather armchair.

By this time, Bondy would not have admitted to his illusions about a downtrodden inventor for anything in the world. “Well there’s a coincidence,” he said with slightly forced jollity. “I was just thinking this morning that it must be twenty years since we saw each other! Twenty years, just think of that, Ruda!”

“Hm,” Marek replied. “Do you want to buy my invention then?”

“Buy it?” replied G.H. Bondy hesitantly. “I, er, don’t really know, er, haven’t really thought about it. I wanted to see you and . . . ”

“Oh stop faffing about!” Marek interrupted him. “I knew you’d come. For something like this it was obvious you’d come. An invention like this is just the thing for you. You can make a lot of money out of it,” he said as he waved his hand, cleared his throat and began to speak to the point: “The invention I’m about to show you is the biggest technological breakthrough since Watt invented the steam engine. The theory, to put it simply, is that it’s a way of fully and perfectly exploiting atomic energy . . . ”

Bondy stifled a yawn. “Tell me Ruda, what have you been doing for all these twenty years?”

Marek seemed slightly taken aback. “According to modern science, matter, that’s to say atoms, is made of an astonishing amount of energy; the atom is actually a collection of electrons, and electrons are the smallest particles of electricity . . .”

“This is all very interesting,” President Bondy interrupted him, “but, you know, I never was all that good at physics. You’re not looking well, Marek! How did you get into this game, er, this factory?”

“Me? Totally by chance. It’s just that I invented a new sort of element for use inside a light bulb. Nothing really, I discovered it by accident. I have been working on combustion technology for twenty years now. So Bondy, you tell me, what is the biggest problem facing modern technology?”

“Business,” the president replied. “And are you married yet?”

“I’m a widower,” Marek answered and jumped up excitedly. “It isn’t business, don’t you understand? It’s combustion. Finding a way to make use of all the heat energy bound up in matter! Consider this; when we burn a piece of coal we obtain less that a hundred-thousandth of the heat energy we could! Do you realise that?”

“Oh yes, coal is terribly expensive,” was Mister Bondy’s wise opinion.

Marek sat back down in some irritation and said, “If you haven’t come here to see my carburator you might as well go.”

“Please just continue what you were saying,” said the businessman to reassure his friend.

Marek put his face in his hands. “Twenty years I’ve been working on this,” he uttered painfully, “and now, here I am selling it to the first buyer to come along! My dream. My astonishing dream! The greatest invention ever! Literally! Bondy, this is something that will astonish you!”

“Oh I’m sure it will,” said Bondy to humour him, “ especially in these difficult times.”

“It really will astonish you! Think about it, making such full use of the energy in the atom that there’s nothing remaining!”

“Aha,” said the businessman. “So we can have atomic-powered heating. Well, why not? You’ve got it nice here, Ruda, nice and cosy. How many workers do you employ?”

Marek wasn’t listening. “You see,” he said slowly and carefully, “it doesn’t matter what you call it: ‘atomic energy’ or ‘burning matter’ or ‘destroying matter’. You can call it whatever you like.”

“I like to call it ‘fire’,” said Mister Bondy. “It sounds so cosy.”

“But ‘nuclear fission’ is more precise. Splitting an atom into its electrons, then harnessing these electrons to do work. Do you see?”

“Perfectly,” the businessman assented. “Simply harnessing them!”

“Think of two horses, for instance, attached by a rope and pulling as hard as they can in opposite directions. Do you know what that is?”

“Must be some kind of sport,” Mister Bondy opined.

“No, but never mind. The horses keep pulling, but they never get anywhere. But what if you cut the rope?”

“The horses will fall over!” G.H. Bondy called out with enthusiasm.

“No. What they’ll do is run off in opposite directions; their energy will be released. And now think of this; these horses tied together with a rope are matter. If the rope holding the electrons together is broken they will . . . ”

“They’ll rush away from each other!”

“Yes, but we can catch these electrons and harness their energy, do you see? Or think of this; we obtain heat from, for instance, a piece of coal. We can get a little bit of heat in this way, but we also get ash, coalgas and soot. The matter is still there, do you see?”

“Yes. Would you like a cigarette?”

“No thanks. But the matter remaining still contains an enormous amount of unused atomic energy. If we used up all the atomic energy available in the piece of coal we would also use up the atoms it’s made of. In short, the matter would disappear:”

“Ah, now I see.”

“It’s as if we didn’t grind the grain properly to make flour; throwing coal ash away is like grinding just a tiny outer surface of the wheat and threw the rest away. When wheat is ground properly there’s nothing left of the grain at all, or almost nothing. In the same way, if something is burned properly there will be almost nothing left behind. It’s ground up completely. It’s used up. It returns to the nothing from which it came. You see, matter needs an awful lot of energy just in order to exist; if you take away its existence, if you force it not to exist, you release an enormous amount of power. And that, Bondy, is how it works.”

“Ah, what a good idea.”

“Pflüger, for instance, has calculated that one kilogram of coal contains twenty-three billion calories, although I find that figure rather high.”

“Oh, certainly.”

“I’ve worked it out at seven billion. But even that would mean the one kilogram, fully burned, could power a fair-sized factory for several hundred hours!”

“Good God!” Mister Bondy yelled as he jumped up out of his chair.

“I can’t give you an exact number of hours, but for the last six weeks I’ve been burning half a kilogram of coal at a pressure of thirty kilograms per square meter and, believe me, that piece of coal just keeps burning, and burning and burning . . .” Marek’s voice sank to a whisper and his face went pale.

Mister Bondy was placed in some confusion and he stroked his chin, which was as smooth and round as a baby’s bottom. “Listen Marek,” he began hesitantly, “surely you’ve . . . you must have . . . made some mistake.”

Marek waved his hand in the air. “No. Not at all. If you knew a bit more about physics I’d tell you exactly how my carburator * works and how it’s burning this coal. It’s all to do with higher physics you see, but you can see it for yourself down in the cellar. I put half a kilo of coal in the machine, closed it and had it sealed by a commissioner for oaths in front of witnesses so that no-one could put any more coal in. Go and have a look, go on, go on! You still won’t understand it, but go on. Just go!”

* This is the name that Marek gave to his atomic boiler, but it is obviously quite incorrect; this is one of the sad consequences of the fact that technicians do not learn Latin. A more appropriate name might be “combinator”, “atomkettle”, “carbowatt”, “disintegrator”, “M motor”, “Bondymover”, “hylergon”, “Molekularstoffzersetzungskraftrad”, “E.W.” or any of the other terms suggested later; they were, of course, not well received.

“Aren’t you coming too?” asked Bondy in surprise.

“No, go by yourself and—listen!—don’t stay down there too long.”

“Why not?” asked Bondy with some slight suspicion.

“Just don’t. I’m not sure . . . . not sure it’s very good for your health down there. And put the light on when you’re there, the switch is right by the door. The noise you’ll hear in the cellar isn’t my machine, that just keeps going without any noise or any smell. The noise is, er, just a sort of ventilator. Anyway, go on down, I’ll wait here. Then you can tell me . . . ”

Mr. Bondy went down into the cellar in some relief that he had got away from this madman for a while (there was no doubt abut it, he was quite mad), although he was still slightly worried he might not be able to get away from the place quickly enough at all. Downstairs he saw that the door to the cellar was reinforced and very thick, just like the armoured door to the strongroom in a bank. So, put the lights on. Switch just by the door. A vaulted, concrete cellar as clean as a monk’s cell, and in the middle of it an enormous copper cylinder on concrete supports. It was closed on all sides except the top, where there was just a grating closed with a seal. Inside the device it was dark and silent. A piston ran out from the cylinder in a smooth and regular movement, slowly turning a heavy flywheel. That’s all there was. The only noise was the untiring hum of a ventilator in the cellar window.

Maybe it was the draught from the ventilator or something, but Mister Bondy felt a strange breeze on his forehead, and a kind of feeling that his hair was standing on end; then the feeling that he was being lifted into infinite space; then as if he was flying and had no sense of his own weight. G.H. Bondy knelt down in a kind of amazement, a kind of ecstasy, he felt like shouting and singing he seemed to hear the flutterings of countless unfathomable wings. Then suddenly something grabbed him by the hand and yanked him out of the cellar. It was Marek, on his head was some kind of cowl or diving helmet, and he dragged Bondy up the steps. Upstairs, he took the metal helmet off and wiped the pearls of sweat from his brow.

“That was quite long enough,” he gasped in great excitement.

Chapter 3

PANTHEISM

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MISTER BONDY ALMOST felt he was dreaming. Marek very gently put him in an armchair and hurried to fetch some brandy. “Quick, drink this,” he sputtered as, with trembling hand, he gave him the glass: “See? It went bad for you too!”

“On the contrary,” said Bondy uncertainly. “It was . . . it was beautiful! I felt like I was flying or something.”

“Yes, yes, that’s just was I thought,” said Marek bruskly. “ As if you were flying or levitating. That’s it, isn’t it.”

“Such a blissful feeling,” said Mister Bondy. “That must be what you call ecstasy. As if there were something . . . . something . . . ”

“Something holy?” asked Marek hesitantly.

“Maybe. Yes, certainly! I’ve never been a churchgoer, Ruda, never, but down in that cellar it felt like being in a church. Tell me, what was I doing down there?”

“You were kneeling,” shouted Marek as he began to pace up and down the room.

In some confusion, Bondy began to rub his bald patch. “That’s very odd. I was kneeling, was I? But tell me, what . . . what exactly is it, down in that cellar, what is it that has such a strange effect on people?”

“It’s the carburator,” Marek snapped back at him. He bit his lips and his face was even more pale and anxious.

“Hell! What is it about it?” wondered Bondy.

Marek just shrugged his shoulders, hung his head and continued to walk up and down the room.

G.H. Bondy watched him in wonderment like a child. Marek is mad, he said to himself; but what on Earth could it be that affects people down in that cellar? That painful bliss, that astonishing certainty, amazement, humbling glimpse of God, or what? Mister Bondy stood up and poured himself another glass of brandy. “Marek, listen, I know what it is.”

“What is it you know?” Marek threw back at him and stopped pacing.

“Down in the cellar, that strange spiritual feeling. I must be some kind of poisoning.”

“Oh, it’s certainly a kind of poisoning,” Marek laughed angrily.

“Yes, I knew it straight away,” declared Bondy, suddenly very satisfied with himself. “That apparatus of yours, it produces, er, something like ozone, see? Or rather some kind of poisonous gas. And when anybody breathes it, erm, well, . . . . in short it poisons them or it makes them very happy, doesn’t it. Yes, that’s what it is, it’s just poisonous gas, that’s all; it must be produced when you burn coal in that, er, in that carburator of yours. Some kind of coal gas, or laughing gas, or phosgen, or something of that sort. That’s why you’ve got that ventilator there. And that’s why you wear a gas mask to go down there, isn’t it. You’ve got some kind of damned gas down there.”

“If only it were as simple as that,” Marek said, shaking his fists in his outburst. “Don’t you see, Bondy? That’s why I’ve got to sell this carburator! I simply can’t bear it, can’t bear it, can’t bear it,” he shouted, almost in tears. “I had no idea my carburator was going to do something like this! Terrible harm like this! Think about it, it’s been doing this to me ever since it first started! Everyone feels the same thing, anyone who goes near it. You still don’t know anything about it, Bondy. My caretaker was completely destroyed by it.”

“Poor man,” sympathised the businessman in surprise. “You mean it killed him?”

“No, but it turned him completely,” Marek shouted in despair. “You’re someone I can tell it to, Bondy: My invention, my carburator, has one horrible drawback. But I know you’ll buy it anyway, or at least accept it from me as a gift: you’d buy it even if demons came running out of it. It doesn’t matter you, just as long as you can make your millions from it—and you will make millions from it. It’s awful, and I want nothing more to do with it. Your conscience isn’t as sensitive as mine, do you hear me, Bondy? You’ll make millions, thousands of millions; but the terrible evil it creates will be on your conscience. So make your mind up!”

“Don’t give me that!” Bondy defended himself. “If it produces poisonous gases they’ll ban it and that’ll be that. You know what they’re like here. But in America though . . . ”

“It’s nothing to do with poisonous gases,” Marek yelled at him. “It’s something a thousand times worse. Listen carefully to what I tell you, Bondy, this is something beyond human understanding, there’s not the slightest trick or dishonesty about it. This carburator of mine can burn matter completely, it burns it so perfectly that there’s not even a speck of dust left behind; or I suppose you’d say it smashes matter, pulverises it, takes it apart electron by electron, it consumes it, grinds it—I don’t know what to call it. In short, it consumes it entirely. You’ve no idea just what enormous power there is in atoms. With half a hundredweight of coal in its boiler a liner could sail all the way round the world, keep the lights on in all of Prague, power a huge factory, whatever you like; with a piece of coal the size of a walnut you could heat and cook for a whole family. And it needn’t even be coal at all; you can fuel my carburator with the first pebble or handful of dust you come across by your front door. Every crumb of matter contains more energy within it than the biggest steam boiler; it simply has to be digested! It simply has to be burned entirely! Bondy, I can do it; my carburator can do it; you’ll be forced to admit that twenty years of hard work were well spent.”

“You see, Ruda,” began the businessman slowly, “it’s very strange: but in some way I believe you. I swear it, I believe you. You see, when I was standing in front of that carburator of yours I had a sense of something immense and great, something that could crush a man. I can’t help it: I believe you. Down there in the cellar you’ve got something mysterious. Something that will overturn the world.”

“Ah, Bondy,” said Marek in a hushed and anxious voice, “that’s just where the catch is. Listen, I’ll tell you all about it. Have you ever read Spinoza?”

“No.”

“No, nor have I; but now, you see, now I have begun to read that sort of thing. I don’t understand what I read, that sort of thing is very hard for a technician like me, but I think there’s something in it. Do you believe in God?”

“Me? Well,” G.H. Bondy considered, “to be honest I don’t know. Maybe God does exist, but on some distant star somewhere. Not here. Definitely not here! God just couldn’t fit in with times like these. What do you think God would do here?”

“I don’t believe,” said Marek harshly. “I don’t want to believe. I’ve always been an atheist. I believed in matter and in progress and nothing else. I’m a scientist, Bondy, and science has no place for God.”

“As far as business is concerned,” Mister Bondy declared, “it doesn’t matter one way or the other. If God wants to exist, let Him. We can both exist at the same time.”

“But, Bondy, from the point of view of science,” said Marek loudly and sharply, “God is absolutely unacceptable. Either He can exist or science can exist. I don’t insist God doesn’t exist; all I say is that He ought not to, or at least that He ought not to show himself. And I believe that science, step by step, is pushing Him aside, or at least that it’s limiting the ways He can show himself; and I believe that is its greatest function of science.”

“You could be right,” answered the businessman languidly. “So let’s just continue to progress.”

“Now, Bondy, imagine that . . . no, wait. Let me put it like this: Do you know what’s meant by ‘pantheism’? That’s the belief that everything that exists is a manifestation of God or the Absolute or whatever you want to call it. People, stones, grass, water, all are manifestations of God. And do you know what Spinoza says? That matter is nothing more than a manifestation of one aspect of God, while the other aspect is spirit. And do you know what Fechner says?”

“I don’t,” the businessman admitted.

“According to Fechner, everything has its spirit, that God has put a soul into every piece of matter in the world. And do you know Leibniz? According to Leibniz, matter is made up of points of spirit, monads, which are the substance of God. What do you think of that?”

“I don’t know,” said G.H. Bondy, “I don’t understand any of it.”

“No, nor do I; it gets very complicated. But suppose all matter really does contain something of God, that God really is in some way enclosed within it. Then if that matter is completely destroyed God will suddenly be released and leap out of it like a jack-in-the-box, He’ll flow out of matter like gas and smoke from hot coal. If you burn one atom you suddenly have your cellar filled up with the Absolute. It’s amazing how it fills the whole space immediately.”

“Hold on,” Mister Bondy interrupted. “Say all that again, but slowly this time.”

“Imagine the Absolute,” Marek repeated, “enclosed within any and every piece of matter, bound within it in some way. Bound, inert energy you could call it. Or, to put it more simply, if God is everywhere He’s inside every piece and every fragment of matter. Now imagine you annihilate that piece of matter, destroy it so fully that there seems to be nothing left; but if every piece of matter is actually matter plus the Absolute, all you’ve destroyed is the matter and the part that cannot be destroyed will remain; the pure, active Absolute. You’re left with a residuum which is not material and cannot be decomposed chemically, it has no spectral line or atomic weight, no chemical valency, it doesn’t obey Boyle’s law and doesn’t have any of the characteristics of matter whatsoever. None at all. What remains is pure God. Chemically it’s nothing, but it has immense power. Because it isn’t matter, it isn’t bound by the laws of nature, and that means it will show itself in ways that are against nature, it will perform miracles. All this follows from the premiss that God is present within matter. Can you conceive of that, that God is within matter?”

“Yes, I can,” said Bondy. “And then what?”

“Well,” said Marek as he stood up, “it really is all true.”

Chapter 4

GOD IN THE BASEMENT

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THE BUSINESSMAN SUCKED determinedly on his cigar. “And how did you find out about all this yourself?” he asked.

“By its effects on me,” answered Marek, once more pacing about the room. “By perfectly decomposing matter, my carburator creates a by-product: the Absolute, pure and unbound. God in all His chemical purity. You could say it chucks out mechanical energy at one end and the essence of God at the other. Just like separating water into hydrogen and oxygen, only on a much larger scale.”

“Hm,” grunted Mister Bondy. “Carry on.”

“What I think,” Marek went on cautiously, “is that there are some exceptional individuals who are able to separate matter and divine substance themselves: in some way, they can remove the Absolute from matter like putting it through a sieve. People like Jesus, miracle workers, fakirs, mediums and prophets, there’s some kind of psychic power that they have. My carburator does the same thing in a purely mechanical way. It’s a kind of factory for the Absolute.”

“Really?” said G.H. Bondy. “But do let’s stay with the facts.”

“The fact is that I have made the perfect carburator: first just in theory, then I made a small non-working model, and then the fourth model started to run properly. It wasn’t very big but it ran like a dream. And it was while I was working with it, however little, that I began to notice a strange spiritual sort of effect. A sort of elation or enchantment. I thought it must be because I was so happy with my invention, or perhaps just overwork. But then I started making prophesies and performing miracles.”

“What?” Mister Bondy yelled.

“Making prophesies and performing miracles,” Marek groaned earnestly. “There was a period that felt like an amazing enlightenment, and it felt wonderful. I simply knew, for instance, completely clearly what was going to happen in the future. I even knew in advance that you were going to come here. And then one day my nail was torn off one finger while I was working at a lathe. I looked at the injured finger and as I watched, the nail grew back. I was obviously glad to see it happen, but it was a very strange feeling—and there was something horrible about it. Or can you believe that I could walk in the air? Levitation, they call it. I never used to believe in nonsense like that. Think what a shock that was for me!”

“I’m sure it was,” said Bondy seriously. “That must have been a terrible experience.”

“It was terrible. I thought I must have some nervous problem, autosuggestion or something. Meanwhile, I’d built that big carburator in the basement and got it started. As I told you just now, it’s been running for six weeks now, day and night. And it was only then that I began to realise just how big this might turn out. Within a day the basement was full to bursting with the Absolute and it was starting to creep its way round the whole house. The pure Absolute can pass through any material of course, but it takes longer going through strong solids. In the open air it travels as fast as light. When I stepped down into it it came over me like some kind of fit, it made me shout out, and I don’t know how I got the strength to run away from it. Back upstairs I had the chance to start thinking about it. My first thought was it must be some sort of new inebriating gas, like laughing gas, created by the complete burning. That’s why I had that ventilator fitted. Two of the workmen were overcome with enlightenment while they were doing it and had visions, the third one was an alcoholic though, and that could have even made him immune to it in some way. While I still thought it was some kind of gas I did a series of experiments: and one interesting finding was that in the Absolute any light shines a lot brighter. If it could be held in glass I’d put it inside the light bulbs but it just escapes from whatever you try to put it in, however well sealed. Then I thought it must be something like X-rays, but it leaves no electric trace or any trace on photographic paper. On the third day we had to put the caretaker into hospital, he lives right over the cellar, and his wife with him.”

“Why was that?” Bondy asked.

“It turned him. He was inspired. He started giving religious speeches and performing miracles. His wife started making prophesies. My caretaker was a thoroughly solid person, an atheist and a freethinker, an extremely sensible man. Imagine, all of a sudden he started healing people by a touch of the hand. The police were told straight away of course, and the local doctor, a friend of mine, was extremely angry about it; I had to have the caretaker put into hospital so that it wouldn’t get any worse. They tell me he’s doing well in hospital, he’s better now and he’s lost his miraculous powers. I’ll send him out in the country somewhere where he can convalesce. I started performing miracles myself, I started knowing what was happening at a distance, and kept on seeing forests of enormous ferns with bogs and strange animals walking about. This must have been because I was burning coal from Upper Silesia, the oldest sort. The god in that coal was the god of the Carboniferous age.”

Mister Bondy shuddered. “Marek, this is awful!”

“It is,” said Marek gloomily. “It slowly dawned on me that it wasn’t any kind of gas, it was the Absolute. I began to see things, horrible things, I could read people’s minds, I shone with light. It was all I could do to stop myself falling into prayer or go out and preach the love of God on the street. I thought of covering up the carburator with sand, but when I tried it I started to levitate. There’s nothing that can stop it. I can’t sleep at home any more. Even in the factory, among the workers, there have been some serious cases of enlightenment. I don’t know what to do, Bondy. I’ve tried everything you can think of to keep the Absolute in the cellar and isolated from the outside world—ash, sand, metal walls—but there’s nothing that can stop it. I tried covering the cellar with the writings of Professor Krejčí, Spencer, Haeckel, any sort of positivist but—can you believe it?—the Absolute can even withstand that! Newspapers, prayer books, Saint Adalbert, patriotic songs, university lectures, the works of Q.M. Vyskočil, political pamphlets, parliamentary records—the Absolute can withstand them all. I just don’t know what to do. It can’t be enclosed and it can’t be cleared away. It’s an evil that’s been set loose on the world.”

“Now then, now then,” said Mister Bondy, “is it really as bad as all that? Even if all of this were true would it really be such a great misfortune?”

“Bondy, my carburator is a terrible thing. It will change everything we know, it will change the whole of society; everything we buy will be a fraction of the cost; it will mean an end to poverty and hunger; it means there will never be another ice age. But on the other hand it will hurl God into the world as its by-product at the same time. Bondy, I beg of you, don’t underestimate its force; God, the real God, is not something we’ve ever had to get used to; we can’t imagine what the presence of God in the world could do to our culture or our ethics or anything else. We’re talking here about human civilisation itself!”

Mister Bondy, the businessman, thought for a short while, and said, “Wait, maybe it’s just some kind of curse. Have you called in a priest to have a look at it?”

“What sort of priest?”

“Any sort. It doesn’t matter what denomination they belong to. Maybe a priest could put some kind of ban on it.”

“Superstition,” exclaimed Marek. “Don’t waste my time with rubbish like that! They’d want to turn my cellar into one of their places of pilgrimage and have miracles happen there! I don’t want that, not with my views!”

“As you like,” declared Mister Bondy. “I’ll call a priest myself. You never know, and it can’t do any harm. At least I’ve got nothing against God, just as long as He doesn’t interfere in business. Have you ever tried speaking to him nicely?”

“No,” replied Marek indignantly.

“That was a mistake,” said G.H. Bondy drily. “You might be able to come to some kind of agreement with Him. A nice tight contract. It might read something like: We agree to continue with your discreet manufacture, without interruption, up to a volume to be negotiated: on your part, you agree to abstain from any manifestations of the Divine within so and so many meters of the place of production. How does that sound, do you think He’d find that acceptable?”

“No idea,” answered Marek in disgust. “He seems to like existing independently of matter. Maybe . . . maybe in His own interest . . . He’d be willing to talk to you, but leave me out of it.”

“As you like,” the businessman agreed, “I’ll send my lawyer round first thing. He’s a very clever and tactful man. And then, thirdly, it might be worth offering Him a church somewhere. The cellar of a factory and all that surrounds it might be, er, might be a little undignified for Him. We ought really to find out what sort of thing He would like. Have you tried that?”

“No, I’d rather flood the cellar with water.”

“Don’t get carried away now, Marek. I expect I’ll want to buy this invention of yours. You do understand, of course, that . . . I will have my technicians look at it . . . this is something that needs to be examined. It could just turn out to be poisonous gas after all, but if it really is God Himself, if the carburator really works . . . ”

Marek stood up. “You mean you would dare to set up the carburator in the MEAS factory?”

“Yes. I would dare,” said G.H. Bondy as he stood up. “We can put the carburator into mass production. Carburators for trains and ships, carburators for central heating in every home and office, every factory and school. Within ten years there’ll be nobody left in the world who heats any other way. I can offer you three percent of gross profits. It might be no more than a few million in the first year, but in the mean time you can move out so that I can send my people in. I’ll get a consecrating bishop here first thing in the morning. Try and stay out of his way, Ruda, I don’t like to see you like this, you seem so nervous. There’s no point in insulting the Absolute before we even get started.”

Marek was aghast. “Bondy,” he whispered, “I warn you now: you’ll be bringing God into the world!”

“That’s that settled then,” said Bondy with dignity, “and you have my word on the matter. And I only hope I don’t come to regret it.”

Chapter 5

THE CONSECRATING BISHOP.

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ABOUT A FORTNIGHT INTO the new year, Marek was sitting in Mister Bondy’s office.

“How far have you got?” asked Mister Bondy, raising his head from some papers.

“I’ve finished,” answered Marek. “I’ve given your engineers detailed drawings of the carburator. That bald one . . . what’s his name again?”

“Krolmus.”

“Ah yes, Krolmus. It was wonderful how he simplified my atomic motor; the part that turns the electron energy into work. He’s a very clever engineer, that Krolmus. What else is new?”

President G.H. Bondy kept on writing and said nothing. “We’re building,” he told Marek after a while. “Seven thousand bricklayers. A factory for carburators.”

“Where?”

“North east of Prague. And we’ve increased our share capital by one and a half billion. The papers have been saying something about our new invention. Look at that,” he added as he lay half a hundredweight of Czech and foreign newspapers on Marek’s lap. Then he immersed himself once more in some paperwork.

“It’s already been two weeks now that, er . . .” began Marek uneasily.

“What?”

“Two weeks already, that I’ve not been near my factory in Břevnov. I . . . I just don’t dare go near it. What’s been happening there?”

“Mhm.”

“And . . . and what about my carburator?” Marek asked, overcoming his anxiety.

“Still running.”

“And . . . and what about the other one?”

President Bondy sighed and put down his pen. “You know we had to have Mixova Street closed off, do you?”

“What was that for?”

“People were going there to pray. Crowds of them. When the police tried to disperse them there were seven people left dead. They just let them beat them like sheep.”

“That’s exactly what you’d expect, just what you’d expect,” muttered Marek in despair.

“We closed the street off with barbed wire,” Bondy continued. “And we had to make everyone move out of the houses in the area; just the same religious manifestations you see. There’s a commission from the Ministry of Health and the Ministry of Information there now.”

“I think they’ll just ban my carburator,” sighed Marek with a sense of relief.

“Course they won’t,” said G.H. Bondy. “The priests are making an enormous fuss about it, and so the progressive parties are trying to keep it all secret. Nobody really knows what it’s all about. I can tell you don’t read the papers. The polemic against the Church is getting stronger all the time, although there’s really no need for it. And, as it happens, the Church isn’t entirely wrong in this case. That damned consecrating bishop informed the cardinal . . . ”

“Consecrating bishop? What bishop?”

“Bishop Linda, or something. He seems quite reasonable really. I took him to Břevnov to have a look at this miraculous Absolute of yours and give an expert opinion. He spent three days there examining it, all the time down in the cellar and . . . ”

“Did it turn him?” exclaimed Marek.

“Not at all! Maybe he’s had too much training about God, or maybe he’s a more hard-bitten atheist than you are, I don’t know; but anyway, after these three days he came to me and said that, as far as the Catholic Church was concerned, any talk of God was out of the question, that the Church simply denied any pantheistic theory and banned them as heresy. In a word, that the Church had never given its support to any legal, authorised god. As a priest, he would have to declare the carburator a fraud, a delusion and a heresy. He talks a lot of sense, that priest.”

“He didn’t feel any kind of supernatural effects, then?”

“He felt everything: enlightenment, performing miracles, ecstasy, everything. He doesn’t deny that those things happen.”

“How does he explain it all then?”

“He doesn’t. The Church doesn’t explain, he said, it commands or condemns. In short, he resolutely refused to compromise the Church with any god that was new and untested. And I could see his point. You know I’ve bought a church, do you?”

“What for?”

“It was the nearest one to Břevnov. Three hundred thousand it cost me! I offered it to the absolute, gave my word in writing that it could move in there. It’s a nice little baroque church, and I even adapted it beforehand so that the Absolute would have everything He might want. And then the odd thing was that although a few steps from the church, at number 457, there was a plumber who went into a fine case of ecstasy, in the church itself there’s been nothing! Nothing miraculous there at all! There was one case as far away as Vokovice, and even two in Košíře, on the funicular railway up Petřín hill there was a real epidemic of religiosity. All the radiotelegraphers working there suddenly started sending out ecstatic telegrams everywhere, some kind of new evangelium. God has come back down to Earth, they said, come to save us all, and all that sort of thing; think how embarrassing that is! All the progressive papers have started pestering the Ministry of Posts and really made the feathers fly; ‘the priests are growing horns’ they’re shouting, and all sorts of daft things like that. No-one, so far, has any idea that it’s anything to do with the carburator. Marek,” Bondy continued, dropping to a whisper, “I’ll tell you something, but it’s strictly secret; a week ago, the minister of defence was affected.”

“What?!” Marek exclaimed.

“Quiet. The minister of defence. It suddenly came over him while he was at home. The next day he called up Prague Barracks and started talking to them about eternal peace, called on the soldiers to become martyrs. He had to resign straight away, of course. In the papers they said he’d suddenly fallen ill. That’s how it’s going, my friend.”

Marek was worried. “Already in Prague,” he muttered. “This is terrible, Bondy, it’s spreading so fast!”

“It’s boundless,” President Bondy said. “There was someone who moved a piano into Prague from Mixova Street, where all the infection was, and within twenty-four hours the whole house was going mad . . . ”

The businessman did not finish his sentence. A servant entered and announced that Bishop Linda was at the door. Marek was going to hurry away, but Bondy sat him back down and told him, “Just sit down and be quiet. This bishop is a charming man.”

Then Bishop Linda came in the room. He was a jolly little man with golden spectacle frames and a mouth that liked to laugh, although, as a member of the Church he kept it pursed in a way that befitted a priest. Bondy introduced Marek to him as the owner of that unfortunate basement in Břevnov. The bishop rubbed his hands in glee, whereas Marek angrily stuttered something it being a pleasure although it could be seen on his face that it wasn’t: just get me away from here, you fool. The bishop rinsed his mouth and turned nimbly to Bondy.

Linda was as lively as ever, but hesitated slightly. “Mister Bondy,” he finally began, “I’ve come to you on a very delicate matter. Very delicate,” he repeated, savouring the words as he repeated them. “We have been discussing your, er, your case in the consistory. His Eminence the archbishop is inclined to settle this awkward matter as quietly as possible. You see, this undignified matter of working miracles. Please forgive me, I have no wish to hurt the feelings of this gentleman, the owner of . . . ”

“Please just get on with it,” Marek told him curtly.

“Well, in short, all this scandal. His Eminence has given his view that, from the point of view of reason or of faith, there is nothing more disturbing than these godless violations and downright heretical violations of the laws of nature . . . ”

“Let me say something,” threw in Marek, showing his resentment . “You can kindly leave the laws of nature to us. And in return we won’t interfere with your dogmas”

“Oh, but I fear you are mistaken,” returned the bishop with a big smile. “You are mistaken. Science without dogmas is nothing more than a collection of doubts. And what is worse, this Absolute of yours is violating the laws of the Church. It is denying teachings about holiness. It has no respect for Church traditions. It disrupts doctrines of the Trinity—and does so in a rather coarse way. It pays no attention to the apostolic succession. It doesn’t even respond to exorcism. And so on. In short, it behaves in a way that leaves us with no choice other than to simply and firmly reject it.”

“Now, now,” interjected Mister Bondy in an attempt to calm things down. “Up until now the Absolute has behaved itself in a way that has been quite . . . dignified.”

The consecrating bishop raised a finger in admonishment. “Up until now; but we don’t know how it will behave in the future. Mister Bondy, listen,” he continued, suddenly becoming more intimate, “it’s very important for you that things shouldn’t turn out badly. It’s very important for us too. As a practical man I’m sure you will want to put a quiet end to the matter. That is also what we want as the representatives and servants of God. We cannot allow some new god to appear, not even a new religion.”

“Thank God for that,” said Bondy in relief. “I knew we could come to some arrangement.”

“Excellent!” exclaimed the bishop, his eyes sparkling with glee through the lenses of his glasses. “Come to some arrangement! The venerable consistory has already decided that, for the sake of Church interests, it would be willing to take on this er, this Absolute of yours as a ward of the Church; it will make every effort to guide it in accordance with the tenets of the Catholic faith; it will acknowledge the miracles at the house in Břevnov and declare it a place of pilgrimage . . . ”

“Oh no!” exploded Marek as he jumped up out of his chair.

“Please allow me,” said the bishop with quiet authority. “A place of pilgrimage but, of course, with certain conditions attached. The first condition is that manufacture of the Absolute at the aforementioned address will be kept to a minimum, in order that it manifest itself only in a diluted form which will be weaker, less virulent. In this way its effects will be easier to keep under control and appear only sporadically, much the same as at Lourdes. I’m afraid we cannot take on this responsibility otherwise.”

“That will be alright,” Mister Bondy agreed. “What next?”

“Next,” the bishop continued, “the Absolute should be created only using coal from Malé Svatoňonice. I’m sure you are aware that that is already a place where Our Lady has performed miracles, so with the help of coal from that location we can turn the house in Břevnov into a place of pilgrimage for the cult of Mary.”

“By all means,” Mister Bondy acceded. “Is there anything else?”

“Thirdly, you must agree never to manufacture the Absolute at any other site, neither now nor in the future.”

“What?” the businessman exclaimed. “But our carburators . . . ”

“ . . . will never be put into operation, apart from the single one at Břevnov, which will be the property of the holy Church and be operated by her.”

“Nonsense,” G.H. Bondy objected. “Carburators will continue to be made. There are ten of them due to be installed in the next three weeks. Over the next six months twelve hundred, and ten thousand of them over the next year. We’ve already committed ourselves to that.”

“And I have to tell you,” said the consecrating bishop quietly and sweetly, “that within a year, there will be no carburator operating anywhere.”