Then, as Turnbull was still silent, he added:
“The heavens are full of revolution–of the real sort of revolution. All the high things are sinking low and all the big things looking small. All the people who think they are aspiring find they are falling head foremost. And all the people who think they are condescending find they are climbing up a precipice. That is the intoxication of space. That is the only joy of eternity–doubt. There is only one pleasure the angels can possibly have in flying, and that is, that they do not know whether they are on their head or their heels.”
Then, finding his companion still mute, he fell himself into a smiling and motionless meditation, at the end of which he said suddenly:
“So MacIan converted you?”
Turnbull sprang up as if spurning the steel car from under his feet. “Converted me!” he cried. “What the devil do you mean? I have known him for a month, and I have not retracted a single–”
“This Catholicism is a curious thing,” said the man of the cloven chin in uninterrupted reflectiveness, leaning his elegant elbows over the edge of the vessel; “it soaks and weakens men without their knowing it, just as I fear it has soaked and weakened you.”
Turnbull stood in an attitude which might well have meant pitching the other man out of the flying ship.
“I am an atheist,” he said, in a stifled voice. “I have always been an atheist. I am still an atheist.” Then, addressing the other’s indolent and indifferent back, he cried: “In God’s name what do you mean?”
And the other answered without turning round:
“I mean nothing in God’s name.”
Turnbull spat over the edge of the car and fell back furiously into his seat.
The other continued still unruffled, and staring over the edge idly as an angler stares down at a stream.
“The truth is that we never thought that you could have been caught,” he said; “we counted on you as the one red-hot revolutionary left in the world. But, of course, these men like MacIan are awfully clever, especially when they pretend to be stupid.”
Turnbull leapt up again in a living fury and cried: “What have I got to do with MacIan? I believe all I ever believed, and disbelieve all I ever disbelieved. What does all this mean, and what do you want with me here?”
Then for the first time the other lifted himself from the edge of the car and faced him.
“I have brought you here,” he answered, “to take part in the last war of the world.”
“The last war!” repeated Turnbull, even in his dazed state a little touchy about such a dogma; “how do you know it will be the last?”
The man laid himself back in his reposeful attitude, and said:
“It is the last war, because if it does not cure the world for ever, it will destroy it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I only mean what you mean,” answered the unknown in a temperate voice. “What was it that you always meant on those million and one nights when you walked outside your Ludgate Hill shop and shook your hand in the air?”
“Still I do not see,” said Turnbull, stubbornly.
“You will soon,” said the other, and abruptly bent downward one iron handle of his huge machine. The engine stopped, stooped, and dived almost as deliberately as a man bathing; in their downward rush they swept within fifty yards of a big bulk of stone that Turnbull knew only too well. The last red anger of the sunset was ended; the dome of heaven was dark; the lanes of flaring light in the streets below hardly lit up the base of the building. But he saw that it was St. Paul’s Cathedral, and he saw that on the top of it the ball was still standing erect, but the cross was stricken and had fallen sideways. Then only he cared to look down into the streets, and saw that they were inflamed with uproar and tossing passions.
“We arrive at a happy moment,” said the man steering the ship. “The insurgents are bombarding the city, and a cannon-ball has just hit the cross. Many of the insurgents are simple people, and they naturally regard it as a happy omen.”
“Quite so,” said Turnbull, in a rather colourless voice.
“Yes,” replied the other. “I thought you would be glad to see your prayer answered. Of course I apologize for the word prayer.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Turnbull.
The flying ship had come down upon a sort of curve, and was now rising again. The higher and higher it rose the broader and broader became the scenes of flame and desolation underneath.
Ludgate Hill indeed had been an uncaptured and comparatively quiet height, altered only by the startling coincidence of the cross fallen awry. All the other thoroughfares on all sides of that hill were full of the pulsation and the pain of battle, full of shaking torches and shouting faces. When at length they had risen high enough to have a bird’s-eye view of the whole campaign, Turnbull was already intoxicated. He had smelt gunpowder, which was the incense of his own revolutionary religion.
“Have the people really risen?” he asked, breathlessly. “What are they fighting about?”
“The programme is rather elaborate,” said his entertainer with some indifference. “I think Dr. Hertz drew it up.”
Turnbull wrinkled his forehead. “Are all the poor people with the Revolution?” he asked.
The other shrugged his shoulders. “All the instructed and class-conscious part of them without exception,” he replied. “There were certainly a few districts; in fact, we are passing over them just now–”
Turnbull looked down and saw that the polished car was literally lit up from underneath by the far-flung fires from below. Underneath whole squares and solid districts were in flames, like prairies or forests on fire.
“Dr. Hertz has convinced everybody,” said Turnbull’s cicerone in a smooth voice, “that nothing can really be done with the real slums. His celebrated maxim has been quite adopted. I mean the three celebrated sentences: ‘No man should be unemployed. Employ the employables. Destroy the unemployables.’”
There was a silence, and then Turnbull said in a rather strained voice: “And do I understand that this good work is going on under here?”
“Going on splendidly,” replied his companion in the heartiest voice. “You see, these people were much too tired and weak even to join the social war. They were a definite hindrance to it.”
“And so you are simply burning them out?”
“It does seem absurdly simple,” said the man, with a beaming smile, “when one thinks of all the worry and talk about helping a hopeless slave population, when the future obviously was only crying to be rid of them. There are happy babes unborn ready to burst the doors when these drivellers are swept away.”
“Will you permit me to say,” said Turnbull, after reflection, “that I don’t like all this?”
“And will you permit me to say,” said the other, with a snap, “that I don’t like Mr. Evan MacIan?”
Somewhat to the speaker’s surprise this did not inflame the sensitive sceptic; he had the air of thinking thoroughly, and then he said: “No, I don’t think it’s my friend MacIan that taught me that. I think I should always have said that I don’t like this. These people have rights.”
“Rights!” repeated the unknown in a tone quite indescribable. Then he added with a more open sneer: “Perhaps they also have souls.”
“They have lives!” said Turnbull, sternly; “that is quite enough for me. I understood you to say that you thought life sacred.”
“Yes, indeed!” cried his mentor with a sort of idealistic animation. “Yes, indeed! Life is sacred–but lives are not sacred. We are improving Life by removing lives. Can you, as a free-thinker, find any fault in that?”
“Yes,” said Turnbull with brevity.
“Yet you applaud tyrannicide,” said the stranger with rationalistic gaiety. “How inconsistent! It really comes to this: You approve of taking away life from those to whom it is a triumph and a pleasure. But you will not take away life from those to whom it is a burden and a toil.”