One of the stories appeared in the ATLANTIC MONTHLY and is reprinted by courtesy of its editor; the rest, as far as I know, have never been published in America.
CONTENTS
| [THE MACHINE STOPS] |
| [THE POINT OF IT] |
| [MR. ANDREWS] |
| [CO-ORDINATION] |
| [THE STORY OF THE SIREN] |
| [THE ETERNAL MOMENT] |
THE MACHINE STOPS
Part I
THE AIR-SHIP
Imagine, if you can, a small room, hexagonal in shape, like the cell of a bee. It is lighted neither by window nor by lamp, yet it is filled with a soft radiance. There are no apertures for ventilation, yet the air is fresh. There are no musical instruments, and yet, at the moment that my meditation opens, this room is throbbing with melodious sounds. An arm-chair is in the centre, by its side a reading-desk—that is all the furniture. And in the arm-chair there sits a swaddled lump of flesh—a woman, about five feet high, with a face as white as a fungus. It is to her that the little room belongs.
An electric bell rang.