"Well, it's all arranged now how you're to die, I say. It doesn't matter when or how it is, but it's all settled—see? And you don't know, and none of us know anything about it."
"That's all very well—but 'oo is it knows, then? D'you mean God?"
"No, I don't—I'm an atheist, I tell you. There's something that arranges it all, but it ain't God."
"Well, 'oo the 'ell is it, then—the Admiralty?"
The Artificer leaned forward, his dark eyes alight and his face earnest as that of some medieval hermit. "I tell you," he said, "you can believe in God, or Buddha, or anything you like, but it's the same thing. Whatever it is, it doesn't care. It has it all ready and arranged—written out, if you like—and it will have to happen just so. It's pre—pre——"
"Predestination." The deep voice came from the Leading Stoker on the bench beside him.
"Predestination. No amount of praying's any good. It's no use going round crying to gods that aren't there to help you. You've got to go through it as it's written down."
"Prayer's all right," said the Leading Stoker. "If you believe what you pray, you'll get it."
"That's not true. Have you ever had it? Give us an instance now——"
"I don't pray none, thank you. All the same, it's good for women and such that go in for it, like. It ain't the things that alter; it's yourself that does it. Ain't you never 'eard o' Christian Science?"