"And in the focus of that reflector?" inquired the old artist, half rising from his chair.
"Was a small cup of liquefied helium, on which floated a lump of solid hydrogen. It produced a temperature of nearly two hundred and seventy-three minus centigrade—the absolute zero of space."
"And it froze the blood in their veins," commented the artist, reseating himself. "Lucky for me you didn't switch it a little higher."
I shivered, and after a few moments of silence I asked:
"If I did not read your mind, but delved into the infinite, as you say, why didn't I get this too?"
"Didn't have time, my boy. But you may have read the mind of Mr. Mayhew, the subconscious mind of Old Bill—the mind that never sleeps and never forgets, you know, and which retained through the years all that Mr. Mayhew had put into it; for you drew into the reflector the elliptical curve, which Mr. Mayhew conceived, but which never in my life have I considered in conjunction with reflectors."
"But you?" I asked again. "Your picture?"
"I painted from memory, and, if you will remember, left out the reflector. But Mr. Mayhew had also dipped into the infinite, and discovered what no living brain knew. Mr. Mayhew"—he turned to the still shaky old man—"you have lost, it is true, fifty years of your life. But your remaining years will be full of honor, profit, and ease, for the whole scientific world will rise to do you homage. You are still in advance, for you have not only isolated and liquefied helium, the last of the refractory gases, but you will ultimately solidify it."