The Doomsman

by Van Tassel Sutphen

But outside of the vulgar crowd were the initiated, the illuminati, the technically trained adepts who managed the whole business. How about them? In the beginning, doubtless, they would be tempted to foster the new cult, recognizing in it a weakness upon which they could profitably play. And this they did, only to be trapped, in turn, in the net of superstition which they had helped to weave. It was now three generations back to the electricians and mechanical experts to whom the care of the great engines had originally been intrusted. Their sons and grandsons continued to preserve the practical knowledge which was required for the management of the machinery under their charge, but as time went on they cared less and less about the principles of the mysterious forces that they controlled. Now, let the tide of religious fervor sweep onward to its flood, and inevitably the apprentice would be replaced by the acolyte; the neophytes of the fourth generation would be taught only so much about the engines as was absolutely necessary for their maintenance in running order. At last, the Shining One had come to his own, and all bowed before his throne.

Following upon this culmination came decadence; it is the universal law. Through imperceptible degrees men fell away from the faith of their fathers, and the worship of the god had become unfashionable. The devotees were reduced to a handful of women; of the once all-powerful priesthood, Prosper alone remained, and he was an old and feeble man.

One man but he had stood unfalteringly at his post; every Friday for more than thirty years he had caused the spirit of the god to descend into his sanctuary, and had called upon all true-hearted believers to draw near and worship. That they would not heed was no concern of his; his duty was accomplished, and beyond this no man may go.

"And surely the Shining One is jealous of his own honor," said Constans, guardedly. "Will he not bring to naught these foolish contemners of his majesty? Without doubt, else he were no god."

It was the afternoon of the following day, and the two men had been busy with the care of the machinery in the great hall, polishing up the bright parts and examining with infinite patience the innumerable bearings, their oil-cups and dust-caps. The conversation had naturally been colored by the pious character of their task, and Prosper had spoken more unreservedly than was his wont, emboldening Constans to ask the question recorded above. "Else he were no god," he repeated, insistently. The old man turned on him.

"And who shall tell us whether he be a god or no?" he demanded, with startling vehemence. "What manner of divinity can he be who allows these feeble hands to call him into existence and again to reduce him to nothingness? A god! This senseless block of iron that lives only at my will and pleasure. Behold, boy! shall the Shining One suffer indignity such as this and not worthily avenge himself?" and as he spoke, he caught up a handful of refuse from the floor and deliberately threw it at the great dynamo before which they were standing.

"A god!" he reiterated, with contemptuous bitterness, and spat upon the mass of polished metal.

There was a moment of suspense so real that Constans, despite his vantage ground of superior knowledge, trembled with an inexplicable terror. Surely, the outraged divinity had started into life; it was preparing to strike down the blasphemer.

"Perchance he is on a journey, or he sleeps," said the old priest, coldly. "He is a wise man who knows in whom he believes, and the Shining One shall, doubtless, be justified of his children." Then, with a gesture of indescribable dignity, he drew a corner of his flowing outer cape across his face and passed out into the gathering shadows of the winter day.

The task was still unfinished, but not for worlds would Constans have remained alone in that echoing, wind-swept cavern, surrounded by these monstrous shapes of metal. Lever and piston, wheel and shaft, the familiar outlines had disappeared, and in their stead a vast, indefinable bulk loomed through the dusk. It hung in the background like a wild beast, eternally watchful and waiting, waiting. Of a sudden, Constans felt horribly afraid. Stumbling and panting he ran up-stairs and gained the shelter of his own little room. A fire was smouldering on the hearth; he blew the log into a flame and lighted every candle upon which he could lay his hand. Then as mind and body relaxed under the cheering influence of light and warmth he drew a chair to the fire and sat down to seriously consider his future course of action. The situation had forced itself upon him. How was he to grapple with it?