At the lowest window Krag went straight ahead without stopping, but Maskull clambered into the embrasure, in order to renew his acquaintance with the miraculous spectacle of the Arcturian group. The lens had lost its magic property. It had become a common sheet of glass, through which the ordinary sky field appeared. The climb continued, and at the second and third windows he again mounted and stared out, but still the common sights presented themselves. After that, he gave up and looked through no more windows. Krag and Nightspore meanwhile had gone on ahead with the light, so that he had to complete the ascent in darkness. When he was near the top, he saw yellow light shining through the crack of a half-opened door. His companions were standing just inside a small room, shut off from the staircase by rough wooden planking; it was rudely furnished and contained nothing of astronomical interest. The lantern was resting on a table. Maskull walked in and looked around him with curiosity. “Are we at the top?” “Except for the platform over our heads,” replied Krag. “Why didn’t that lowest window magnify, as it did earlier in the evening?” “Oh, you missed your opportunity,” said Krag, grinning. “If you had finished your climb then, you would have seen heart-expanding sights. From the fifth window, for example, you would have seen Tormance like a continent in relief; from the sixth you would have seen it like a landscape.... But now there’s no need.” “Why not—and what has need got to do with it?” “Things are changed, my friend, since that wound of yours. For the same reason that you have now been able to mount the stairs, there was no necessity to stop and gape at illusions en route.” “Very well,” said Maskull, not quite understanding what he meant. “But is this Surtur’s den?” “He has spent time here.” “I wish you would describe this mysterious individual, Krag. We may not get another chance.” “What I said about the windows also applies to Surtur. There’s no need to waste time over visualising him, because you are immediately going on to the reality.” “Then let us go.” He pressed his eyeballs wearily. “Do we strip?” asked Nightspore. “Naturally,” answered Krag, and he began to tear off his clothes with slow, uncouth movements. “Why?” demanded Maskull, following, however, the example of the other two men. Krag thumped his vast chest, which was covered with thick hairs, like an ape’s. “Who knows what the Tormance fashions are like? We may sprout limbs—I don’t say we shall.” “A-ha!” exclaimed Maskull, pausing in the middle of his undressing. Krag smote him on the back. “New pleasure organs possible, Maskull. You like that?” The three men stood as nature made them. Maskull’s spirits rose fast, as the moment of departure drew near. “A farewell drink to success!” cried Krag, seizing a bottle and breaking its head off between his fingers. There were no glasses, but he poured the amber-coloured wine into some cracked cups.