"It'll take a little time," Dorn went on. He had become used to reciting his answers in the manner of a schoolmaster. "But it's bound to happen. Bolshevism is a logical evolution of democracy--another step downward in the descent of the individual. Until the arrival of Lenine and Trotzky on the field, there's no question but what American Democracy was the most atrocious insult leveled at the intelligence of the race by its inferiors. Bolshevism goes us one better, however. And just as soon as our lowest types, meaning the majority of our politicians, thinkers, and writers, get to realizing that bolshevism isn't a Red Terror with a bomb in one hand and a dagger in the other, but a state of society surpassing even their own in points of weakness and abnormal silliness, they'll start arresting everybody who isn't a bolshevist. Capital will put up a fight, but capital is already doomed in this country. It isn't respected for its strength, vision, and creative powers. It is tolerated to-day for no other reason than that it has cornered the platitude market. I'm telling you, Warren, that when we get it drummed into our heads that bolshevism isn't strong and powerful, but weaker, more prohibitive, more sentimental, more politically inefficient, and generally worse than our own government, we'll have a dictator of the proletaire in Washington within a week." Lockwood sighed unhappily and lighted a pipe. "If you were talking about men and women maybe I could join you," he answered. "But I got a hunch you're just another one of those newspaper Neds. The woods are full of smart alecks like you and they make me kind of tired, because I never can figure out what they're talking about. And I'll be damned if they know themselves. They think in big hunks and keep a lot of words floating in the air.... What old Carl calls 'Blaa ... blaa....'" The two friends sat regarding each other critically. Dorn nodded after a pause. "You're right," he smiled. "I'm part of the blaa-blaa. I heard them blaa-blaa with guns in Munich one night. And up in the Baltic. You're right. Anything one says about absurdity becomes absurd itself. And talking about the human race in chunks is necessarily talking absurdly. Tell me about that fellow Tesla." "They deported him to Rooshia," Lockwood answered. "There was quite a romance about the girl. That was your girl, wasn't it?" "Yes, Rachel. She wouldn't tag along, eh?" "No. I suppose they wouldn't let her. I don't know. There was a lot of stuff in the newspapers." The novelist seemed to hesitate on the brink of further information. His friend smiled understandingly. "It doesn't matter, Warren. Go ahead. Shoot." "Cured, eh?" "No--dead." Lockwood nodded sagely, his mouth half open as if his words were staring at Dorn. "Well, there isn't much I know. I met a little girl the other day--Mary James; know her?" "Yes."