Grot nodded to himself in deep contentment. He would have loved to light his pipe, if only smoking had not been forbidden here. He heard the yelling of the mob, and rebound upon rebound against the singing door with a feeling of smug fierceness. He loved the door. It was his ally. He turned around and looked at his machine. He nodded at it affectionately: “We two—eh?... What do you say to that boozy lot of fatheads, machine?” The storm before the door wound itself up into a typhoon. It was the hackling fury born of long resistance. “Open the door,—!!” hackled the fury. “Open the door, you damned scoundrel—!!” “Wouldn’t that just suit you!” thought Grot. How well the door was holding! His gallant door! What were those drunken apes out there singing about? “We’ve passed sentence upon the machines! We have condemned the machines to death!” Ho ho ho—! He could sing too—could Grot! He could sing drunken songs, just fine! He kicked with both heels against the pedestal of the machine, upon which he was sitting. He pushed the black cap down lower in his neck. With his red fists resting upon his knees, opening wide his mouth, he sang with his whole throat, while his little, wild eyes were fixed on the door: “Come on, you boozy lot, if you dare! Come if you want a good hiding, you lousy apes! Your mother forgot To pull your pants tight When you were little, you guttersnipes! You’re not even fit for pigs’ swill! You fell from the rubbish cart, When it took the big curve! And now you stand before the door, Before my gallant door, and bawl: Open the door! Open the door! Let the devil open it for you, You hen’s bugs.” The pedestal of the machine boomed under the drumming rhythm of his boot-heels.... But suddenly they both stopped: drumming and singing. An exceedingly powerful, exceedingly white light flared up three times, under the dome of the building. A sound-signal, as gentle and as penetrating as the gong-beat of a temple bell, became audible, overpowering every sound. “Yes!” said Grot, the guard of the Heart-machine. He sprang to his feet. He raised his broad face, which shone with the joyful eagerness of obedience. “Yes, here I am!” A voice said, slowly and clearly: “Open the door, and give up the machine!” Grot stood motionless. Fists like hammers hung down from his arms. He gulped. But he said nothing. “Repeat instructions,” said the quiet voice. The guard of the heart-machine swung his head violently this way and that, like a weighty bundle. “I ... I didn’t understand,” he said, gaspingly. The quiet voice spoke in a more forceful tone: “Open the door and give up the machine!” The man still said nothing, gazing stupidly upward. “Repeat instructions,” said the quiet voice. The guard of the Heart-machine drew in a great draught of air. “Who is speaking there—?” he asked. “What lousy swine is speaking there—?” “Open the door, Grot....” “The devil I will—!”