He spoke as if stretching out both hands, as just if closing his eyes in speaking: “Will you come to me, Josaphat?” A hand fluttered up like a scared bird. “I—?” gasped the stranger. “Yes, Josaphat.” The young voice so full of kindness.... They sank. They sank. Light—darkness—light—darkness again. “Will you come to me, Josaphat?” “Yes!” said the strange man with incomparable fervour. “Yes!” They dropped into light. Freder seized him by the arm and dragged him out with him, out of the great pump-works of the New Tower of Babel, holding him fast as he reeled. “Where do you live, Josaphat?” “Ninetieth Block. House seven. Seventh floor.” “Then go home, Josaphat. Perhaps I shall come to you myself; perhaps I shall send a messenger who will bring you to me. I do not know what the next few hours will bring forth.... But I do not want any man I know, if I can prevent it, to lie a whole night long, staring up at the ceiling until it seems to come crashing down on him....” “What can I do for you?” asked the man. Freder felt the vice-like pressure of his hand. He smiled. He shook his head. “Nothing. Go home. Wait. Be calm. To-morrow will bring another day and I hope a fair one....” The man loosened the grip of his hand and went. Freder watched him go. The man stopped and looked back at Freder, and dropped his head with an expression which was so earnest, so unconditional, that the smile died on Freder’s lips. “Yes, man,” he said. “I take you at your word!” The Pater-noster hummed at Freder’s back. The cells, like scoop-buckets, gathered men up and poured them out again. But the son of Joh Fredersen did not see them. Among all those tearing along to gain a few seconds, he alone stood still listening how the New Tower of Babel roared in its revolutions. The roaring seemed to him like the ringing of one of the cathedral bells—like the ore-voice of the archangel Michael. But a song hovered above it, high and sweet. His whole young heart exulted in this song. “Have I done your will for the first time, you great mediatress of pity?” he asked in the roar of the bell’s voice. But no answer came. Then he went the way he wanted to go, to find the answer. As Slim entered Freder’s home to question the servants concerning their master, Joh Fredersen’s son was walking down the steps which led to the lower structure of the New Tower of Babel. As the servants shook their heads at Slim saying that their master had not come home, Joh Fredersen’s son was walking towards the luminous pillars which indicated his way. As Slim, with a glance at his watch, decided to wait, to wait, at any rate for a while—already alarmed, already conjecturing possibilities and how to meet them—Joh Fredersen’s son was entering the room from which the New Tower of Babel drew the energies for its own requirements.