I saw suspicious stains, which were eating into the aluminium, and holes which were rusting the iron. The steel had become porous, and was crumbling, and the copper had grown spongy like a mushroom. Lastly, the whole machinery was mottled as with a red or greenish leprosy which was neither rust nor verdigris. On the ground there was a syrupy disgusting pool all round this repulsive heap of refuse, oozing from it and all streaked with colors suggesting unimaginable horrors. Strange chemical reactions occurred from time to time which made this putrefying metallic flesh boil with great bursting bubbles, and, in its depths, the mechanism rumbled and gurgled intermittently. Suddenly in a squashy fall, the steering-wheel collapsed, one end going through the floor, and the other through the hood. A nameless mess was stirring in there, and the horrible stench of organic decomposition flung me backwards. I had had time to see worms wriggling about in the dark depths. “What a filthy machine,” said the mechanic. I tried to make him swallow the idea that vibration sometimes disintegrates metal, and may give rise to molecular modifications like this. He did not seem to believe me, and I, who knew that the truth was stranger still, was forced, in order that he might grasp and accept it, to enlarge on the subject and give him, confidentially, a careful explanation of the whole matter. Klotz is dead! The car is dead! And so goes to limbo, along with its author, the beautiful theory of an animalized mechanism made immortal by the replacing of parts, and infinitely perfectible! Giving life means also giving death, and to organize inorganic bodies, means to sooner or later disorganize them. But, to my surprise, it was not for want of petrol that the fantastic creature died. No, the tank was half full. It was the soul, therefore, which killed it--the human soul, that corrupt soul, which so rapidly wore out the constitutions of animals, more healthy than ours, and soon ruined this pure metallic body. I ordered the filthy bundle of refuse to be flung away. The drains were to be the tomb of Klotz. He’s dead! He’s dead! I’m rid of him. He is dead, and he can never come to life again. In fact, he is _dead!_ His spirit is with the deceased. He can never hurt me again. Ah, ha! DEAD! The filthy brute! I ought to be happy, but I am not very. Oh, it is not because of Emma. No doubt the “baggage” causes me pain, but that will soon be cured, and to admit that grief is consolable, is already to be consoled from it. My great trouble comes from my recollections. What I have seen and felt harasses me. The madman Nell! The operation! The Minotaur! I--Jupiter! And so many other horrors. I dread eyeballs that stare at me, and I lower my eyes in the presence of keyholes. Those are the sources of my trouble, but I also dread the horrible future. Suppose it were not all finished? Suppose Klotz’s death did not wind up my story?