“Herman,” said Esther, hurriedly, “I don’t like this. It isn’t right. And I am sure my father does not know about it.” “My dear Miss Esther, I assure you that it is a very ordinary scientific experiment,” Lazaroff answered, laughing. “Come, Arnold,” he added, “why not get in yourself and try how it feels? You are not afraid?” “In my clothes?” “Certainly.” “Arnold, I don’t want you to get into that thing,” Esther protested. “Of course, if our friend is afraid that I am going to screw him up for a century—” began Lazaroff. “I am not at all afraid,” I returned, a little nettled. “How do I get in?” “I’ll have to help you,” Lazaroff answered. “It was not made for a big man in clothes. Button your coat. Now—put your arms down by your sides.” He rolled a cylinder upon the floor, and I put my feet inside rather reluctantly and squeezed down to the bottom. Lazaroff looked at me and burst into loud laughter. “Not much room to turn round, is there?” he said, raising the cylinder with an effort and standing it on its base again. “Come out, Arnold,” pleaded Esther; and I saw that her face was white with fear. But I was quite helpless, and above me I saw Lazaroff, smiling at my predicament. “Now if I were going to be so unkind as to send you into the next century,” he said, “to be the only animist, with a defective skull, in a world of vile materialism—” “Please, Herman, for my sake!” Esther implored. “I should put on the cap,” he said, and fitted it. He must have touched some mechanism that I had not seen, for instantly the cap began to whir on the screw. Through the glass face I caught a last glimpse of Esther’s terrified eyes. The image blurred and vanished as my breath dimmed the glass and frosted it. I heard the swift jar of the cap mechanism end in a jarring click. I gasped for air; there was none. My head swam, my throat was closed; the blackness was pricked into flecks of fire. I groped for memory through unconsciousness—and ceased. CHAPTER III IN THE CELLAR I have heard patients, emerging from the chloroform swoon, describe how, before awakening, they had seemed to view themselves lying unconscious upon their beds, detailing the posture of their motionless bodies and inert limbs. In this way, now, I seemed to see myself. I am sure that was no dream of the vague borderland between death and life. I saw the pallid face, so shrunken that the skin clung to the edged bones, and the dry hair, the pinched lips and waxen hands. I saw myself as if from some non-spatial point, and with singular indifference, except that one fragment of knowledge, detached from my serene omniscience, troubled me. I had to return within that physical envelope; and behind me lay dim memories, quite untranslatable, but ineffably rapturous, which made that projected incarnation an event of dread.