The scene, the atmosphere, the fearful personality of Lembken seemed to appeal to some being in me whose hideous presence I had never suspected. A deadly inertia of the spirit was conquering me. Esther, my love of a hundred years, became in memory elusive as a dream to me. The sensuous appeal of this wonderland swept over me. We had threaded the recesses of the groves, passing secluded arbors of twisted vines, pergolas and rustic cottages about which clung the scarlet trumpets of pomegranate flowers; now the crystal walls came into sight again, and, as we approached, a gust of wind blew the door open. Instantly, to divert my senses from that soul-destroying dominance, there rushed in, the murmurs of the city, the voices of the multitude below, and, above all, clear and distinct, the wild accents of the whitebeard, who had denounced the pleasure-palace that afternoon. “Woe to you, London, when your whitecoats sit with their harlots in the high places! Woe! Woe!” I could not see him; through the door I saw only the circle of the enclosing walls, a luminous orb beneath, and the glare of the huge Ray guns; beyond were the mighty buildings. Lembken put out his hand and closed the door. The voices were cut off into silence. I glanced at him, but his brow was untroubled and serene. He led me across a little, shelving lawn, through a small gateway. There was nobody in the tiny close, surrounded by a high marble wall. There were no windows in the little house before me. It might have held two rooms. “Three rooms,” said Lembken, as if he had read my thoughts. “Good night, Arnold. Remember, we do what we like to do in the People’s House. There are no laws, no bonds. Dream of this paradise that shall be yours, and open the third door softly.” He left me. I pushed the first door open and entered. It was a bedroom, furnished in the conventional style which had not changed appreciably during the century, but all in ebony or teak, and luxurious almost beyond conception. The floor was covered with a thick-piled Bokhara rug, of red and ivory, and exquisite texture. I passed through the inevitable swing door. The second room was fitted as a combination library and dining-room. There was an ebony bookcase, filled with magnificently bound books, a sideboard on which stood wines and distilled liquors, a heavy dining-table, armchairs. This room had a window, and, looking out, I was surprised to see beneath me the bridge that led to the Airscouts’ Fortress, and, at the end of it, a figure in blue, the white swan on his breast brilliant in the glare of the solar light over his head. I passed on. But instead of the swing door the further wall contained a door of heavy, iron-bound wood, with bolts of steel. Then I remembered Lembken’s words: “Open the third door softly.” The bolts moved in their sockets with hardly a sound. I drew them; I opened the door and passed into a tiny chamber.