Part 33 (1/2)

”He won't take The Machine away, will he, father?” Suzanna asked anxiously.

”No, not that particular one, little girl. There'll have to be others built. That is just the model.”

At two o'clock Mr. Procter was in the attic working at the machine. At three, so interested had he grown, that he had really forgotten the expected visit of old John Ma.s.sey. So it was a real surprise when Mrs.

Procter ushered him in.

”Well, I'm here at last,” said Mr. Ma.s.sey. He looked over to where the cabinet stood. ”Your machine is rather mysterious looking.”

”Does it seem so? Here, lay your hat and coat on this table, Mr. Ma.s.sey.

Now I'll explain the purpose of the machine.”

”Yes, that's what I'm most interested in, what it's for; what you expect to do with it.”

Richard Procter turned an eager face to the capitalist.

”I'll start at the beginning,” he said. ”Have you ever stopped to think what would mean the greatest happiness to humanity?”

Mr. Ma.s.sey coughed and moved uneasily. ”Can't say I have. Food and drink sufficient for all, so I've heard your orator across the street announce.”

Mr. Procter smiled. ”That, yes, might bring content, but I'm speaking of spiritual happiness. Well, this is my idea of what would bring about a revolution in the sum total of world content. _Each man at the work he was born to do._

”And having once reached that conclusion, I set about formulating plans for the building of my machine. An instrument so delicate that it could register a man's leading talent.”

Mr. Ma.s.sey moved away a little. He stared doubtfully at the inventor before the clearing thought came. Before him stood a madman, a wild visionary.

He looked over at his hat and coat. To stay was a mere waste of time, he realized that now. Still, there was Suzanna who had made a place for herself in his gruff old heart. The machine, he knew, could have no commercial value. Yet he remembered a few of Suzanna's values which were not based on the possession of money.

Well, for Suzanna's sake he would listen, go away and forget. So he seated himself, and waited condescendingly for the inventor to continue.

He himself said nothing, for silence, he had learned, was golden.

Mr. Procter went on. ”My first step in the work was to evolve what might be termed a system of color interpretation.”

”I don't understand at all,” said old John Ma.s.sey sharply.

The inventor hesitated. Visionary, he might truly be called, but, too, he was sensitive and he had felt the capitalist's withdrawal as soon as the purpose of the machine was explained to him. But the end was a big one. He must not hesitate, so he went on.

”May I put it broadly without arousing your derision, that color sight was bestowed upon me. Just as my little girl Suzanna visualizes each day as a shape, so I've always seen people in color; that out of that sight I built my own science of color.”

”_Romance_ of color, you mean,” returned John Ma.s.sey harshly, ”for so far as I can gain, there is no science about it. I deal in facts, Mr.

Procter, not in air castles. Does the machine do anything, but stand there a silent monument to your dreams?”

Mr. Procter hesitated but a moment, then, ”Come, Mr. Ma.s.sey,” he said, ”take your place. Let us see what the machine says of you. Remember, please, it will register only your truest meaning, the purpose for which you were born; the part of you which never dies, which is never really submerged, regardless of a turning to false G.o.ds.”

A little uneasy despite himself, Mr. Ma.s.sey seated himself before the machine.

The inventor touched levers, opened and shut doors, lowered the helmet, adjusted the lens.

As the clicking sound commenced Mr. Ma.s.sey stirred. ”Keep very quiet,”

said the inventor, ”and watch the gla.s.s plate.”