He went back to the apparatus in the other room, and had soon puzzled out the method of replacing the cylinders by others.  As he did so, it came into his mind that it must be these little appliances had fixed the language so that it was still clear and understandable after two hundred years.  The haphazard cylinders he substituted displayed a musical fantasia.  At first it was beautiful, and then it was sensuous.  He presently recognised what appeared to him to be an altered version of the story of Tannhauser.  The music was unfamiliar.  But the rendering was realistic, and with a contemporary unfamiliarity.  Tannhauser did not go to a Venusberg, but to a Pleasure City.  What was a Pleasure City?  A dream, surely, the fancy of a fantastic, voluptuous writer.

He became interested, curious.  The story developed with a flavour of strangely twisted sentimentality.  Suddenly he did not like it.  He liked it less as it proceeded.

He had a revulsion of feeling.  These were no pictures, no idealisations, but photographed realities.  He wanted no more of the twenty-second century Venusberg.  He forgot the part played by the model in nineteenth century art, and gave way to an archaic indignation.  He rose, angry and half ashamed at himself for witnessing this thing even in solitude.  He pulled forward the apparatus, and with some violence sought for a means of stopping its action.  Something snapped.  A violet spark stung and convulsed his arm and the thing was still.  When he attempted next day to replace these Tannhauser cylinders by another pair, he found the apparatus broken....

He struck out a path oblique to the room and paced to and fro, struggling with intolerable vast impressions.  The things he had derived from the cylinders and the things he had seen, conflicted, confused him.  It seemed to him the most amazing thing of all that in his thirty years of life he had never tried to shape a picture of these coming times.  “We were making the future,” he said, “and hardly any of us troubled to think what future we were making.  And here it is!”

“What have they got to, what has been done?  How do I come into the midst of it all?” The vastness of street and house he was prepared for, the multitudes of people.  But conflicts in the city ways!  And the systematised sensuality of a class of rich men!

He thought of Bellamy, the hero of whose Socialistic Utopia had so oddly anticipated this actual experience.  But here was no Utopia, no Socialistic state.  He had already seen enough to realise that the ancient antithesis of luxury, waste and sensuality on the one hand and abject poverty on the other, still prevailed.  He knew enough of the essential factors of life to understand that correlation.  And not only were the buildings of the city gigantic and the crowds in the street gigantic, but the voices he had heard in the ways, the uneasiness of Howard, the very atmosphere spoke of gigantic discontent.  What country was he in?  Still England it seemed, and yet strangely “un-English.”  His mind glanced at the rest of the world, and saw only an enigmatical veil.