From his position on the ground he looked into the dimness of the forest on all sides.  Black obscurity had gathered beneath the dark masses of moonlit foliage.  The tiny birch-bark teepees of the now deserted Indian village glowed palely.  Above, the stars looked calmly down at the accusing finger of the tower pointing upward, as if in reproach at their indifference to the savagery that reigned over the whole earth.

Like a fairy tower of jewels the building rose.  Alone among a wilderness of trees and streams it towered in a strange beauty:  moonlit to silver, lighted from within to a mass of brilliant gems, it stood serenely still.

Arthur, carrying his futile lantern about its base, felt his own insignificance as never before.  He wondered what the Indians must think.  He knew there must be hundreds of eyes fixed upon the strange sight—­fixed in awe-stricken terror or superstitious reverence upon this unearthly visitor to their hunting grounds.

A tiny figure, dwarfed by the building whose base he skirted, Arthur moved slowly about the vast pile.  The earth seemed not to have been affected by the vast weight of the tower.

Arthur knew, however, that long concrete piles reached far down to bedrock.  It was these piles that had sunk into the Fourth Dimension, carrying the building with them.

Arthur had followed the plans with great interest when the Metropolitan was constructed.  It was an engineering feat, and in the engineering periodicals, whose study was a part of Arthur’s business, great space had been given to the building and the methods of its construction.

While examining the earth carefully he went over his theory of the cause for the catastrophe.  The whole structure must have sunk at the same time, or it, too, would have disintegrated, as the other buildings had appeared to disintegrate.  Mentally, Arthur likened the submergence of the tower in the oceans of time to an elevator sinking past the different floors of an office building.  All about the building the other sky-scrapers of New York had seemed to vanish.  In an elevator, the floors one passes seem to rise upward.

Carrying out the analogy to its logical end, Arthur reasoned that the building itself had no more cause to disintegrate, as the buildings it passed seemed to disintegrate, than the elevator in the office building would have cause to rise because its surroundings seemed to rise.

Within the building, he knew, there were strange stirrings of emotions.  Queer currents of panic were running about, throwing the people to and fro as leaves are thrown about by a current of wind.  Yet, underneath all those undercurrents of fear, was a rapidly growing resolution, strengthened by an increasing knowledge of the need to work.

Men were busy even then shifting all possible comfortable furniture to a single story for the women in the building to occupy.  The men would sleep on the floor for the present.  Beds of boughs could be improvised on the morrow.  At sunrise on the following morning many men would go to the streams to fish, guarded by other men.  All would be frightened, no doubt, but there would be a grim resolution underneath the fear.  Other men would wander about to hunt.