Then, as Turnbull made no answer, his host continued: 

“That is the really fine thing about space.  It is topsy-turvy.  You have only to climb far enough towards the morning star to feel that you are coming down to it.  You have only to dive deep enough into the abyss to feel that you are rising.  That is the only glory of this universe—­it is a giddy universe.”

Then, as Turnbull was still silent, he added: 

“The heavens are full of revolution—­of the real sort of revolution.  All the high things are sinking low and all the big things looking small.  All the people who think they are aspiring find they are falling head foremost.  And all the people who think they are condescending find they are climbing up a precipice.  That is the intoxication of space.  That is the only joy of eternity—­doubt.  There is only one pleasure the angels can possibly have in flying, and that is, that they do not know whether they are on their head or their heels.”

Then, finding his companion still mute, he fell himself into a smiling and motionless meditation, at the end of which he said suddenly: 

“So MacIan converted you?”

Turnbull sprang up as if spurning the steel car from under his feet.  “Converted me!” he cried.  “What the devil do you mean?  I have known him for a month, and I have not retracted a single——­”

“This Catholicism is a curious thing,” said the man of the cloven chin in uninterrupted reflectiveness, leaning his elegant elbows over the edge of the vessel; “it soaks and weakens men without their knowing it, just as I fear it has soaked and weakened you.”

Turnbull stood in an attitude which might well have meant pitching the other man out of the flying ship.

“I am an atheist,” he said, in a stifled voice.  “I have always been an atheist.  I am still an atheist.”  Then, addressing the other’s indolent and indifferent back, he cried:  “In God’s name what do you mean?”

And the other answered without turning round: 

“I mean nothing in God’s name.”

Turnbull spat over the edge of the car and fell back furiously into his seat.

The other continued still unruffled, and staring over the edge idly as an angler stares down at a stream.

“The truth is that we never thought that you could have been caught,” he said; “we counted on you as the one red-hot revolutionary left in the world.  But, of course, these men like MacIan are awfully clever, especially when they pretend to be stupid.”

Turnbull leapt up again in a living fury and cried:  “What have I got to do with MacIan?  I believe all I ever believed, and disbelieve all I ever disbelieved.  What does all this mean, and what do you want with me here?”

Then for the first time the other lifted himself from the edge of the car and faced him.

“I have brought you here,” he answered, “to take part in the last war of the world.”