manner.
Pamfret tore the card in a dozen pieces. “Well, of all the—” he began, then he was silent. He was afraid to talk even to himself where there was a chance of being overheard. He wanted to be alone, to have time to consider this strange, this impossible world to which he had been so eager to return. He started to walk downtown, intending to get a room in the first hotel he saw.
At Sixty-first Street he noticed a magnificent white marble building set back some fifty feet from the street, facing Central Park. It was flanked by four minarets, each one bearing at the top a marble group representing a winged angel destroying a warrior’s sword. Over the entrance, in heavy raised letters, was the inscription HALL OF PEACE.
“So this is where they do it,” thought Pamfret, as he gazed at the inscription. “I’d like to blow the d—d thing up.” Then he noticed that the main doors were open, and passing over the outer flagstones with an odd feeling of fear, he went inside.
The interior was very similar to that of a cathedral, with the exception that there were no stained glass windows. Immense columns of marble rose on every side, while the vaulted roof seemed to reach to the skies. At the farther end was an altar, on which was set the figure of the winged angel destroying the warrior’s sword. The group was of ebony. Below, on the pedestal, were inscribed the words of the Poet:
“And therefore, to our weaker view,
O’erlaid with black, staid Wisdom’s hue,”
Around the altar rail below the figures men and women were kneeling. Pamfret, as he gazed, felt a feeling of mingled disgust and awe sweep over him. “Of course,” he said to himself, “it is really very funny. But somehow it impresses one.” And he turned to leave.
A half-hour later found him seated in his room at the Hotel Pax, reading a book. He had found it lying on the table when he entered the room. It was covered in black leather and lettered in gold with the title, “Book of Peace.” “By all the Gods!” exclaimed Pamfret. “Here’s their bible!”
It was little more than a book of rules, with photographs and biographies of the founders of the great Congress and a short exposition of the philosophy of the new World Religion. Everything, it seemed, was under the domination of this all-powerful Congress.
Pamfret, mentally disturbed as he was, found a great deal of amusement in the rules of the Committee on Courtship, while he found that the Committee on Domesticity had made the family a farce and the home a tomb. The Committee on Sleep—but Pamfret could go no further. He was completely exhausted. His head fell forward till his chin rested on his breast. Awakening with a start, he undressed and went to bed.
He dreamed of Peace, Peace with the body of an angel and a horrible grinning skull for a head. Through rivers and valleys, over steep hills and deep bogs and marshes this frightful thing pursued him, until at last he saw before him in the middle of a desert, the beautiful Hall of Peace. With a final burst of strength he reached the portal, and entering the marble vault, approached the altar and knelt before it. The ebony angel on the pedestal put together the pieces of the broken sword of the warrior, and raised it to strike. Pamfret raised his arm to ward off the blow; and just as the sword was descending with the speed of lightning, he awoke.
Someone was knocking on the door of his room. Pamfret, still shaking with the fear of his dream, called out, “Who is it?”
“In the name of the International Peace Congress and the Committee on Sleep, I ask that this door be opened,” came a voice.
“What the devil have I done now?” thought Pamfret. “Disturbed the peace of my bedcovers, I suppose.”
“In the name of the International Peace—” began the voice again.
“Oh, shut up!” said Pamfret under his breath, and crossed to the door and opened it. “What do you want?” he demanded.
The intruder eyed Pamfret
Pamfret tore the card in a dozen pieces. “Well, of all the—” he began, then he was silent. He was afraid to talk even to himself where there was a chance of being overheard. He wanted to be alone, to have time to consider this strange, this impossible world to which he had been so eager to return. He started to walk downtown, intending to get a room in the first hotel he saw.
At Sixty-first Street he noticed a magnificent white marble building set back some fifty feet from the street, facing Central Park. It was flanked by four minarets, each one bearing at the top a marble group representing a winged angel destroying a warrior’s sword. Over the entrance, in heavy raised letters, was the inscription HALL OF PEACE.
“So this is where they do it,” thought Pamfret, as he gazed at the inscription. “I’d like to blow the d—d thing up.” Then he noticed that the main doors were open, and passing over the outer flagstones with an odd feeling of fear, he went inside.
The interior was very similar to that of a cathedral, with the exception that there were no stained glass windows. Immense columns of marble rose on every side, while the vaulted roof seemed to reach to the skies. At the farther end was an altar, on which was set the figure of the winged angel destroying the warrior’s sword. The group was of ebony. Below, on the pedestal, were inscribed the words of the Poet:
“And therefore, to our weaker view,
O’erlaid with black, staid Wisdom’s hue,”
Around the altar rail below the figures men and women were kneeling. Pamfret, as he gazed, felt a feeling of mingled disgust and awe sweep over him. “Of course,” he said to himself, “it is really very funny. But somehow it impresses one.” And he turned to leave.
A half-hour later found him seated in his room at the Hotel Pax, reading a book. He had found it lying on the table when he entered the room. It was covered in black leather and lettered in gold with the title, “Book of Peace.” “By all the Gods!” exclaimed Pamfret. “Here’s their bible!”
It was little more than a book of rules, with photographs and biographies of the founders of the great Congress and a short exposition of the philosophy of the new World Religion. Everything, it seemed, was under the domination of this all-powerful Congress.
Pamfret, mentally disturbed as he was, found a great deal of amusement in the rules of the Committee on Courtship, while he found that the Committee on Domesticity had made the family a farce and the home a tomb. The Committee on Sleep—but Pamfret could go no further. He was completely exhausted. His head fell forward till his chin rested on his breast. Awakening with a start, he undressed and went to bed.
He dreamed of Peace, Peace with the body of an angel and a horrible grinning skull for a head. Through rivers and valleys, over steep hills and deep bogs and marshes this frightful thing pursued him, until at last he saw before him in the middle of a desert, the beautiful Hall of Peace. With a final burst of strength he reached the portal, and entering the marble vault, approached the altar and knelt before it. The ebony angel on the pedestal put together the pieces of the broken sword of the warrior, and raised it to strike. Pamfret raised his arm to ward off the blow; and just as the sword was descending with the speed of lightning, he awoke.
Someone was knocking on the door of his room. Pamfret, still shaking with the fear of his dream, called out, “Who is it?”
“In the name of the International Peace Congress and the Committee on Sleep, I ask that this door be opened,” came a voice.
“What the devil have I done now?” thought Pamfret. “Disturbed the peace of my bedcovers, I suppose.”
“In the name of the International Peace—” began the voice again.
“Oh, shut up!” said Pamfret under his breath, and crossed to the door and opened it. “What do you want?” he demanded.
The intruder eyed Pamfret
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