Muspel

The fog thickened so that the two suns wholly disappeared, and all grew as black as night. Nightspore could no longer see his companion. The water lapped gently against the side of the island raft.

The fog grew so thick that both suns disappeared completely, and everything became as black as night. Nightspore could no longer see his companion. The water lapped gently against the side of the island raft.

“You say the night is past,” said Nightspore. “But the night is still here. Am I dead, or alive?”

“You say the night is over,” said Nightspore. “But the night is still here. Am I dead or alive?”

“You are still in Crystalman’s world, but you belong to it no more. We are approaching Muspel.”

“You are still in Crystalman’s world, but you no longer belong to it. We are getting close to Muspel.”

Nightspore felt a strong, silent throbbing of the air—a rhythmical pulsation, in four-four time. “There is the drumming,” he exclaimed.

Nightspore felt a strong, silent pulse in the air. It beat in four-four time. “There’s the drumming,” he exclaimed.

“Do you understand it, or have you forgotten?”

“Do you understand it, or have you forgotten?”

“I half understand it, but I’m all confused.”

“I partly understand it, but I’m completely confused.”

“It’s evident Crystalman has dug his claws into you pretty deeply,” said Krag. “The sound comes from Muspel, but the rhythm is caused by its travelling through Crystalman’s atmosphere. His nature is rhythm as he loves to call it—or dull, deadly repetition, as I name it.”

“Crystalman has clearly dug his claws deep into you,” said Krag. “The sound comes from Muspel, but it gains its rhythm as it travels through Crystalman’s atmosphere. His nature is rhythm, as he loves to call it. I call it dull, deadly repetition.”

“I remember,” said Nightspore, biting his nails in the dark.

“I remember,” said Nightspore, biting his nails in the dark.

The throbbing became audible; it now sounded like a distant drum. A small patch of strange light in the far distance, straight ahead of them, began faintly to illuminate the floating island and the glassy sea around it.

They could now hear the throbbing. It sounded like a distant drum. A small patch of strange light appeared far ahead of them. It began to faintly light up the floating island and the glassy sea around it.

“Do all men escape from that ghastly world, or only I, and a few like me?” asked Nightspore.

“Do all men escape from that horrible world, or only me and a few like me?” asked Nightspore.

“If all escaped, I shouldn’t sweat, my friend... There’s hard work, and anguish, and the risk of total death, waiting for us yonder.”

“If everyone escaped, I wouldn’t worry, my friend... Hard work, anguish, and the risk of total death await us over there.”

Nightspore’s heart sank. “Have I not yet finished, then?”

Nightspore’s heart sank. “So I’m not finished yet?”

“If you wish it. You have got through. But will you wish it?”

“If you want to. You’ve made it through. But will you want to?”

The drumming grew loud and painful. The light resolved itself into a tiny oblong of mysterious brightness in a huge wall of night. Krag’s grim and rocklike features were revealed.

The drumming grew loud and painful. The light became a tiny rectangle of mysterious brightness in a vast wall of darkness. It revealed Krag’s grim, rocklike features.

“I can’t face rebirth,” said Nightspore. “The horror of death is nothing to it.”

“I can’t face being born again,” said Nightspore. “The horror of death is nothing compared to rebirth.”

“You will choose.”

“You will choose.”

“I can do nothing. Crystalman is too powerful. I barely escaped with my own soul.”

“I can’t do anything. Crystalman is too powerful. I barely escaped with my own soul.”

“You are still stupid with Earth fumes, and see nothing straight,” said Krag.

“You’re still muddled by Earth fumes and can’t see anything clearly,” said Krag.

Nightspore made no reply, but seemed to be trying to recall something. The water around them was so still, colourless, and transparent, that they scarcely seemed to be borne up by liquid matter at all. Maskull’s corpse had disappeared.

Nightspore said nothing, but seemed to be trying to remember something. The water around them was so still, colorless, and clear that it hardly seemed to support them at all. Maskull’s corpse had disappeared.

The drumming was now like the clanging of iron. The oblong patch of light grew much bigger; it burned, fierce and wild. The darkness above, below, and on either side of it, began to shape itself into the semblance of a huge, black wall, without bounds.

The drumming now sounded like clanging iron. The rectangular patch of light grew much larger, burning fiercely and wildly. The darkness above, below, and on either side of the light began to look like a huge, endless black wall.

“Is that really a wall we are coming to?”

“Are we really coming to a wall?”

“You will soon find out. What you see is Muspel, and that light is the gate you have to enter.”

“You’ll soon find out. What you see is Muspel, and that light is the gate you have to enter.”

Nightspore’s heart beat wildly.

Nightspore’s heart beat wildly.

“Shall I remember?” he muttered.

“Will I remember?” he muttered.

“Yes, you’ll remember.”

“Yes, you’ll remember.”

“Accompany me, Krag, or I shall be lost.”

“Come with me, Krag, or I'll be lost.”

“There is nothing for me to do in there. I shall wait outside for you.”

“There’s nothing for me to do in there. I’ll wait outside for you.”

“You are returning to the struggle?” demanded Nightspore, gnawing his fingertips.

“Are you going back to the struggle?” Nightspore demanded, gnawing his fingertips.

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“I dare not.”

“I don’t dare.”

The thunderous clangor of the rhythmical beats struck on his head like actual blows. The light glared so vividly that he was no longer able to look at it. It had the startling irregularity of continuous lightning, but it possessed this further peculiarity—that it seemed somehow to give out not actual light, but emotion, seen as light. They continued to approach the wall of darkness, straight toward the door. The glasslike water flowed right against it, its surface reaching up almost to the threshold.

The thunderous noise of the rhythmic beats struck his head like actual blows. The light glared so brightly that he could no longer look at it. It flashed with the startling irregularity of continuous lightning. But it had another strange quality. Somehow, it seemed to give off not actual light, but emotion visible as light. They continued toward the wall of darkness, heading straight for the door. The glasslike water flowed right against the wall, its surface reaching almost to the threshold.

They could not speak any more; the noise was too deafening.

They could no longer speak because the noise was deafening.

In a few minutes they were before the gateway. Nightspore turned his back and hid his eyes in his two hands, but even then he was blinded by the light. So passionate were his feelings that his body seemed to enlarge itself. At every frightful beat of sound, he quivered violently.

A few minutes later, they stood before the gateway. Nightspore turned away and covered his eyes with both hands, but the light still blinded him. His feelings were so intense that his body seemed to grow larger. He shook violently with every terrifying beat of sound.

The entrance was doorless. Krag jumped onto the rocky platform and pulled Nightspore after him.

The entrance had no door. Krag jumped onto the rocky platform and pulled Nightspore up after him.

Once through the gateway, the light vanished. The rhythmical sound—blows totally ceased. Nightspore dropped his hands.... All was dark and quiet as an opened tomb. But the air was filled with grim, burning passion, which was to light and sound what light itself is to opaque colour.

Once they passed through the gateway, the light vanished. The rhythmic sound of blows stopped completely. Nightspore lowered his hands.... All was dark and quiet as an open tomb. But the air was filled with a grim, burning passion. This passion was to light and sound what light itself is to opaque color.

Nightspore pressed his hand to his heart. “I don’t know if I can endure it,” he said, looking toward Krag. He felt his person far more vividly and distinctly than if he had been able to see him.

Nightspore pressed his hand to his heart. “I don’t know if I can bear it,” he said, looking toward Krag. He felt Krag’s presence far more vividly and clearly than if he had been able to see him.

“Go in, and lose no time, Nightspore.... Time here is more precious than on earth. We can’t squander the minutes. There are terrible and tragic affairs to attend to, which won’t wait for us... Go in at once. Stop for nothing.”

“Go in, Nightspore, and don’t waste any time.... Time is more precious here than on earth. We can’t waste a minute. There are terrible and tragic matters to deal with, and they won’t wait for us... Go in at once. Don’t stop for anything.”

“Where shall I go to?” muttered Nightspore. “I have forgotten everything.”

“Where should I go?” muttered Nightspore. “I've forgotten everything.”

“Enter, enter! There is only one way. You can’t mistake it.”

“Come in, come in! There is only one way. You can’t miss it.”

“Why do you bid me go in, if I am to come out again?”

“Why do you tell me to go in if I have to come out again?”

“To have your wounds healed.”

“To have your wounds healed.”

Almost before the words had left his mouth, Krag sprang back on to the island raft. Nightspore involuntarily started after him, but at once recovered himself and remained standing where he was. Krag was completely invisible; everything outside was black night.

Almost before he finished speaking, Krag jumped back onto the island raft. Nightspore started after him without thinking, but immediately stopped himself and stayed where he was. Krag was completely invisible. Everything outside was black with night.

The moment he had gone, a feeling shot up in Nightspore’s heart like a thousand trumpets.

The moment he left, a feeling surged through Nightspore’s heart like a thousand trumpets.

Straight in front of him, almost at his feet, was the lower end of a steep, narrow, circular flight of stone steps. There was no other way forward.

Right in front of him, almost at his feet, was the bottom of a steep, narrow spiral staircase made of stone. There was no other way forward.

He put his foot on the bottom stair, at the same time peering aloft. He saw nothing, yet as he proceeded upward every inch of the way was perceptible to his inner feelings. The staircase was cold, dismal, and deserted, but it seemed to him, in his exaltation of soul, like a ladder to heaven.

He put his foot on the bottom step and looked up. He saw nothing, yet as he climbed, he sensed every inch of the way. The staircase was cold, gloomy, and deserted. But in his uplifted state of mind, it seemed like a ladder to heaven.

After he had mounted a dozen steps or so, he paused to take breath. Each step was increasingly difficult to ascend; he felt as though he were carrying a heavy man on his shoulders. It struck a familiar chord in his mind. He went on and, ten stairs higher up, came to a window set in a high embrasure.

After climbing about a dozen steps, he stopped to catch his breath. Each step was harder to climb than the last. He felt as though he were carrying a heavy man on his shoulders. The feeling seemed familiar. He went on and, ten steps higher, came to a window set in a high recess.

On to this he clambered, and looked through. The window was of a sort of glass, but he could see nothing. Coming to him, however, from the world outside, a disturbance of the atmosphere struck his senses, causing his blood to run cold. At one moment it resembled a low, mocking, vulgar laugh, travelling from the ends of the earth; at the next it was like a rhythmical vibration of the air—the silent, continuous throbbing of some mighty engine. The two sensations were identical, yet different. They seemed to be related in the same manner as soul and body. After feeling them for a long time, Nightspore got down from the embrasure, and continued his ascent, having meanwhile grown very serious.

He climbed onto it and looked through the window. It was made of a kind of glass, but he could see nothing. Yet a disturbance in the air came to him from the world outside, making his blood run cold. At one moment, it sounded like a low, mocking, vulgar laugh traveling from the ends of the earth. At the next, it felt like a rhythmic vibration in the air, the silent, continuous throbbing of some mighty engine. The two sensations were identical, yet different. They seemed to be related like soul and body. After feeling them for a long time, Nightspore climbed down from the window opening and continued his ascent. By then, he had grown very serious.

The climbing became still more laborious, and he was forced to stop at every third or fourth step, to rest his muscles and regain breath. When he had mounted another twenty stairs in this way, he came to a second window. Again he saw nothing. The laughing disturbance of the air, too, had ceased; but the atmospheric throb was now twice as distinct as before, and its rhythm had become double. There were two separate pulses; one was in the time of a march, the other in the time of a waltz. The first was bitter and petrifying to feel, but the second was gay, enervating, and horrible.

The climb grew even harder. He had to stop every three or four steps to rest his muscles and catch his breath. After climbing another twenty steps this way, he came to a second window. Again, he saw nothing. The laughing disturbance in the air had also stopped. But the pulse in the air was now twice as clear as before, and its rhythm had become double. There were two separate beats. One had the rhythm of a march, the other the rhythm of a waltz. The first felt bitter and paralyzing, but the second was cheerful, weakening, and horrible.

Nightspore spent little time at that window, for he felt that he was on the eve of a great discovery, and that something far more important awaited him higher up. He proceeded aloft. The ascent grew more and more exhausting, so much so that he had frequently to sit down, utterly crushed by his own dead weight. Still, he got to the third window.

Nightspore spent little time at the window. He felt he was close to a great discovery and that something far more important awaited him higher up. He continued climbing. The climb grew more and more exhausting. He often had to sit down, utterly crushed by his own dead weight. Still, he reached the third window.

He climbed into the embrasure. His feelings translated themselves into vision, and he saw a sight that caused him to turn pale. A gigantic, self-luminous sphere was hanging in the sky, occupying nearly the whole of it. This sphere was composed entirely of two kinds of active beings. There were a myriad of tiny green corpuscles, varying in size from the very small to the almost indiscernible. They were not green, but he somehow saw them so. They were all striving in one direction—toward himself, toward Muspel, but were too feeble and miniature to make any headway. Their action produced the marching rhythm he had previously felt, but this rhythm was not intrinsic in the corpuscles themselves, but was a consequence of the obstruction they met with. And, surrounding these atoms of life and light, were far larger whirls of white light that gyrated hither and thither, carrying the green corpuscles with them wherever they desired. Their whirling motion was accompanied by the waltzing rhythm. It seemed to Nightspore that the green atoms were not only being danced about against their will but were suffering excruciating shame and degradation in consequence. The larger ones were steadier than the extremely small, a few were even almost stationary, and one was advancing in the direction it wished to go.

He climbed into the window opening. His feelings turned into a vision, and what he saw made him turn pale. A gigantic, glowing sphere hung in the sky, filling almost all of it. The sphere was made entirely of two kinds of active beings. There were countless tiny green particles, ranging from very small to almost impossible to see. They were not green, but he somehow saw them that way. They were all striving in the same direction, toward him, toward Muspel. But they were too small and weak to make any progress. Their efforts produced the marching rhythm he had felt before. But the rhythm did not come from the particles themselves. It was caused by the resistance they met. Much larger whirls of white light surrounded these atoms of life and light. The whirls spun this way and that, carrying the green particles wherever they wanted. Their spinning was accompanied by the waltzing rhythm. It seemed to Nightspore that the green atoms were being danced about against their will. They also seemed to be suffering unbearable shame and humiliation as a result. The larger green atoms were steadier than the extremely small ones. A few were almost still, and one was moving in the direction it wanted to go.

He turned his back to the window, buried his face in his hands, and searched in the dim recesses of his memory for an explanation of what he had just seen. Nothing came straight, but horror and wrath began to take possession of him.

He turned his back to the window and buried his face in his hands. He searched the depths of his memory for an explanation of what he had just seen. Nothing made sense, but horror and anger began to take hold of him.

On his way upward to the next window, invisible fingers seemed to him to be squeezing his heart and twisting it about here and there; but he never dreamed of turning back. His mood was so grim that he did not once permit himself to pause. Such was his physical distress by the time that he had clambered into the recess, that for several minutes he could see nothing at all—the world seemed to be spinning round him rapidly.

As he climbed toward the next window, invisible fingers seemed to squeeze his heart and twist it around. But he never dreamed of turning back. His mood was so grim that he did not let himself stop once. By the time he climbed into the recess, he felt so physically distressed that he could see nothing for several minutes. The world seemed to be spinning rapidly around him.

When at last he looked, he saw the same sphere as before, but now all was changed on it. It was a world of rocks, minerals, water, plants, animals, and men. He saw the whole world at one view, yet everything was so magnified that he could distinguish the smallest details of life. In the interior of every individual, of every aggregate of individuals, of every chemical atom, he clearly perceived the presence of the green corpuscles. But, according to the degree of dignity of the life form, they were fragmentary or comparatively large. In the crystal, for example, the green, imprisoned life was so minute as to be scarcely visible; in some men it was hardly bigger; but in other men and women it was twenty or a hundred times greater. But, great or small, it played an important part in every individual. It appeared as if the whirls of white light, which were the individuals, and plainly showed themselves beneath the enveloping bodies, were delighted with existence and wished only to enjoy it, but the green corpuscles were in a condition of eternal discontent, yet, blind and not knowing which way to turn for liberation, kept changing form, as though breaking a new path, by way of experiment. Whenever the old grotesque became metamorphosed into the new grotesque, it was in every case the direct work of the green atoms, trying to escape toward Muspel, but encountering immediate opposition. These subdivided sparks of living, fiery spirit were hopelessly imprisoned in a ghastly mush of soft pleasure. They were being effeminated and corrupted—that is to say, absorbed in the foul, sickly enveloping forms.

When he finally looked, he saw the same sphere as before, but everything on it had changed. It was a world of rocks, minerals, water, plants, animals, and men. He saw the whole world at once. Yet everything was so magnified that he could make out the smallest details of life. He clearly saw green corpuscles inside every individual, every group of individuals, and every chemical atom. But their size varied according to the dignity of the life form. They were either fragmentary or comparatively large. In a crystal, for example, the imprisoned green life was so tiny that it was barely visible. In some men it was hardly bigger, but in other men and women it was twenty or a hundred times greater. Whether large or small, it played an important part in every individual. The individuals appeared as whirls of white light, clearly visible beneath their surrounding bodies. They seemed delighted with existence and wanted only to enjoy it. But the green corpuscles were eternally discontented. Blind and unaware of which way to turn for freedom, they kept changing form. They seemed to be experimenting, trying to break a new path. Whenever the old grotesque form changed into a new one, the green atoms were directly responsible. They were trying to escape toward Muspel, but met immediate resistance. These divided sparks of living, fiery spirit were hopelessly imprisoned in a ghastly mush of soft pleasure. They were being made feminine and corrupted. In other words, they were being absorbed into the foul, sickly forms surrounding them.

Nightspore felt a sickening shame in his soul as he looked on at that spectacle. His exaltation had long since vanished. He bit his nails, and understood why Krag was waiting for him below.

Nightspore felt a sickening shame in his soul as he watched the scene. His joy had long since faded. He bit his nails and understood why Krag was waiting for him below.

He mounted slowly to the fifth window. The pressure of air against him was as strong as a full gale, divested of violence and irregularity, so that he was not for an instant suffered to relax his efforts. Nevertheless, not a breath stirred.

He climbed slowly to the fifth window. The air pressed against him as strongly as a gale, but without its violence or irregularity. So he could not relax his efforts for an instant. Yet not a breath of air stirred.

Looking through the window, he was startled by a new sight. The sphere was still there, but between it and the Muspel-world in which he was standing he perceived a dim, vast shadow, without any distinguishable shape, but somehow throwing out a scent of disgusting sweetness. Nightspore knew that it was Crystalman. A flood of fierce light—but it was not light, but passion—was streaming all the time from Muspel to the Shadow, and through it. When, however, it emerged on the other side, which was the sphere, the light was altered in character. It became split, as by a prism, into the two forms of life which he had previously seen—the green corpuscles and the whirls. What had been fiery spirit but a moment ago was now a disgusting mass of crawling, wriggling individuals, each whirl of pleasure-seeking will having, as nucleus, a fragmentary spark of living green fire. Nightspore recollected the back rays of Starkness, and it flashed across him with the certainty of truth that the green sparks were the back rays, and the whirls the forward rays, of Muspel. The former were trying desperately to return to their place of origin, but were overpowered by the brute force of the latter, which wished only to remain where they were. The individual whirls were jostling and fighting with, and even devouring, each other. This created pain, but, whatever pain they felt, it was always pleasure that they sought. Sometimes the green sparks were strong enough for a moment to move a little way in the direction of Muspel; the whirls would then accept the movement, not only without demur, but with pride and pleasure, as if it were their own handiwork—but they never saw beyond the Shadow, they thought that they were travelling toward it. The instant the direct movement wearied them, as contrary to their whirling nature, they fell again to killing, dancing, and loving.

Looking through the window, he was startled by a new sight. The sphere was still there. But between it and the Muspel-world where he stood, he saw a vast, dim shadow with no distinct shape. Somehow, it gave off a disgustingly sweet scent. Nightspore knew it was Crystalman. A flood of fierce light streamed constantly from Muspel to the Shadow and through it. But it was not light. It was passion. When it emerged on the other side, in the sphere, its character had changed. It split, as if through a prism, into the two forms of life he had seen before: the green corpuscles and the whirls. What had been fiery spirit a moment before was now a disgusting mass of crawling, wriggling individuals. Each whirl of pleasure-seeking will had a fragmentary spark of living green fire at its center. Nightspore remembered the back rays of Starkness. It suddenly struck him, with the certainty of truth, that the green sparks were the back rays of Muspel. The whirls were its forward rays. The sparks were trying desperately to return to their place of origin. But the brute force of the whirls overpowered them. The whirls wanted only to stay where they were. The individual whirls jostled, fought, and even devoured one another. This caused pain, but whatever pain they felt, they always sought pleasure. Sometimes the green sparks were strong enough to move a little way toward Muspel for a moment. The whirls would then accept the movement, not just without objection, but with pride and pleasure, as if they had made it themselves. But they never saw beyond the Shadow. They thought they were traveling toward it. The moment the direct movement tired them, because it went against their whirling nature, they went back to killing, dancing, and loving.

Nightspore had a foreknowledge that the sixth window would prove to be the last. Nothing would have kept him from ascending to it, for he guessed that the nature of Crystalman himself would there become manifest. Every step upward was like a bloody life-and-death struggle. The stairs nailed him to the ground; the air pressure caused blood to gush from his nose and ears; his head clanged like an iron bell. When he had fought his way up a dozen steps, he found himself suddenly at the top; the staircase terminated in a small, bare chamber of cold stone, possessing a single window. On the other side of the apartment another short flight of stairs mounted through a trap, apparently to the roof of the building. Before ascending these stairs, Nightspore hastened to the window and stared out.

Nightspore knew in advance that the sixth window would be the last. Nothing could have stopped him from climbing to it. He guessed that there he would see Crystalman's true nature. Every step upward was like a bloody struggle for life. The stairs held him to the ground. The air pressure made blood gush from his nose and ears. His head rang like an iron bell. After fighting his way up a dozen steps, he suddenly found himself at the top. The staircase ended in a small, bare chamber of cold stone, with a single window. Across the chamber, another short flight of stairs led through a trapdoor, apparently to the roof. Before climbing those stairs, Nightspore hurried to the window and stared out.

The shadow form of Crystalman had drawn much closer to him, and filled the whole sky, but it was not a shadow of darkness, but a bright shadow. It had neither shape, nor colour, yet it in some way suggested the delicate tints of early morning. It was so nebulous that the sphere could be clearly distinguished through it; in extension, however, it was thick. The sweet smell emanating from it was strong, loathsome, and terrible; it seemed to spring from a sort of loose, mocking slime inexpressibly vulgar and ignorant.

Crystalman's shadowy form had drawn much closer to him and filled the whole sky. But it was not a dark shadow. It was bright. It had no shape or color, yet somehow it suggested the delicate colors of early morning. It was so hazy that he could clearly see the sphere through it. Yet the shadow was thick. Its sweet smell was strong, sickening, and terrible. The smell seemed to come from a kind of loose, mocking slime, unspeakably vulgar and ignorant.

The spirit stream from Muspel flashed with complexity and variety. It was not below individuality, but above it. It was not the One, or the Many, but something else far beyond either. It approached Crystalman, and entered his body—if that bright mist could be called a body. It passed right through him, and the passage caused him the most exquisite pleasure. The Muspel-stream was Crystalman’s food. The stream emerged from the other side on to the sphere, in a double condition. Part of it reappeared intrinsically unaltered, but shivered into a million fragments. These were the green corpuscles. In passing through Crystalman they had escaped absorption by reason of their extreme minuteness. The other part of the stream had not escaped. Its fire had been abstracted, its cement was withdrawn, and, after being fouled and softened by the horrible sweetness of the host, it broke into individuals, which were the whirls of living will.

The spirit stream from Muspel flashed with complexity and variety. It was not below individuality, but above it. It was neither the One nor the Many, but something else far beyond either. It approached Crystalman and entered his body, if that bright mist could be called a body. The stream passed right through him, giving him the most exquisite pleasure. The Muspel-stream was Crystalman’s food. The stream emerged from his other side onto the sphere in two different states. Part of it emerged unchanged in substance, but shattered into a million fragments. These were the green corpuscles. They had passed through Crystalman without being absorbed because they were so tiny. The other part of the stream had not escaped. Its fire had been taken away, and the substance that held it together had been removed. The horrible sweetness of its host had fouled and softened it. It then broke into individuals, which were the whirls of living will.

Nightspore shuddered. He comprehended at last how the whole world of will was doomed to eternal anguish in order that one Being might feel joy.

Nightspore shuddered. At last, he understood that the whole world of will was doomed to eternal suffering so that one Being could feel joy.

Presently he set foot on the final flight leading to the roof; for he remembered vaguely that now only that remained.

Soon he stepped onto the final flight of stairs leading to the roof. He vaguely remembered that only those stairs remained.

Halfway up, he fainted—but when he recovered consciousness he persisted as though nothing had happened to him. As soon as his head was above the trap, breathing the free air, he had the same physical sensation as a man stepping out of water. He pulled his body up, and stood expectantly on the stone-floored roof, looking round for his first glimpse of Muspel.

Halfway up, he fainted. But when he came to, he kept going as though nothing had happened. As soon as his head was above the trap, he breathed the open air. He felt like a man stepping out of water. He pulled himself up and stood expectantly on the stone floor of the roof. He looked around for his first glimpse of Muspel.

There was nothing.

There was nothing.

He was standing upon the top of a tower, measuring not above fifteen feet each way. Darkness was all around him. He sat down on the stone parapet, with a sinking heart; a heavy foreboding possessed him.

He stood on top of a tower no more than fifteen feet across in either direction. Darkness surrounded him. He sat down on the stone parapet, his heart sinking. He was overcome by a heavy sense of dread.

Suddenly, without seeing or hearing anything, he had the distinct impression that the darkness around him, on all four sides, was grinning.... As soon as that happened, he understood that he was wholly surrounded by Crystalman’s world, and that Muspel consisted of himself and the stone tower on which he was sitting.

Suddenly, though he saw and heard nothing, he felt sure the darkness was grinning at him from all four sides.... At once, he understood that Crystalman’s world surrounded him completely. Muspel consisted only of himself and the stone tower he was sitting on.

Fire flashed in his heart.... Millions upon millions of grotesque, vulgar, ridiculous, sweetened individuals—once Spirit—were calling out from their degradation and agony for salvation from Muspel.... To answer that cry there was only himself... and Krag waiting below... and Surtur—But where was Surtur?

Fire flashed in his heart.... Millions upon millions of grotesque, vulgar, ridiculous, sweetened individuals, once Spirit, cried out from their degradation and agony. They cried for salvation from Muspel.... Only he could answer that cry... and Krag waiting below... and Surtur. But where was Surtur?

The truth forced itself on him in all its cold, brutal reality. Muspel was no all-powerful Universe, tolerating from pure indifference the existence side by side with it of another false world, which had no right to be. Muspel was fighting for its life—against all that is most shameful and frightful—against sin masquerading as eternal beauty, against baseness masquerading as Nature, against the Devil masquerading as God....

The truth hit him in all its cold, brutal reality. Muspel was not an all-powerful Universe that allowed a false world to exist beside it out of sheer indifference. That false world had no right to exist. Muspel was fighting for its life against all that was most shameful and terrifying: sin disguised as eternal beauty, baseness disguised as Nature, and the Devil disguised as God....

Now he understood everything. The moral combat was no mock one, no Valhalla, where warriors are cut to pieces by day and feast by night; but a grim death struggle in which what is worse than death—namely, spiritual death—inevitably awaited the vanquished of Muspel.... By what means could he hold back from this horrible war!

Now he understood everything. The moral struggle was no mock battle, no Valhalla, where warriors are cut to pieces by day and feast by night. It was a grim fight to the death. Those defeated in Muspel faced something worse than death: spiritual death.... How could he hold back from this horrible war!

During those moments of anguish, all thoughts of Self—the corruption of his life on Earth—were scorched out of Nightspore’s soul, perhaps not for the first time.

During those moments of anguish, all thoughts of Self were burned out of Nightspore’s soul. Those thoughts had corrupted his life on Earth. Perhaps this was not the first time they had been burned away.

After sitting a long time, he prepared to descend. Without warning, a strange, wailing cry swept over the face of the world. Starting in awful mystery, it ended with such a note of low and sordid mockery that he could not doubt for a moment whence it originated. It was the voice of Crystalman.

After sitting for a long time, he prepared to climb down. Without warning, a strange, wailing cry swept across the world. It began with a terrifying mystery, then ended on a note of low, ugly mockery. He could not doubt for a moment where it came from. It was the voice of Crystalman.

Krag was waiting for him on the island raft. He threw a stern glance at Nightspore.

Krag was waiting for him on the island raft. He gave Nightspore a stern look.

“Have you seen everything?”

“Have you seen everything?”

“The struggle is hopeless,” muttered Nightspore.

“The struggle is hopeless,” muttered Nightspore.

“Did I not say I am the stronger?”

“Didn't I say I was stronger?”

“You may be the stronger, but he is the mightier.”

“You may be stronger, but he is more powerful.”

“I am the stronger and the mightier. Crystalman’s Empire is but a shadow on the face of Muspel. But nothing will be done without the bloodiest blows.... What do you mean to do?”

“I am stronger and mightier. Crystalman’s Empire is only a shadow on the face of Muspel. But nothing will be accomplished without the bloodiest blows.... What do you intend to do?”

Nightspore looked at him strangely. “Are you not Surtur, Krag?”

Nightspore gave him a strange look. “Aren't you Surtur, Krag?”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“Yes,” said Nightspore in a slow voice, without surprise. “But what is your name on Earth?”

“Yes,” said Nightspore slowly, without surprise. “But what is your name on Earth?”

“It is pain.”

“It is pain.”

“That, too, I must have known.”

“I must have known that too.”

He was silent for a few minutes; then he stepped quietly onto the raft. Krag pushed off, and they proceeded into the darkness.

He was silent for a few minutes. Then he stepped quietly onto the raft. Krag pushed off, and they moved into the darkness.