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Record Nineteen

The Infinitesimal of the Third Order
From Under the Forehead
Over the Railing

There in the strange corridor lighted by the dotted line of dim little electric lamps . . . or no, no, later, when we had already reached one of the nooks in the courtyard of the Ancient House, she had said, “Day after tomorrow.” That “day after tomorrow” is today. And everything seems to have wings and to fly; the day flies; and our Integral, too, already has wings. We finished placing the motor and tried it out today, without switching it in. What magnificent, powerful salvos! To me each of them sounded like a salute in honor of her, the only one—in honor of today!

At the time of the first explosion about a dozen loafing Numbers from the docks stood near the main tube—and nothing was left of them save a few crumbs and a little soot. With pride I now write that this occurrence did not disturb the rhythm of our work for even a second. Not a man shrank. We and our lathes continued our rectilinear or curved motions with the same sparkling and polished precision as before, as if nothing had happened. As a matter of fact, what did happen? A dozen Numbers represent scarcely one hundred millionth part of the United State. For practical consideration, that is but an infinitesimal of the third order. Pity, a result of arithmetical ignorance, was known to the ancients; to us it seems absurd.