alms of
hands, the dared contacts of the dark.

Oh, truly, I have often, since this voyage began, told the books to go
hang. And yet the books are at the back of the race-life of me. I am
what I am out of ten thousand generations of my kind. Of that there is
no discussion. And yet my midnight philosophy stands the test of my
breed. I must have selected my books out of the ten thousand generations
that compose me. I have killed a man--Steve Roberts. As a perishing
blond without an alphabet I should have done this unwaveringly. As a
perishing blond with an alphabet, plus the contents in my brain of the
philosophizing of all philosophers, I have killed this same man with the
same unwaveringness. Culture has not emasculated me. I am quite
unaffected. It was in the day's work, and my kind have always been day-
workers, doing the day's work, whatever it might be, in high adventure or
dull ploddingness, and always doing it.

Never would I ask to set back the dial of time or event. I would kill
Steve Roberts again, under the same circumstances, as a matter of course.
When I say I am unaffected by this happening I do not quite mean it. I
am affected. I am aware that the spirit of me is informed with a sober
elation of efficiency. I have done something that had to be done, as any
man will do what has to be done in the course of the day's work.

Yes, I am a perishing blond, and a man, and I sit in the high place and
bend the stupid ones to my will; and I am a lover, loving a royal woman
of my own perishing breed, and together we occupy, and shall occupy, the
high place of government and command until our kind perish from the
earth.

CHAPTER XLVII

Margaret was right. The mutiny is not violating standards and
precedents. We have had our hands full for days and nights. Ditman
Olansen, the crank-eyed Berserker, has been killed by Wada, and the
training-ship boy, the one lone cadet of our breed, has gone overside
with the regulation sack of coal at his feet. The poop has been rushed.
My illuminating invention has proved a success. The men are getting
hungry, and we still sit in command in the high place.

First of all the attack on the poop, two nights ago, in Margaret's watch.
No; first, I have made another invention. Assisted by the old steward,
who knows, as a Chinese ought, a deal about fireworks, and getting my
materials from our signal rockets and Roman candles, I manufactured half
a dozen bom