"But what is reality?" askedthe gnomelike man. He gestured at the tall banks of buildingsthat loomed around Central Park, with their countless windowsglowing like the cave fires of a city of Cro-Magnon people."All is dream, all is illusion; I am your vision as you are mine."
Dan Burke, struggling for clarity of thought through thefumes of liquor, stared without comprehension at the tiny figureof his companion. He began to regret the impulse that haddriven him to leave the party to seek fresh air in the park, andto fall by chance into the company of this diminutive old madman.But he had needed escape; this was one party too many,and not even the presence of Claire with her trim ankles couldhold him there. He felt an angry desire to go home—not tohis hotel, but home to Chicago and to the comparative peace ofthe Board of Trade. But he was leaving tomorrow anyway.
"You drink," said the elfin, bearded face, "to make real adream. Is it not so? Either to dream that what you seek isyours, or else to dream that what you hate is conquered. Youdrink to escape reality, and the irony is that even reality is adream."
"Cracked!" thought Dan again.
"Or so," concluded the other, "says the philosopherBerkeley."
"Berkeley?" echoed Dan. His head was clearing; memoriesof a Sophomore course in Elementary Philosophy drifted back."Bishop Berkeley, eh?"
"You know him, then? The philosopher of Idealism—no?—theone who argues that we do not see, feel, hear, taste theobject, but that we have only the sensation of seeing, feeling,hearing, tasting."
"I—sort of recall it."
"Hah! But sensations are mental phenomena. They existin our minds. How, then, do we know that the objects themselvesdo not exist only in our minds?" He waved again at thelight-flecked buildings. "You do not see that wall of masonry;you perceive only a sensation, a feeling of sight. The rest youinterpret."
"You see the same thing," retorted Dan.
"How do you know I do? Even if you knew that what Icall red would not be green could you see through my eyes—evenif you knew that, how do you know that I too am not adream of yours?"
Dan laughed. "Of course nobody knows anything. Youjust get what information you can through the windows of yourfive senses, and then make your guesses. When they're wrong,you pay the penalty." His mind was clear now save for a mildheadache. "Listen," he said suddenly. "You can argue areality away to an illusion; that's easy. But if your friendBerkeley is right, why can't you take a dream and make it real?If it works one way, it must work the other."
The beard waggled; elf-bright eyes glittered queerly at him."All artists do that," said the old man softly. Dan felt thatsomething more quivered on the verge of utterance.
"That's an evasion," he grunted. "Anybody can tell thedifference between a picture and the real thing, or between amovie and life."
"But," whispered the other, "the realer the better, no? Andif one could make a—a movie—very real indeed, what wouldyou say then?"
"Nobody can, though."
The eyes glittered strangely again. "I can!" he whispered."I did!"
"Did what?"
"Made real a dream." The voice turned angry. "Fools! Ibring it here to sell to Westman, the camera people, and whatdo they say? 'It isn't clear. Only one person can use it at atime. It's too expensive.' Fools! Fools!"
"Huh?"
"Listen! I'