Ostrog answered from the other side of the room, and the picture on the
oval disc paled and vanished as the light jerked back again. "There are
kineto-telephoto-graphs," he said. "As you bow to the people here--all
over the world myriads of myriads of people, packed and still in darkened
halls, will see you also. In black and white, of course--not like this.
And you will hear their shouts reinforcing the shouting in the hall.

"And there is an optical contrivance we shall use," said Ostrog, "used by
some of the posturers and women dancers. It may be novel to you. You
stand in a very bright light, and they see not you but a magnified image
of you thrown on a screen--so that even the furtherest man in the
remotest gallery can, if he chooses, count your eyelashes."

Graham clutched desperately at one of the questions in his mind. "What is
the population of London?" he said.

"Eight and twaindy myriads."

"Eight and what?"

"More than thirty-three millions."

These figures went beyond Graham's imagination.

"You will be expected to say something," said Ostrog. "Not what you used
to call a Speech, but what our people call a word--just one sentence, six
or seven words. Something formal. If I might suggest--'I have awakened
and my heart is with you.' That is the sort of thing they want."

"What was that?" asked Graham.