It was already dark; but the entire deck of the dredge and the faces of those present were glowing with a tender light. The splash of oars was heard below the dredge, then the boat stopped alongside. “Hi, there!” cried a man’s voice. “Is Mr. Kuzenda there?”
“Yes, he is here,” answered Kuzenda in the voice of an angel. “Come right up, brethren of the police. I know that the innkeeper of Stechovice has laid information against me.”
Two policemen mounted to the deck. “Which of you is Kuzenda?” asked the sergeant.
“I am, sir,” said Kuzenda, rising higher in the air. “Kindly come up here to me, sergeant.” And forthwith both police officers rose into the air and floated upwards towards Kuzenda. Their feet groped desperately for some support, their hands clutched wildly at the yielding air, and one could hear their quick and frightened breathing.
“Don’t be afraid, officers,” said Kuzenda beatifically, “and say after me this prayer: O God, our Father, who art incarnate in this vessel …”
“O God, our Father, who art incarnate in this vessel,” repeated the sergeant in a choking voice.
“O God, our Father, who art incarnate in this vessel,” Mr. Hudec began in a loud voice, and he fell on his knees, and on the deck a chorus of voices mingled with his own.
IX
The Ceremony
Cyril Keval, district reporter on the staff of the Prague People’s Journal, hurried into evening-dress for the occasion and dashed off to Stvanice just after six o’clock in the evening, to write up the ceremonial opening of the new Central Karburator Electric Power Station for Greater Prague. He shouldered his way through the curious crowds that overflowed the whole Petrov quarter, penetrated the three ranks of police, and reached a small concrete structure decorated with flags. From inside the little building could be heard the objurgations of the workmen, who were, of course, behind time with the erecting of the machine, and were now trying to catch up. The whole Central Power Station was an insignificant affair, no bigger than a public convenience. Old Cvancara of the Venkov was walking pensively up and down in front of it, looking somewhat like a meditative heron.
“Well, my friend,” he said quietly to the young journalist, “it’s safe to bet on something happening today. I’ve never yet seen a function where there wasn’t some silly incident or other. And I’ve been at it now, young fellow, for forty years.”
“But it is amazing, isn’t it, sir?” Keval returned. “Fancy this little building lighting the whole city of Prague and driving the trams and trains for sixty kilometres round, besides supplying power for thousands of factories and—and—”
Mr. Cvancara shook his head sceptically. “We’ll see, my young friend, we’ll see. Nothing nowadays can surprise any of us of the old guard, but”—and here Cvancara lowered his voice to a whisper—“well, just look round and you’ll see that they haven’t even got a reserve Karburator handy. Suppose this one broke down, or even, say, went up in the air, what then—do you see what I mean?”
Keval was annoyed at not having thought of this himself, so he dissented. “That’s out of the question, sir,” he began. “I have reliable information. This power station here is only for show. The real Central Station is somewhere else; it’s … it’s …” he whispered, and pointed with his finger, “right down underground, I mustn’t say where. Haven’t you noticed, sir, that they are continually repairing the streets in Prague?”
“They’ve been doing it these forty years,” said Mr. Cvancara gloomily.
“Well, there you have it,” Keval lied triumphantly. “Military reasons, you know. A huge system of underground passages, storehouses, powder-magazines, and so on. My information is quite trustworthy. They’ve got sixteen underground Karburator fortresses right round Prague. On the surface there’s not a trace of it, only football fields, a mineral-water stand, or a patriotic monument. Ha, ha! Do you see now? That’s why they’re putting up all these memorials.”
“Young man,” observed Mr. Cvancara, “what does the present generation know of war? We could tell them something. Aha, here comes the Burgomaster.”
“And the new Minister for War. You see, I told you so. The Director of the Technical Institute. The Chairman of the M.E.C. The Chief Rabbi.”
“The French Ambassador, the Minister of Public Works. I say, my friend, we’d better see about getting inside. The Archbishop, the Italian Ambassador, the President of the Senate, the Chief of the Sokol organization; you’ll find that there’s somebody they’ve left out.”
Just then Mr. Cyril Keval gave up his place to a lady, and so was separated from the doyen of the journalists and lost his place near the entrance through which the endless stream of the personages invited was pouring. Then the strains of the national anthem were heard, and the orders to the guard of honour rang out, proclaiming the arrival of the Chief of State. Accompanied by a retinue of gentlemen in top-hats and uniforms, the President advanced along the crimson carpet towards the little concrete structure. Mr. Keval stood on tiptoe, confounding himself and his politeness.
“I’ll never get in now,” he said to himself. “Cvancara is right,” he went on ruminating. “They always do something silly. Fancy putting up that little hut for an imposing ceremony like this. Ah well, the Czechoslovak Press Bureau will supply the speeches, and one can soon work up the trimmings—deep impressiveness of the occasion, magnificent progress, enthusiastic reception for the President—”
A sudden hush within the building made itself felt outside, and someone began to reel off the official address. Mr. Keval yawned and sauntered round the little building with his hands in his pockets. It was getting dark. The guards were in full-dress uniform with white gloves and rubber truncheons. Crowds of people were standing
