“What?”
“Krakatit,” breathed Prokop.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. I shan’t say. No one must go there. Or … Or. …”
“What?”
“Ffft, bang!” said Prokop, and threw his hand up in the air.
“What’s that?”
“Krakatoe. Kra‑ka‑tau. A volcano, see? It … tore off my finger. I don’t know what. …” He stopped and added slowly: “A frightful thing, you know.”
Thomas watched him carefully as if he were waiting for something. “And so,” he began after a moment, “you’re still on explosives?”
“Yes, always have been.”
“With success?”
Prokop gave a queer kind of laugh. “You’d like to know, eh? No, my friend, it won’t do that way … not that way,” he repeated, swaying his head in a drunken manner. “My friend, by itself—by itself—it. …”
“What?”
“Kra‑ka‑tit. Krakatit. Krrakatitt. And by itself—I only left a little powder on the table, see? All the rest I col—collected in a snuffbox. There was only a l‑l—little powder left on the table, and suddenly. …”
“It exploded.”
“Exploded. Only a trace, only the powder that I had dropped. It was hardly visible. Then the electric light globe—a kilometre away. It wasn’t that. And I—in the armchair, like a bit of wood. Tired, you know. Too much work. And suddenly … crash! I was thrown on to the floor. The window was blown out, and the globe wasn’t there. A detonation like—the explosion of a lyddite cartridge. Terrible energy. I … I thought at first that it was the por‑porcel‑por‑ce‑lain, polcelain, porcelene … the white insulator, you know, that had exploded. Aluminium silicate.”
“Porcelain.”
“Snuffbox. I thought it had exploded. So I strike a match and there it is unharmed, unharmed, unharmed. And I stay there like a post … until the match burns my fingers. And then—across country—in the dark to Brevnov or Stresovic—and somewhere on the way the word Krakatoe, Krakatit came into my head. Kra‑ka‑tit. No, no, it wasn’t li—like that. When it went up, I fell on the floor and shouted out Krakatit. Krakatit. Then I forgot it. Who’s that there? Who—who are you?”
“Thomas.”
“Thomas, aha! That lousy fellow! We used to lend one another our notes. He never gave me back a chemistry notebook. Thomas, what was his first name?”
“George.”
“I know now, George. You’re George, I know. George Thomas. Where’s my notebook? Wait a moment and I’ll tell you something. If the rest goes up there’ll be trouble. Man, it’ll flatten out the whole of Prague. Wipe it away. Blow it off the earth—f‑t! When that por‑ce‑lain box explodes, see?”
“What box?”
“You are George Thomas, I know. Go to Karlin or to Vysocany and watch it explode. Run, run!”
“Why?”
“I made a hundredweight of it. A hundredweight of Krakatit. No, about three ounces. Up there, in that porcelain box. When it explodes, man—but wait a minute, that’s impossible. It’s senseless,” mumbled Prokop, clutching his head.
“Well?”
“Why—why—why didn’t it explode also in the box? If the powder exploded by itself—wait a moment, on the table there’s a sheet of zinc—why did it explode on the table? Wa‑it, be quiet, be quiet,” said Prokop. His teeth chattered, and he rose up unsteadily.
“What’s up with you?”
“Krakatit,” muttered Prokop. He made a twisting movement with his whole body and fell on the ground unconscious.
II
The first thing of which Prokop was conscious was that everything in him was being shaken and rattled and that someone was holding him firmly round the waist. He had a terrible fear of opening his eyes; he had an idea that everything would collapse on top of him. And when this didn’t happen he opened them and saw in front of him a vague square about which were moving misty balls and strips of light. He was unable to explain it; confusedly he watched the phantom shapes as they jumped about and slid away, having patiently resigned himself to anything which might be in store for him. Then he realized that the rattling was that of the wheels of a cab and that outside lights were slipping past in the fog. Exhausted by this act of observation he again closed his eyes and allowed himself to be carried away.
“Now lie down,” said a quiet voice above his head; “swallow an aspirin and you’ll be better. In the morning I’ll fetch a doctor, yes?”
“Who’s that?” asked Prokop sleepily.
“Thomas. You’re lying down at my place, Prokop. You’ve a fever. Where does it hurt you?”
“Everywhere. I feel giddy. So, you see. …”
“Just lie quiet. I’ll boil you some tea and you’ll go off to sleep. It’s the result of excitement, see? A sort of nervous fever. It’ll be gone before morning.”
Prokop knitted his brows in the effort to remember. “I know,” he said carefully, after a moment. “Listen, someone must throw that box into the river. So that it won’t explode.”
“Don’t worry. Now stop talking.”
“Perhaps I could sit up. Aren’t I heavy?”
“No, lie down.”
“—and you’ve got my chemistry notebook,” Prokop remembered suddenly.
“Yes, you’ll get it back. But now stay quiet, do you hear?”
“My head’s so heavy.”
Meanwhile the cab was rattling up Jecna Street. Thomas was softly whistling a tune and looking out of the window. Prokop was breathing heavily and moaning quietly. The fog made the pavements damp and insinuated itself under one’s coat with its cold, wet slime. It was late and the streets were deserted.
“Here we are,” said Thomas loudly. The cab bumped more noisily over a square and turned off to the right. “Wait, Prokop, can you manage a couple of steps? I’ll help you.”
With an effort Thomas dragged his guest up to the second floor. Prokop seemed to himself to be without weight, and allowed himself to be quickly wafted up the stairs; but Thomas was breathing heavily and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“See, I’m like a thread,” said Prokop, surprised.
“Well,” said Thomas, panting, and opened the door of his flat.
Prokop felt like a little child while Thomas was undressing him. “My mother,” he began, “when my mother, ever so long ago … father sat at the table, and mother carried me to bed, see?”
Then he was in bed, covered up to the chin, his teeth chattering and
