“You’re a rogue, Thomas,” he exclaimed seriously, “always having women.”
Thomas turned round. “Well?”
“Nothing. What exactly are you doing just now?”
Thomas waved his hand. “It’s bad, my friend. No money.”
“You womanize.”
Thomas only shook his head.
“And it’s a pity, you know,” began Prokop, with concern. “You could have—look, I’ve been at it for twelve years.”
“And what have you got out of it?” retorted Thomas sharply.
“Well, something here and there. I sold some explosive dextrine this year.”
“For how much?”
“For ten thousand. But that’s nothing. Rubbish. Only an explosive for mines. But if I had wished to. …”
“Do you feel better now?”
“Fine. I’ve found out some methods for you! Nitrate of cerium, there’s an excitable monster for you, man; and chloride, chloride, tetrachloride of nitrogen, that’s exploded by light. You turn on the light, and bang! But that’s nothing. Listen,” he exclaimed, suddenly sticking his thin, terribly mutilated hand out of the bedclothes, “when I take anything in my hand, so … I feel the vibration of the atoms. Just like ants. Each kind of substance creeps differently, see?”
“No.”
“That’s power, see? Power in matter. Matter is terribly powerful. I … I feel it moving. It holds together … with an enormous effort. Once you loosen it inside, it disintegrates. Bang! Everything is an explosive. Every thought is a sort of explosion inside the head. When you give me your hand I feel as if something is exploding inside you. I’ve an extraordinary touch, man. And hearing. Everything is bubbling like effervescent powder. Tiny explosions again. There’s a noise going on in my head. … Ratata, like a machine gun.”
“Yes?” said Thomas. “And now swallow this aspirin.”
“Yes. Ex—explosive aspirin. Perchlorated acetylsalicacid. That’s nothing. Man, I’ve discovered an exothermic explosive. Water. Water is an explosive. Every material is really an explosive. The feathers in a feather bed are explosives. At present, you see, this has only a theoretical significance. And I’ve discovered atomic explosions. I—I—I—I’ve made alpha explosions. It disintegrates into plus electrons. No thermochemistry. Des‑truc‑tion. Destructive chemistry, man. That’s a tremendous thing, Thomas, purely scientific. At home I’ve got tables. … If only I had apparatus! But I’ve only eyes … and hands. … Wait, let me write it down!”
“Don’t you want to sleep?”
“I do. Today—I’m—tired. And what have you been doing all this time?”
“Nothing. Life.”
“Life is an explosive, see? Bang, and a man is born and then, bang, he falls to pieces. And we think it lasts some years, see? Wait a moment, I’ve got something mixed, haven’t I?”
“It’s all right, Prokop. Tomorrow, perhaps, we’ll make an explosion. That is, if I haven’t any money. But it’s all the same, just go to sleep.”
“I’ll lend it you if you like.”
“No, thanks, it wouldn’t be enough. Perhaps my father—” Thomas waved his arm.
“So you’ve still got a father,” said Prokop after a moment with sudden gentleness.
“Well, yes. A doctor in Tynice.” Thomas stood up and began to walk up and down the room. “I’m up against it. But don’t worry about me. I—I’ll do something. Sleep!”
Prokop quieted down. Through his half-closed eyes he watched Thomas sit down at the table and rummage among some papers. It was somehow delicious to listen to the rustling of paper and the quiet noise of the fire in the stove. The man bent forward over the table, supported his head with his hand and, it seemed, was hardly breathing; and to Prokop it was as if he was at home and looking at his elder brother, Joseph, studying electrical engineering in preparation for the examination the next day. He fell into a feverish sleep.
III
He dreamed that he heard a noise made by innumerable wheels. “It’s some factory or other,” he thought and ran up the steps. All at once he found himself standing in front of a large door, on which was a glass plate with the name: Plinius. Inordinately delighted, he went in. “Is Mr. Plinius in?” he asked of a girl sitting at a typewriter. “He’ll be here in a moment,” she answered and directly afterwards there appeared a tall, clean-shaven man with enormous circular spectacles. “What can I do for you?” he asked.
Prokop glanced inquiringly at his extraordinarily expressive face. His mouth was of the British variety, his forehead was covered with lines and had a wart the size of a sixpence, his chin was that of a cinema artist. “Are y—you Mr. Plinius?”
“Please,” said the tall man, and with an abrupt gesture indicated the way to his study.
“I am extremely … it’s a great honour for me,” stammered Prokop, taking a seat.
“What is it you want?” the tall man interrupted him.
“I’ve disintegrated matter,” announced Prokop. Plinius remained silent; he only played with a steel key and, behind his spectacles, closed his heavy lids.
“It’s like this,” began Prokop impetuously. “E‑e‑everything is disintegrating, you understand? Matter is fragile. But I can make it disintegrate all at once, bang! An explosion, if you comprehend me? Into smithereens. Into molecules. Into atoms. And I’ve also broken up atoms.”
“A pity,” said Plinius, after consideration.
“Why a pity?”
“It’s a pity to break anything. Even an atom. Well, go on.”
“I … break up the atom. I am aware that Rutherford has already. … But that was only donkey work with radiation, you know. That’s nothing. The thing must be done en masse. If I were asked to I could explode a ton of bismuth in that way. It would blow up the whole world. Would you like me to?”
“Why would you do it?”
“It’s … scientifically interesting,” said Prokop, confused. “Wait, how shall I. … It’s amazingly interesting.” He clutched his head. “One moment, my he‑head’s splitting; it will be scientifically enormously interesting, eh? Aha!” he burst out, relieved, “now I can explain. Dynamite—dynamite smashes up matter into pieces, lumps, but benzoltrioxozonid reduces it
