“That’s clear,” said Prokop feverishly. “Krakatit mustn’t be given up. And Thomas—Thomas must be stopped. …”
“Mr. Thomas,” said Carson rapidly, “would sell Krakatit to the Devil himself if he paid him for it. At the present moment Mr. Thomas is one of the most dangerous people in the world.”
“My God,” muttered Prokop desperately, “what are we to do now?”
Mr. Carson waited for some time. “It’s clear,” he said finally. “Krakatit must be given up.”
“N‑n‑no! Never!”
“Given up. Simply because it’s a … decipher-ink key. It’s the very moment to do so, my dear sir. For goodness sake give it to anybody you like, only don’t make all this fuss about it. Give it to the Swiss or to the League of Aged Virgins or to the Devil’s grandmother; it will take them six months to realize that you are not insane. Or give it to us. We’ve already set up a receiving apparatus at Balttin. Just consider … infinitely rapid explosions of microscopic fragments of Krakatit. Ignited by an unknown current. Directly they turn on the switch somewhere the whole business starts off: t‑r‑r‑r ta ta t‑r‑r‑r t‑r‑r‑r ta t‑r‑r‑r ta ta. And there you are. Decipher it and you have the message. If only one had Krakatit!”
“I won’t give it up,” Prokop replied, covered with a cold sweat. “I don’t believe you. You would … make Krakatit for yourself.”
Mr. Carson only pulled down the corner of his mouth. “Well,” he said, “it’s only a question of … we’ll call a Conference. The League of Nations, The World Postal Union, The Eucharistic Congress or anything you like. For the sake of being in peace. I’m a Dane and have no use for politics. So. And you can give Krakatit to an International Commission. What’s the matter?”
“I—I’ve been ill for a long time,” Prokop excused himself, deathly pale. “I don’t feel quite well … and … I haven’t eaten for two days.”
“Weakness,” said Mr. Carson, sitting down next to him and putting his arm round his neck. “It’ll soon pass. You must go to Balttin. A very healthy region. And then you must go after Mr. Thomas. You shall have as much money as a millionaire. You’ll be a big man. Well?”
“Yes,” whispered Prokop like a little child, and meekly allowed himself to be rocked.
“So so. Too much strain, see? That’s nothing. The chief thing … is the future. You’ve had a lot of poverty, man, eh? You’re a good chap, see? Now you’re better.” Mr. Carson smoked reflectively. “The future is something tremendous. You’ll get tons of money. You’ll give me ten percent, eh? An international custom. You need Carson as well. …”
In front of the shed there resounded the horn of a motorcar.
“Thank God,” said Carson with relief, “here’s the car. Well, my dear sir, we’ll be off.”
“Where?”
“For the moment, to eat.”
XX
The next day Prokop woke up with a terribly heavy head and at first could not realize where exactly he was; he waited for the sound of the clucking of the chickens or the resonant barking of Honzik. Slowly he realized that he was no longer in Tynice; that he was in bed in the hotel to which Carson had brought him completely drunk, roaring like an animal. Only when he put his head under a stream of cold water did he recall the happenings of the evening and could have sunk through the ground with shame.
They drank even during the meal, but only a little, enough to make them both very red in the face, and then went somewhere in the car along the edge of some woods so as to clear their heads. Prokop chattered the whole time without respite while Carson chewed the end of his cigar, nodded from time to time and said: “You will be a big man.” “Big man,” “big man,” echoed in Prokop’s head like the note of a gong; if only in such glory he could be seen by … that girl with the veil! He nearly burst with importance in talking to Carson, who only nodded his head like a mandarin and added fuel to the flame of his insane pride. In his ardour Prokop nearly fell out of the car; he was explaining his conception of the World Institute for Destructive Chemistry, Socialism, Marriage, the Education of Children and other nonsense. But in the evening they began with a vengeance. Where it was they drank, God alone knows; it was terrible. Carson, his face inflamed and his hat pushed down over his eyes, paid for all sorts of strangers, while some girls were dancing. Somebody broke some glasses and Prokop, sobbing, told Carson about his terrible love for the mysterious woman. On remembering this, Prokop clutched his head with shame and mortification.
Then they put him, shouting “Krakatit,” into the car. Heaven knows where they went; they dashed along endless roads, while beside Prokop there jumped up and down a fiery red spot which must have been Mr. Carson with his cigar. Mr. Carson, who hiccuped “quicker, Bob” or something of the sort. Suddenly at a corner two lights rushed at them, some voices cried out, the car swung off the road, and Prokop was thrown head first on the grass, which brought him to his senses. There was a sound of several violently disputing voices, accusations of drunkenness. Mr. Carson swore terribly and muttered “now we must go back,” upon which, with thousands of precautions, they carried Prokop, as if he were seriously wounded, into the other car. Mr. Carson sat down next to him and they set out for home, Bob remaining with the injured vehicle. Halfway back the seriously wounded man began to sing rowdily, and just before reaching Prague found that he was thirsty again. They were obliged to go with him to several bars before he quieted down.
Prokop studied his disfigured face in the glass with dark aversion. In this painful occupation he was interrupted by the hotel porter
