“And now we must go. They are waiting for us.”
XLVIII
Daimon started the engine and jumped into the car. “We shall be there in a moment.” The car dropped down from the Hill of Temptation into a broad valley, flew through a silent night, flashed past a number of country houses and drew up in front of a long wooden house surrounded by alders; it looked like an old mill. Daimon sprang out of the car and led Prokop to the foot of some wooden steps, but here their path was barred by a man with his collar turned up. “The password?” he asked. “One Piece,” said Daimon and removed his goggles. The man stepped back and Daimon hurried on. They came into a large, low room, which looked like a schoolroom; two rows of seats, a platform, a desk and a blackboard. The only difference was that the place was full of smoke and noise. The benches were crammed with people who were wearing their hats. They were all quarrelling with one another; some red-haired lout was shouting something from the platform, while at the desk there stood a dry, pedantic old man, desperately ringing a bell.
Daimon went straight up to the platform and mounted it. “Comrades,” he cried, and his voice was as inhuman as that of a seagull. “I have brought someone to you. Comrade Krakatit.” There was a dead silence and Prokop felt himself seized and mercilessly examined by fifty pairs of eyes. As if in a dream, he stepped on to the platform and looked round the smoky room not knowing what to do. “Krakatit, Krakatit,” there resounded below and the noise grew into a shout: “Krakatit! Krakatit! Krakatit!” In front of Prokop there was standing a beautiful tousled girl who gave him her hand: “Good luck, comrade!” a brief, hot pressure, eyes with a burning glance which promised everything, and immediately afterwards a dozen other hands: rough, firm and dried up by the heat, moist and cold, spiritualized. Prokop found himself surrounded by a chain of hands which seized his own. “Krakatit! Krakatit!”
The pedantic old man rang his bell like a madman. When this failed to achieve anything he rushed up to Prokop and shook his hand; it was dry and leathery, as if made of parchment, and behind his cobbler’s glasses there shone an enormous joy. The crowd roared with enthusiasm and then grew quiet. “Comrades,” said the old man, “you have greeted Comrade Krakatit with spontaneous delight … with spontaneous and living delight, delight which I should also like to express in my capacity of president. We also have to greet President Daimon … and to thank him. I invite Comrade Krakatit to take his seat … as a guest … in the president’s chair. I invite the delegates to declare whether the meeting is to be presided over by me … or by President Daimon.”
“Daimon!”
“Mazaud!”
“Daimon!”
“Mazaud! Mazaud!”
“To the devil with your formalities, Mazaud,” cried Daimon. “You are presiding and that’s enough.”
“The meeting continues,” cried the old man. “Delegate Peters has the floor.”
The redheaded man again began to address the meeting. It appeared that he was making an attack on the English Labour Party, but nobody took any notice of him. All eyes were resting on Prokop. There in the corner were the large, dreamy eyes of a consumptive; the bulging, blue ones of some old, bearded gentleman; the round and glittering glasses of a professor; sharp little eyes peering out of great clots of grey hair; careful, hostile, sunken, childish, saintly and base eyes. Prokop’s glance wandered about the tightly packed benches. Suddenly he looked away sharply as if he had burnt himself; he had encountered the glance of the tousled girl, a glance which could have only one meaning. He looked instead at an extraordinarily bald head beneath which hung a narrow coat; it was impossible to tell whether the creature was twenty or fifty years old, but before he had decided the point the whole head was furrowed by a broad, enthusiastic and respectful smile. One look tormented him the whole time; he looked for it among the others but could not find it.
Delegate Peters stutteringly finished his speech and sank down on to a bench, very red in the face. All eyes were fixed on Prokop in tense and compelling expectation. Mazaud muttered a few formal words and bent down to Daimon. There was a breathless silence, and then Prokop rose to his feet, not knowing what he was going to do. “Comrade Krakatit has the floor,” announced Mazaud, rubbing his dry hands.
Prokop looked round him with dazzled eyes: What ought he to do? Speak? Why? Who were these people? He caught sight of the gentle eyes of the consumptive, the severe and scrutinizing gleam of spectacles, blinking eyes,
