“Yes. Delegate Mezierski must have patience and let me finish. Comrade Krakatit has graphically explained to us that it is necessary,” and Daimon’s voice again was like the screeching of a bird, “that it is necessary to inaugurate a revolution without paying attention to the theory of stages; a levelling and disruptive evolution in the course of which humanity will release the highest which is hidden within. Man must explode to release everything. Society must explode to find the highest good within itself. You here have spent years in disputing the question of the highest good of humanity. Comrade Krakatit has shown us that it is sufficient to cause humanity to explode in order for it to flame up higher than you have wished it to in your debates. And we must not bother about what is destroyed by the explosion. I say that Comrade Krakatit is right.”
“Yes, yes, yes!” There was a sudden burst of shouting and clapping. “Krakatit! Krakatit!”
“Silence!” shouted Daimon. “And his words,” he continued, “have all the more weight because they are supported by the actual power of bringing about this explosion. Comrade Krakatit is not a man of words, but of deeds. He has come here to convert us to direct action. And I tell you that it will be more terrible than anyone has dared to dream. And the explosion will take place today, tomorrow, within a week—”
His words were drowned in an indescribable confusion. A wave of people poured from the seats and surrounded Prokop. They embraced him, seized his hands and cried: “Krakatit! Krakatit!” The beautiful girl struggled wildly, her hair loose, trying to make a way for herself through the crowd of people. Thrown forward by the pressure from behind, she pressed herself against his breast. He tried to push her away, but she put her arms round him and passionately whispered something in a foreign language. Meanwhile, on the edge of the platform, a man wearing spectacles was slowly and quietly demonstrating to the empty benches that theoretically it was not permissible to deduce sociological conclusions from inorganic matter. “Krakatit, Krakatit,” roared the crowd. No one would sit down although Mazaud was ringing his bell all the time like a dustman. Suddenly a dark young man sprang on to the platform and waved the box of Krakatit above their heads.
“Silence,” he roared, “and down with you! Or I will throw it under your feet!”
There was a sudden silence; the crowd evacuated the platform and drew back. Above there was left only Mazaud, his bell in his hand, confused and at a loss what to do, Daimon, leaning on the table, and Prokop, on whose neck there was still hanging the dark-haired Maenad.
“Rosso,” cried a number of voices. “Down with him! Down with Rosso!” The young man on the platform looked wildly round the room with his burning eyes. “Let nobody move! Mezierski wants to shoot at me. I shall throw it,” he shouted and flourished the box.
The crowd recoiled, growling like an enraged animal. Two or three people put up their hands, and others followed them. There was a moment of oppressive silence.
“Get down,” shouted old Mazaud. “Who gave you permission to speak?”
“I shall throw it,” threatened Rosso, taut like a bow.
“This is against the regulations,” said Mazaud excitedly. “I protest and … leave the chair.” He threw the bell on the ground and stepped down from the platform.
“Bravo, Mazaud,” said an ironical voice. “You’ve helped him.”
“Silence,” cried Rosso, and threw back the hair from his forehead. “I’m speaking. Comrade Krakatit has told us: Your moment will come and you will explode; make room for this unique moment. Good, I’ve taken his words to heart.”
“It wasn’t meant like that!”
“Long live Krakatit!”
Someone began to whistle.
Daimon caught Prokop by the arm and dragged him to a door somewhere behind the blackboard.
“Hiss away,” continued Rosso mockingly. “None of you hissed when this foreign gentleman stood in front of you and … made room for his moment. Why shouldn’t anyone else try?”
“That’s right,” said a satisfied voice.
The beautiful girl stood in front of Prokop to protect him with her body. He tried to push her away.
“That’s not true,” she shouted with burning eyes. “He … he is. …”
“Be quiet,” said Daimon.
“Anyone can preach,” said Rosso feverishly. “As long as I have this in my hand I can preach too. It’s all the same to me whether I go out or not. Nobody may leave this room! Galeasso, watch the door! So, now we can discuss matters.”
“Yes, now we can discuss matters,” echoed Daimon sharply.
Rosso turned round to him like lightning, but at that moment the blue-eyed giant dashed forward with his head lowered like a ram’s; and, before Rosso could turn round, seized his legs and pulled them from under him. Rosso fell from the platform head first. In the middle of a tense silence he rolled over and struck his head against the floor while the lid of the porcelain box rolled under the benches.
Prokop rushed across to the unconscious body; Rosso’s chest, and face, the floor, the pools of blood beneath him, were all covered with the white dust of Krakatit. Daimon held him back and at that moment there was a loud cry and several people rushed on to the platform. “Don’t tread on Krakatit, it will explode,” ordered some cracked voice, but the people had already thrown themselves on the ground and were collecting the white powder into matchboxes, struggling, writhing in a heap on the ground.
“Shut the door,” roared somebody. The lights went out. At that moment Daimon kicked open the little door behind the blackboard and dragged Prokop out into the darkness.
He turned on a pocket electric lamp. They were in a windowless hovel, with tables piled on top of one another, trays for beer, a lot of musty clothing. He quickly dragged Prokop on further: the unsavoury black hole of a staircase, black and narrow steps leading downwards. Halfway down them they were overtaken by
