The top of the hill was cut about as if it had been the scene of a battle; abandoned towers, a wire cable, enormous deserted slag heaps and on the top of the largest of them a wooden shed with an aerial above it. “That’s … the station,” panted Daimon. “It stands on forty thousand tons of magnesia. A natural condenser, you see? The whole hill … is an enormous network of wires. Some time or other I’ll explain it to you in detail. Help me up.” He scrambled over the loose surface of the slag heap, the heavy gravel tumbling noisily under his feet, but here at last, anyway, was the station.
Prokop drew back, unable to believe his eyes; it was his own laboratory shed at home in the fields near Hybsmonka! The same unpainted door, a pair of planks, lighter in colour, where repairs had been made, knots in the wood which looked like eyes. As if in a dream he felt the wall: yes, the same bent, rusty nail which he himself had once driven in! “Where did you get this from?” he cried excitedly.
“What?”
“This shed.”
“It’s been here for years,” said Daimon indifferently. “Why are you so interested in it?”
“Nothing.” Prokop ran round the shed feeling the walls and windows. Yes, there was the crack, the fault in the wood, the broken pane in the window, the place where the knot had fallen out and the piece of paper stuck over the inside of the hole. With trembling hands he examined all these wretched details; everything was as it had been, everything. …
“Well,” said Daimon, “have you finished your inspection? Open the door, you’ve got the key.”
Prokop felt for the key in his pocket. Of course, he had with him the key of his old laboratory … there at home. He thrust it into the padlock, opened it, and went inside. There, as if at home, he mechanically reached out to the left and turned on the light; instead of a button there was a nail—again as at home. Daimon followed him in. God, there was his sofa, his washstand, the jug with the broken rim, the sponge, the towel, everything. He turned round and looked into the corner; there he saw the old green stove with its pipe mended with wire, the box with coal dust at the bottom, and the broken armchair with failing legs, with the wire and tow still sticking out of it. There was the same tack projecting from the floor, the burnt plank and the clothes cupboard. He opened it, and there fell out an old pair of trousers.
“It’s not very magnificent,” said Daimon. “Our telegraphist is a—well, queer sort of fellow. What do you think of the apparatus?”
Prokop turned to the table as if in a dream. No, that wasn’t there, no, no, no, that didn’t belong there. Instead of the chemical apparatus there stood at one end of the bench a powerful wireless apparatus, with condensers, a variometer, and a regulator. A pair of ear phones lay on the table. Under the table was the usual transforming apparatus and at the other end. …
“That’s the normal station,” explained Daimon, “for ordinary conversation. The other is our extinguishing station. With it we send out those anti-waves, contra-currents, magnetic storms, or whatever you like to call them. That’s our secret. Can you understand it?”
“No.” Prokop quickly looked over a piece of apparatus which was completely different from anything he had ever seen. There was a quantity of resistances, a sort of wire screen, something resembling cathode pipe, several isolated drums or something of the sort, an extraordinary coherer and a taster with contacts; he could not make out what it all meant. He left the apparatus and looked up at the ceiling to see if there was on it that extraordinary marking on the wood which always at home recalled to him the head of an old man. Yes, it was there. And there also was the little mirror with the corner broken off. …
“What do you think of the apparatus?” asked Daimon.
“It’s … your first model, eh? It’s still too complicated.” His eyes fell on a photograph which was supported on an induction spool. He took it up and examined it; it represented the head of an extraordinarily beautiful girl. “Who’s this?” he asked hoarsely.
Daimon looked at it over his shoulder. “Surely you recognize her? That’s your beauty whom you carried here in your arms. A lovely girl, eh?”
“How did she get here?”
Daimon grinned. “Well, probably our telegraphist worships her. Wouldn’t you like to turn on that large switch? That one with a lever. He’s that shrunken little man. Didn’t you notice him? He was sitting in the front row.”
Prokop threw the photograph down on the table and turned on the switch. A blue spark ran across the metal screen. Daimon’s fingers played on the taster and short blue sparks began to flash all over the apparatus. “So,” said Daimon in a satisfied
