Prokop grasped the photograph with burning hands. Yes, of course, it was the girl down there below, there could be no doubt about that, but if … if, for instance, she had a veil, and was wearing a fur covered with drops of moisture … and little gloves—Prokop ground his teeth. It was impossible that she should resemble her so! He half closed his eyes in the effort to catch a retreating vision. Again he saw the girl with the veil, pressing to her breast the sealed package and now, now she turned on him a pure and desperate glance.
Beside himself with excitement, he compared the photograph with the form in his mind’s eye. Good heavens, what exactly did she look like? He didn’t know, he thought, with sudden fear. He only knew that she was veiled and beautiful. She was beautiful and veiled, and he had noticed nothing more, nothing more. And this picture here with the large eyes and delicate and serious mouth, was that the one … the one asleep down there? But she had her lips half open, sinful and half-opened lips and loosened hair and didn’t look like that, didn’t look like that. Before his eyes was the veil covered with rain drops. No, that was nonsense; it could not be the girl down there, it was nothing like her. This was the face of the girl with the veil who came in anguish and consternation; her brow was calm and her eyes darkened with pain. Against her lips there was pressing her veil, a thick veil with drops of moisture on it. Why didn’t he raise it, so as to see what she was like?
“Come along, I have something I want to show you,” said Daimon, and dragged Prokop outside. They stood on the top of the slag heap. Beneath their feet the sleeping earth stretched out of sight. “Look over there,” said Daimon, pointing to the horizon, “do you see anything?”
“Nothing. No, there’s a tiny light. It’s shining faintly.”
“Do you know what it is?”
Then there was a faint sound, like the moaning of the wind on a still night.
“That’s that,” said Daimon triumphantly, and took off his hat. “Good night, comrades.”
Prokop turned to him inquiringly.
“Don’t you understand?” said Daimon. “The noise of the explosion has only just reached us. Fifty kilometres as the crow flies. Exactly two and a half minutes.”
“What explosion?”
“Krakatit. Those idiots collected it in matchboxes. I don’t think we shall be bothered with them any more. We’ll call a new conference … elect a new committee—”
“Did—you—?”
Daimon nodded. “It was impossible to work with them. Up to the very last moment they quarrelled about tactics. There’s certainly a fire there.”
A faint red light was to be seen on the horizon.
“The inventor of our apparatus was there as well. They were all there. Now you can take it into your own hands. Listen how quiet it is. And yet from these wires a silent and exact cannonade is going out into space. Now we have interrupted all wireless communications and the telegraphists are hearing in their ears, crack, crack! Let them rage. Meanwhile Mr. Thomas, somewhere in Grottup, is trying to complete the preparation of Krakatit. He’ll never do it. And if he did! At the moment at which he had completed his synthesis it would be the end. Work away, station, send out your sparks secretly and bombard the whole of the universe. Nobody, nobody beside yourself will be the ruler of Krakatit. Now there is only you, you alone.” He put his hand on Prokop’s shoulder and silently indicated in a circle the whole world. Round them was a deserted and starless darkness; only on the horizon was there to be seen the dull glow of a conflagration.
“Ah, I’m tired,” yawned Daimon. “It was a good day. We’ll go down.”
LI
Daimon hurried along. “Where exactly is Grottup?” asked Prokop on a sudden impulse, when they had descended.
“Come,” said Daimon, “I’ll show you.” He led him into the factory office to a map hanging on the wall. “Here,” and he indicated on the map with his enormous nail a little circle. “Wouldn’t you like to drink something? This sort of thing warms you up.” He poured out a glassful of some jet-black liquid for Prokop and himself. “Your health.” Prokop tossed down his portion and gulped; it was red-hot and as bitter as quinine; his head began to spin dizzily. “Any more?” said Daimon through his yellow teeth. “No? A pity. You don’t want to keep your little beauty waiting, eh?” He drank glass after glass. His eyes flashed with a green light, he wanted to babble but could not master his tongue. “Listen, you’re a good chap,” he said. “Get to work tomorrow. Old Daimon will give you everything you ask for.” He rose unsteadily and made him a low bow. “Now everything’s in order. And now—wa‑wait—” He began to talk all possible languages at once. As far as Prokop was able to understand, it was unutterable filth. Finally he hummed some senseless song, threw himself about as if in a fit and lost consciousness. Yellow foam appeared on his lips.
“Hey, what’s the matter with you?” cried Prokop, shaking him.
Daimon opened his glassy eyes with difficulty. “What … what’s up?” he muttered, raised himself up a little and shook himself. “Aha! I’m … I’m. … That’s nothing.” He rubbed his forehead and yawned convulsively. “Yes, I’ll show you to your room, eh?” He was horribly pale and his Tartar face had suddenly grown flabby. He walked uncertainly as if his limbs were numbed. “Come then.”
He went straight to the room in which they had left the girl sleeping. “Ah,” he cried from the doorway, “the beauty has woke up. Come in, please.”
She was kneeling by the hearth. Evidently she had just lit the fire and was looking into a crackling flame. “Look how she’s arranged it,” said Daimon appreciatively. Certainly the stuffy and depressing aspect of
