The first thing of which Prokop was conscious was that everything in him
was being shaken and rattled and that some one was holding him firmly
round the waist. He had a terrible fear of opening his eyes; he had an
idea that everything would collapse on top of him. And when this didn’t
happen he opened them and saw in front of him a vague square about which
were moving misty balls and strips of light. He was unable to explain it;
confusedly he watched the phantom shapes as they jumped about and slid
away, having patiently resigned himself to anything which might be in
store for him. Then he realized that the rattling was that of the wheels
of a cab and that outside lights were slipping past in the fog. Exhausted
by this act of observation he again closed his eyes and allowed himself
to be carried away.
“Now lie down,” said a quiet voice above his head; “swallow an aspirin
and you’ll be better. In the morning I’ll fetch a doctor, yes?”
“Who’s that?” asked Prokop sleepily.
“Thomas. You’re lying down at my place, Prokop. You’ve a fever. Where
does it hurt you?”
“Everywhere. I feel giddy. So, you see....”
“Just lie quiet. I’ll boil you some tea and you’ll go off to sleep. It’s
the result of excitement, see? A sort of nervous fever. It’ll be gone
before morning.”
Prokop knitted his brows in the effort to remember. “I know,” he said
carefully, after a moment. “Listen, some one must throw that box into the
river. So that it won’t explode.”
“Don’t worry. Now stop talking.”
“Perhaps I could sit up. Aren’t I heavy?”
“No, lie down.”
“—and you’ve got my chemistry notebook,” Prokop remembered suddenly.
“Yes, you’ll get it back. But now stay quiet, do you hear?”
“My head’s so heavy.”
Meanwhile the cab was rattling up Jecna Street. Thomas was softly
whistling a tune and looking out of the window. Prokop was breathing
heavily and moaning quietly. The fog made the pavements damp and
insinuated itself under one’s coat with its cold, wet slime. It was late
and the streets were deserted.
“Here we are,” said Thomas loudly. The cab bumped more noisily over a
square and turned off to the right. “Wait, Prokop, can you manage a
couple of steps? I’ll help you.”
With an effort Thomas dragged his guest up to the second floor. Prokop
seemed to himself to be without weight, and allowed himself to be quickly
wafted up the stairs; but Thomas was breathing heavily and wiped the
sweat from his forehead.
“See, I’m like a thread,” said Prokop, surprised.
“Well,” said Thomas, panting, and opened the door of his flat.
Prokop felt like a little child while Thomas was undressing him. “My
mother,” he began, “when my mother, ever so long ago ... father sat at
the table, and mother carried me to bed, see?”
Then he was in bed, covered up to the chin, his teeth chattering and
watching Thomas rapidly making a fire. He could have cried from self-pity
and weakness, and he babbled the whole time; then a cold compress was
placed on his forehead and he quieted down. He looked about the room;
there was a scent of tobacco and women.
“You’re a rogue, Thomas,” he exclaimed seriously, “always having women.”
Thomas turned round. “Well?”
“Nothing. What exactly are you doing just now?”
Thomas waved his hand. “It’s bad, my friend. No money.”
“You womanize.”
Thomas only shook his head.
“And it’s a pity, you know,” began Prokop, with concern. “You could
have—look, I’ve been at it for twelve years.”
“And what have you got out of it?” retorted Thomas sharply.
“Well, something here and there. I sold some explosive dextrine this
year.”
“For how much?”
“For ten thousand. But that’s nothing. Rubbish. Only an explosive for
mines. But if I had wished to....”
“Do you feel better now?”
“Fine. I’ve found out some methods for you! Nitrate of cerium, there’s
an excitable monster for you, man; and chloride, chloride, tetrachloride
of nitrogen, that’s exploded by light. You turn on the light, and bang!
But that’s nothing. Listen,” he exclaimed, suddenly sticking his thin,
terribly mutilated hand out of the bedclothes, “when I take anything in
my hand, so ... I feel the vibration of the atoms. Just like ants. Each
kind of substance creeps differently, see?”
“No.”
“That’s power, see? Power in matter. Matter is terribly powerful. I
... I feel it moving. It holds together ... with an enormous effort.
Once you loosen it inside, it disintegrates. Bang! Everything is an
explosive. Every thought is a sort of explosion inside the head. When you
give me your hand I feel as if something is exploding inside you. I’ve
an extraordinary touch, man. And hearing. Everything is bubbling like
effervescent powder. Tiny explosions again. There’s a noise going on in
my head.... Ratata, like a machine gun.”
“Yes?” said Thomas. “And now swallow this aspirin.”
“Yes. Ex—explosive aspirin. Perchlorated acetylsalicacid. That’s
nothing. Man, I’ve discovered an exothermic explosive. Water. Water
is an explosive. Every material is really an explosive. The feathers
in a feather bed are explosives. At present, you see, this has only
a theoretical significance. And I’ve discovered atomic explosions.
I—I—I—I’ve made alpha explosions. It disintegrates into plus electrons.
No thermochemistry. Des-truc-tion. Destructive chemistry, man. That’s a
tremendous thing, Thomas, purely scientific. At home I’ve got tables....
If only I had apparatus! But I’ve only eyes ... and hands.... Wait, let
me write it down!”
“Don’t you want to sleep?”
“I do. To-day—I’m—tired. And what have you been doing all this time?”
“Nothing. Life.”
“Life is an explosive, see? Bang, and a man is born and then, bang, he
falls to pieces. And we think it lasts some years, see? Wait a moment,
I’ve got something mixed, haven’t I?”
“It’s all right, Prokop. To-morrow, perhaps, we’ll make an explosion.
That is, if I haven’t any money. But it’s all the same, just go to sleep.”
“I’ll lend it you if you like.”
“No, thanks, it wouldn’t be enough. Perhaps my father——” Thomas waved his
arm.
“So you’ve still got a father,” said Prokop after a moment with sudden
gentleness.
“Well, yes. A doctor in Tynice.” Thomas stood up and began to walk up and
down the room. “I’m up against it. But don’t worry about me. I—I’ll do
something. Sleep!”
Prokop quieted down. Through his half-closed eyes he watched Thomas sit
down at the table and rummage among some papers. It was somehow delicious
to listen to the rustling of paper and the quiet noise of the fire in the
stove. The man bent forward over the table, supported his head with his
hand and, it seemed, was hardly breathing; and to Prokop it was as if he
was at home and looking at his elder brother, Joseph, studying electrical
engineering in preparation for the examination the next day. He fell into
a feverish sleep.