He stood still and strained his ears in terror, fearing to hear the sound
of the car crashing off the road somewhere at a corner. Was not that the
sound of a motor in the distance? Was that terrible and deathly silence
the end? Beside himself, Prokop dashed down the road after her. Running
down the serpentine road, he finally reached the end of the slope. But
not a trace of the car was to be seen. He rushed back again, examining
the road on each side, clambered down, tearing his hands whenever he
caught sight of anything conspicuous, but it always proved to be only
a stone or a bush, and he again scrambled up and pounded along the
road, staring into the darkness, in case he should come upon a pile of
wreckage, and under it....
He was again back at the cross-roads; it was here that she had begun to
disappear into the darkness. He sat down on a milestone. It was quiet,
utterly quiet. Above him were the cold stars. Was the dark meteor of
the car flying along somewhere? Would there never be a sound, the cry
of a bird, the barking of a dog in a village, some sign of life? But
everything was bathed in the majestic silence of death. And this was the
end, the silent, dark and icy end of everything—a desert surrounded by
darkness and silence—an icy desert in which time stood still. If only
it were the end of the world! The earth would open and above the noise
of the tempest would be heard the words of the Lord: I take you back to
myself, weak and miserable creature; there was no purity in you and you
set free evil forces. Loved one, I will make you a bed out of nothingness.
Prokop began to tremble beneath the crown of thorns of the universe.
And now human suffering was nothing and had no value; he was a tiny,
shrivelled up, trembling bubble at the bottom of an abyss. Good, good;
you say that the world is infinite, but if I could only die!
In the east the sky began to go pale. The road and the white stones could
already be seen clearly. Look, here were the marks of wheels in the dead
dust. Prokop picked himself up, numb and cold, and started to walk.
Downhill, towards Balttin.
He went on without stopping. Here was a village, an avenue lined with
blackberries, a little bridge over a dark and silent river. The mist
disappeared and the sun began to shine through; again a grey and cold
day, red roofs, a herd of cows. How far might it be to Balttin? Sixteen,
sixteen kilometres. Dry leaves, nothing but dry leaves.
A little after mid-day he sat down on a pile of pebbles; he could go no
farther. A peasant’s cart approached; the driver drew up and looked at
the exhausted man. “Can I give you a lift?” Prokop nodded gratefully and
sat down next to him without a word. Later the cart drew up in a little
town. “Here we are,” said the peasant. “Where exactly are you going?”
Prokop got down and went on by himself. How far might it be to Balttin?
It began to rain, but Prokop could go no farther and remained leaning
against the wall of a bridge. Underneath was a cold, foaming current.
Suddenly a car approached the bridge, slowed down and then stopped. Out
of it sprang a man in a leather coat who came up to Prokop. “Where are
you going?” It was Mr. d’Hémon, with goggles over his Tartar eyes and
looking like an enormous shaggy beetle. “I’m going to Balttin; they’re
looking for you.”
“How far is it to Balttin?” whispered Prokop.
“Forty kilometres. What do you want there? They’ve issued a warrant for
your arrest. Come along, I’ll take you away.”
Prokop shook his head.
“The Princess has left,” continued Mr. d’Hémon quietly. “Early this
morning, with Uncle Rohn. Chiefly so that she should forget ... a certain
unpleasant experience in connection with running over somebody.”
“Is he dead?” breathed Prokop.
“Not yet. In the second place, the Princess, as you possibly know, has
consumption seriously. They’re taking her to somewhere in Italy.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Nobody knows.”
Prokop stood up, swaying. “In that case——”
“Will you come with me?”
“I don’t ... know. Where?”
“Where you like.”
“I should like to go ... to Italy.”
“Come along.” Mr. d’Hémon helped Prokop into the car, threw a fur rug
over him and slammed the door to. The car started off.
And again the countryside began to unroll itself, but curiously, as if
in a dream and backwards; a little town, an avenue of poplars, pebbles,
a bridge, a village. The snorting car climbed zig-zag fashion up a long
hill; and here was the cross-roads where they had parted. Prokop raised
himself up and would have jumped out of the car, but Mr. d’Hémon drew
him back, and put the car into top speed. Prokop closed his eyes and now
they were no longer going along the road but had mounted into the air and
were flying. He felt the pressure of the air on his face and the impact
of scraps of cloud like rags. The noise of the motor became a deep,
prolonged roar. Below there was still probably the earth, but Prokop
was afraid to open his eyes and see again the flying avenue. Quicker!
To be smothered! Quicker still! His chest was constricted by terror
and dizziness, he could hardly breathe, and gasped with delight at the
wild way in which they tore through space. The car slipped up and down
hills and valleys while from somewhere beneath their feet there came the
cries of people and the whining of a dog. Sometimes they turned almost
lying over on their sides, as if they had been caught up by a tornado.
Now again they were flying straight ahead, pure speed, whizzing across
country like an arrow.
He opened his eyes. Misty darkness, a row of lights shining through
it, lights of a factory. Mr. d’Hémon drove the car in and out of the
traffic in the streets, slipped through a suburb which seemed to be in
ruins and they were again in the open. In front of the car stretched
two long antennæ of light which fell on rubbish, mud, stones. The car
whirled round corners, the exhaust drumming like a machine gun, and
then threw itself at a long stretch of road as if it were winding it in.
To the right and the left was a criss-cross pattern of narrow valleys
between hills. The car turned off into it and plunged into woods, noisily
twisting its way upwards and dropping head first into further valleys.
The villages breathed rings of light into the thick fog and the car flew
on, roaring and leaving behind it clouds of sparks, rushing down hills,
and climbing in spirals higher, higher, higher. At last it jumped over
something and lurched. Stop! They pulled up in black darkness; no, it
was a house. Mr. d’Hémon stepped out of the car, breathing heavily,
knocked at the door and engaged some people in conversation. A moment
later he returned with a can of water and poured its contents into the
hissing radiator; in the bright light of the car’s lamps he looked in
his fur coat like a devil from some story for children. Then he went
round the car, felt the tyres, raised the hood and said something,
but Prokop, utterly exhausted, was already half asleep. Then he again
became conscious of the everlasting rhythmic vibration and fell asleep
in the corner of the car, having no idea what was happening beyond the
continuous shaking. He only recovered consciousness when the car had
stopped in front of a brightly lighted hotel amongst stretches of snow.
The air was sharp and cold.
He woke up numb and worn out. “This ... this isn’t Italy,” he stammered,
surprised.
“Not yet,” said Mr. d’Hémon, “but come and have something to eat.” He led
Prokop, who was dazzled by so many lights, to an isolated table. A white
tablecloth, silver, warmth, a waiter like an ambassador. Mr. d’Hémon did
not even sit down, but walked up and down the room looking at the tips
of his fingers. Prokop, heavy and sleepy, dropped into a chair; it was
a matter of complete indifference to him whether he ate or not. All the
same he drank some hot soup, poked at one or two dishes, scarcely able
to hold the fork, twisted a glass of wine in his fingers and burnt his
throat with some scalding coffee. Mr. d’Hémon still did not sit down
but went on walking up and down the room, every now and then taking a
mouthful as he went along. When Prokop had finished eating he gave him a
cigar and lit up himself. “So,” he said, “and now to business.
“From now,” he began, still walking up and down, “I shall be for you
simply ... Comrade Daimon. I will introduce you to our people; they’re
not far away. You mustn’t take them too seriously; amongst them there
are desperadoes, people evading justice from all the corners of the
world, fanatics, babblers, doctrinaires and dilettante salvationists.
Don’t ask them for their programme; they are only material which we use
for our purposes. The chief thing is that we can put at your disposal
an extensive secret international organization which has its branches
everywhere. The only programme is direct action. Through this we’ll get
hold of everybody without exception. They’re already crying for it, like
children for a new toy. Anyway they’ll find the fascination of a ‘new
programme of action,’ ‘destruction inside the head’ irresistible. After
the first successes they’ll follow you like sheep—especially if you weed
out from their leaders the people I shall indicate to you.”
He spoke smoothly like an experienced orator, that is to say thinking
all the time about something else, and with such self-evident truth that
he made doubt or resistance impossible. It seemed to Prokop that he had
heard him on some occasion or other before.
“Your situation is unique,” Daimon continued, still walking up and
down the room. “You have already rejected the proposal of a certain
Government, and you behaved like a sensible man. What can I offer you
compared to what you can obtain by yourself? You’d be mad to hand over
your secret to anybody. You have in your possession a means by which we
can overcome all the powers of the earth. I have unlimited confidence in
you. Do you want fifty or a hundred million pounds? You can have them
within a week. It is enough for me that at present you are the sole
owner of Krakatit. Our people have fourteen and a half ounces in their
possession, brought by a Saxon comrade from Balttin, but these fools
haven’t the slightest understanding of what your chemistry means. They
keep it like a sacred relic in a porcelain box and three times a week
nearly come to blows over the question of what government building they
are going to blow up into the air. Anyway, you’ll hear them. There’s
no danger to you from that quarter. There’s not a scrap of Krakatit in
Balttin. Mr. Thomas is evidently near to abandoning his experiments——”
“Where is George—George Thomas?” asked Prokop.
“At the Powder Works in Grottup. But they are already sick of him there
with his everlasting promises. And even if by chance he does succeed in
preparing it he won’t derive much benefit from the fact. I can answer
for that. In short, you alone have Krakatit in your power and you won’t
give it to anybody. You will have at your disposition human material and
all the ramifications of our organization. I will give you a printing
press which I maintain myself. And finally you will also have the use
of what the newspapers refer to as the ‘Secret Wireless Station,’ that
is, our illegal wireless station which, by means of so-called anti-waves
or extinguishing sparks, causes your Krakatit to explode at a distance
of from one to two thousand miles. Those are your cards. Do you want to
play?”
“What ... what do you mean?” said Prokop. “What am I to do with it all?”
Comrade Daimon stopped and looked at Prokop fixedly. “Do what you like.
You will do great things. Who can suggest anything further to you?”