The car drew up in a dark, wooded valley. Prokop made out in the half
light some large towers and slag heaps. “Well, here we are,” muttered
Daimon. “This is my mine and forge; that’s nothing. Out you get!”
“Am I to leave her here?” asked Prokop softly.
“Who? Ha, ha! your beauty. Wake her up, we’re stopping here.”
Prokop carefully stepped out of the car, carrying her in his arms. “Where
am I to put her?”
Daimon unlocked the door of a desolate-looking house. “What? Wait, I’ve
got a few rooms here. You can put her.... I’ll show you.”
He turned on the light and led him along a number of cold passages
through some offices. Finally he turned into a room and switched on the
light. Prokop found himself in a repulsive, unventilated room containing
an unmade bed. The blinds were drawn down. “Aha!” said Daimon, “evidently
some friend of mine has spent the night here. It’s not very beautiful,
eh? Well, put her down on the bed.”
Prokop carefully deposited the heavily breathing package. Daimon was
walking up and down the room, rubbing his hands. “Now we’ll go to our
station. It’s on the top of the hill, about ten minutes away. Or would
you rather stay here?” He stepped over to the sleeping girl and lifted
the rug so that she was uncovered as far as the knees. “She’s beautiful,
eh? It’s a pity I’m so old.”
Prokop frowned and covered her up again. “Show me your station,” he said
shortly. A smile trembled on Daimon’s lips. “We’ll go.”
He led him through the yard. There were lights in the factory, and
there was to be heard the throbbing of machinery. About the yard there
sauntered the fireman, his sleeves rolled up and a pipe in his mouth. To
the side was a belt with a row of trucks for the mine, the girders of
its supports standing out like the ribs of a lizard. “We’ve had to close
three pits,” explained Daimon. “They didn’t pay. I should have sold them
a long time ago if it hadn’t been for the station. This way.” He began
to ascend a steep footpath leading up through the wood to the top of the
hill. Prokop could only follow him by sound; it was a black night, and
from time to time heavy drops fell from the branches of the pines. Daimon
stopped, breathing with difficulty. “I’m old,” he said, “I can’t get
my breath as I used to. I’ve got to depend on people more and more....
There’s no one at the station to-day; the telegraphist has remained below
with the others ... but that doesn’t matter. Come on!”
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 wash-stand, 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 arm-chair 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 tone, watching the display motionlessly.
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 match-boxes. 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.”