Krakatit

With the evening the fog of the cold, damp day grew thicker. You felt as if you were making your way through some thin, moist substance which closed behind you again for good. You wished you were at home. At home by your lamp in a box of four walls. Never before had you felt so forsaken.

Prokop felt his way along the embankment. He was chilled and his forehead was damp with the sweat of weakness; he wanted to sit down on that wet seat but he was afraid of the policemen. He felt as if he was twisting round; yes, near the Old Town mill a man made a detour to avoid him as though he were a drunkard. He exerted all his strength to walk straight. And now there came another man, walking towards him with his hat drawn down over his eyes and his collar turned up. Prokop set his teeth, furrowed his brow and strained all his muscles in the attempt to pass him successfully. But when he was just a step away from the other there was suddenly a darkness inside his head and the whole world began to revolve with him; suddenly he saw ever so near a pair of penetrating eyes which were fixed on him. He struck against someone’s shoulder, murmured a word of apology and moved away with a sort of convulsive dignity. A few paces further he stopped and looked round. The other man stood regarding him fixedly. Prokop pulled himself together and moved off a little more quickly; but it was no good, he was obliged to give another glance back. The man was still standing and watching him, sticking his head out of his collar like a tortoise.

Prokop gave a queer kind of laugh. “You’d like to know, eh? No, my friend, it won’t do that way⁠ ⁠… not that way,” he repeated, swaying his head in a drunken manner. “My friend, by itself⁠—by itself⁠—it.⁠ ⁠…”

“What?”

“Kra‑ka‑tit. Krakatit. Krrakatitt. And by itself⁠—I only left a little powder on the table, see? All the rest I col⁠—collected in a snuffbox. There was only a l‑l⁠—little powder left on the table, and suddenly.⁠ ⁠…”

“It exploded.”

“Exploded. Only a trace, only the powder that I had dropped. It was hardly visible. Then the electric light globe⁠—a kilometre away. It wasn’t that. And I⁠—in the armchair, like a bit of wood. Tired, you know. Too much work. And suddenly⁠ ⁠… crash! I was thrown on to the floor. The window was blown out, and the globe wasn’t there. A detonation like⁠—the explosion of a lyddite cartridge. Terrible energy. I⁠ ⁠… I thought at first that it was the por‑porcel‑por‑ce‑lain, polcelain, porcelene⁠ ⁠… the white insulator, you know, that had exploded. Aluminium silicate.”

“Porcelain.”

“Snuffbox. I thought it had exploded. So I strike a match and there it is unharmed, unharmed, unharmed. And I stay there like a post⁠ ⁠… until the match burns my fingers. And then⁠—across country⁠—in the dark to Brevnov or Stresovic⁠—and somewhere on the way the word Krakatoe, Krakatit came into my head. Kra‑ka‑tit. No, no, it wasn’t li⁠—like that. When it went up, I fell on the floor and shouted out Krakatit. Krakatit. Then I forgot it. Who’s that there? Who⁠—who are you?”

“Thomas.”

“Thomas, aha! That lousy fellow! We used to lend one another our notes. He never gave me back a chemistry notebook. Thomas, what was his first name?”

“Do you mean to say,” stammered Prokop, “that⁠ ⁠… that perhaps.⁠ ⁠…”

“We know,” Carson interrupted, “that there exist various transmitting and receiving stations. That regularly on Tuesdays and Fridays they certainly say something more than good night. That they have at their disposition certain forces at present unknown to us: explosions, oscillations, sparks, rays or some other cursed things. Or certain counter-waves, counter-oscillations or whatever they may be called, something which just obliterates our waves, you understand?” Mr. Carson glanced about the laboratory. “Aha!” said he, and took up a piece of chalk. “It may be like this,” he went on, drawing a long arrow on the floor with the chalk, “or like this,” and he scribbled over the whole of the board and added, by wetting his finger, a dark streak. “So or so, you understand? Positive or negative. They either send new waves into our medium or interfere with ours at fixed intervals, you see? In both cases they can do without our control. Both systems are at present though technically and physically⁠ ⁠… a pure mystery. Hell!” said Mr. Carson and in a sudden access of anger broke the chalk into pieces, “that’s too much! To send secret messages by secret waves to a secret addressee who is doing⁠—what do you think?”

“Perhaps the Martians,” said Prokop, forcing himself to jest; but he was certainly not in the mood for doing so.

Mr. Carson looked at him with hostility and then neighed exactly like a horse. “Let us say the Martians. Magnificent! But let us rather say somebody on the earth. Let us say that some earthly power is sending out its secret instructions.

“One moment,” Prokop stopped him, “allow me to introduce you. Mr. Carson, Sir Reginald Carson.”

Sir Reginald drew himself up but remained seated with unruffled dignity; but Mr. Carson, whistling with surprise, sank into a chair like a man whose legs have suddenly failed him. Prokop leaned against the door and stared at both of them with uncontrolled hostility. “Well?” he asked finally.

Sir Reginald began to put his papers away in his wallet. “Undoubtedly,” he said slowly, “it would be better for me to visit you some other time⁠—”

“Please stay,” Prokop interrupted him. “Excuse me, gentlemen, are you by any chance related?”

“Certainly not,” said Mr. Carson. “On the contrary.”

“Which of you is the real Carson?”

Nobody answered; there was a painful silence.

“Ask this gentleman,” said Sir Reginald coldly, “perhaps he will show you his papers.”

“With the greatest pleasure,” hissed Mr. Carson, “but after the other gentleman has done so first. So.”

“And which of you inserted that announcement in the papers?”

“I,” said Mr. Carson without the least hesitation, “my inspiration, my dear sir. I see that even in our sphere one comes across the unheard-of depravity of exploiting someone else’s idea. So.”

Prokop wandered about the park, irritable and yawning through lack of sleep. He wondered what they wanted with him and contemplated with dissatisfaction his huge, ungainly boots and worn-out trousers. Absorbed in these reflections he very nearly walked on to the tennis court, where the Princess was playing with two girls in white dresses. He hastily turned aside and set off towards what he imagined was the end of the park. But in that direction the park ended in a sort of terrace; a stone balustrade and below it a wall nearly forty feet high. From the terrace one had a view of the pine woods and of a soldier who was pacing up and down below with a fixed bayonet.

Prokop then set off to the part of the park which sloped away from the castle. There he found a lake with some bathing sheds, but overcoming the temptation to bathe, he went on into a beautiful coppice of birch trees. Here he came upon a latticework fence and a half effaced path leading to a gate; the gate was not completely closed and it was possible to pass through it into a pine wood. He walked quietly along over the slippery pine cones until he reached the edge of the wood. And there, damnation, was a fence surmounted by barbed wire, a good twelve feet high. How strong, he wondered, was the wire? He tested it carefully with his hands and feet until he noticed that his conduct had begun to interest a soldier with a fixed bayonet who was standing on the other side.