“. . . explodes,” cried Prokop.
“Yes, explodes, disintegrates. Interesting,—what? One learned gentleman explained to me that—hell, what did he say? That—that”
Prokop sprang up and seized hold of Mr. Carson’s coat. “Listen,” he burst out, violently excited, “if one were to . . . sprinkle . . . some Krakatit about . . . here, let us say . . . or simply about the place . . .”
“. . . then the next Tuesday or Friday at half-past ten it would explode. Tja. Don’t strangle me, man.”
Prokop released Mr. Carson and paced up and down the room gnawing his fingers in consternation.
“That’s quite clear,” he muttered, “that’s quite clear! Nobody must prepare Krakatit”
“Besides Mr. Thomas,” suggested Carson sceptically.
“Leave me alone,” said Prokop. “He won’t be able to prepare it!”
“Well,” said Mr. Carson doubtfully, “I don’t know how much you told him.”
Prokop stopped as if rooted to the ground. “Imagine,” he said feverishly, “imagine, for instance . . . a war! Anyone who possessed Krakatit could . . . could . . . whenever he liked . . .”
“At present only on Tuesdays and Fridays.”
“. . . blowup . . . whole towns . . . whole armies . . . everything! All that is necessary is to sprinkle—can you imagine?”
“I can. Magnificent!”
“And therefore . . . for the sake of the world . . . I shall never, never give it up.”
