consider . . . infinitely rapid explosions of microscopic fragments of Krakatit. Ignited by an unknown current. Directly they turn on the switch somewhere the whole business starts off: t-r-r-r ta ta t-r-r-r t-r-r-r ta t-r-r-r ta ta. And there you are. Decipher it and you have the message. If only one had Krakatit!”
“I won’t give it up,” Prokop replied, covered with a cold sweat. “I don’t believe you. You would . . . make Krakatit for yourself.”
Mr. Carson only pulled down the corner of his mouth. “Well,” he said, “it’s only a question of . . . we’ll call a Conference. The League of Nations, The World Postal Union, The Eucharistic Congress or anything you like. For the sake of being in peace. I’m a Dane and have no use for politics. So. And you can give Krakatit to an International Commission. What’s the matter?”
“I—I’ve been ill for a long time,” Prokop excused himself, deathly pale. “I don’t feel quite well . . . and . . . I haven’t eaten for two days.”
“Weakness,” said Mr. Carson, sitting down next to him and putting his arm round his neck. “It’ll soon pass. You must go to Balttin. A very healthy region. And then you must go after Mr. Thomas. You shall have as much money as a millionaire. You'll be a big man. Well?”
“Yes,”’ whispered Prokop like a little child, and meekly allowed himself to be rocked.
“So so. Too much strain, see? That’s nothing. The chief thing . . . is the future. You’ve had a lot of poverty, man, eh? You’re a good chap, see? Now you’re better.” Mr. Carson
