Destructive chemistry, man. That’s a tremendous thing, Thomas, purely scientific. At home I’ve got tables. . . . If only I had apparatus! But I’ve only eyes . . . and hands. . . . Wait, let me write it down!”
“Don’t you want to sleep?”
“I do. To-day—I’m—tired. And what have you been doing all this time?”
“Nothing. Life.”
“Life is an explosive, see? Bang, and a man is born and then, bang, he falls to pieces. And we think it lasts some years, see? Wait a moment, I’ve got something mixed, haven’t I?”
“It’s all right, Prokop. To-morrow, perhaps, we’ll make an explosion. That is, if I haven’t any money. But it’s all the same, just go to sleep.”
“I’ll lend it you if you like.”
“No, thanks, it wouldn’t be enough. Perhaps my father” Thomas waved his arm.
“So you’ve still got a father,” said Prokop after a moment with sudden gentleness.
“Well, yes. A doctor in Tynice.” Thomas stood up and began to walk up and down the room. “I’m up against it. But don’t worry about me. I—I’ll do something. Sleep!”
Prokop quieted down. Through his half-closed eyes he watched Thomas sit down at the table and rummage among some papers. It was somehow delicious to listen to the rustling of paper and the quiet noise of the fire in the stove. The man bent forward over the table, supported his head
