Matter is fragile. But I can make it disintegrate all at once, bang! An explosion, if you comprehend me? Into smithereens. Into molecules. Into atoms. And I’ve also broken up atoms.”
“A pity,” said Plinius, after consideration.
“Why a pity?”
“It’s a pity to break anything. Even an atom. Well, go on.”
“I . . . break up the atom. I am aware that Rutherford has already . . . But that was only donkey work with radiation, you know. That’s nothing. The thing must be done en masse. If I were asked to I could explode a ton of bismuth in that way. It would blow up the whole world. Would you like me to?”
“Why would you do it?”
“It’s . . . scientifically interesting,” said Prokop, confused. “Wait, how shall I . . . It’s amazingly interesting.” He clutched his head. “One moment, my he-head’s splitting; it will be scientifically enormously interesting, eh? Aha!” he burst out, relieved, “now I can explain. Dynamite—dynamite smashes up matter into pieces, lumps, but benzoltrioxozonid reduces it to dust; it makes only a small hole but it disintegrates matter into submicroscopic fragments, see? That’s through the quickness of the explosion. Matter hasn’t time to get out of the way, it can’t even bl—break up, see? But I. . . I’ve accelerated the speed of detonation. Argonozonid. Chlorargonoxozonid. Tetrargon. And so on and on. And suddenly, after a certain speed, the power of explosion increases terribly. It increases . . . quadratically. I watch it, as if
