eyes. As if in a dream, he stepped on to the platform and looked round the smoky room not knowing what to do. “Krakatit. Krakatit,” there resounded below and the noise grew into a shout: “Krakatit! Krakatit! Krakatit!” In front of Prokop there was standing a beautiful tousled girl who gave him her hand: “Good luck, comrade!” a brief, hot pressure, eyes with a burning glance which promised everything, and immediately afterwards a dozen other hands: rough, firm and dried up by the heat, moist and cold, spiritualized. Prokop found himself surrounded by a chain of hands which seized his own. “Krakatit! Krakatit!”
The pedantic old man rang his bell like a madman. When this failed to achieve anything he rushed up to Prokop and shook his hand; it was dry and leathery, as if made of parchment, and behind his cobbler’s glasses there shone an enormous joy. The crowd roared with enthusiasm and then grew quiet. “Comrades,” said the old man, “you have greeted Comrade Krakatit with spontaneous delight . . . with spontaneous and living delight, delight which I should also like to express in my capacity of president. We also have to greet President Daimon . . . and to thank him. I invite Comrade Krakatit to take his seat . . . as a guest . . . in the president’s chair. I invite the delegates to declare whether the meeting is to be presided over by me . . . or by President Daimon.”
“Daimon!”
“Mazaud!”
“Daimon!”
“Mazaud! Mazaud!”
