. . . is an enormous network of wires. Some time or other I’ll explain it to you in detail. Help me up.” He scrambled over the loose surface of the slag heap, the heavy gravel tumbling noisily under his feet, but here at last, anyway, was the station.
Prokop drew back, unable to believe his eyes; it was his own laboratory shed at home in the fields near Hybsmonka! The same unpainted door, a pair of planks, lighter in colour, where repairs had been made, knots in the wood which looked like eyes. As if in a dream he felt the wall: yes, the same bent, rusty nail which he himself had once driven in! “Where did you get this from?” he cried excitedly.
“What?”
“This shed.”
“It’s been here for years,” said Daimon indifferently. “Why are you so interested in it?”
“Nothing.” Prokop ran round the shed feeling the walls and windows. Yes, there was the crack, the fault in the wood, the broken pane in the window, the place where the knot had fallen out and the piece of paper stuck over the inside of the hole. With trembling hands he examined all these wretched details; everything was as it had been, everything. . . .
“Well,” said Daimon, “have you finished your inspection? Open the door, you’ve got the key.”
Prokop felt for the key in his pocket. Of course, he had with him the key of his old laboratory . . . there at home. He thrust it into the padlock, opened it, and went inside. There, as if at home, he mechanically reached out to the left and turned
