on the light; instead of a button there was a nail—again as at home. Daimon followed him in. God, there was his sofa, his wash-stand, the jug with the broken rim, the sponge, the towel, everything. He turned round and looked into the corner; there he saw the old green stove with its pipe mended with wire, the box with coal dust at the bottom, and the broken arm-chair with failing legs, with the wire and tow still sticking out of it. There was the same tack projecting from the floor, the burnt plank and the clothes cupboard. He opened it, and there fell out an old pair of trousers.
“It’s not very magnificent,” said Daimon. “Our telegraphist is a—well, queer sort of fellow. What do you think of the apparatus?”
Prokop turned to the table asif ina dream. No, that wasn’t there, no, no, no, that didn’t belong there. Instead of the chemical apparatus there stood at one end of the bench a powerful wireless apparatus, with condensers, a variometer, and a regulator. A pair of ear phones lay on the table. Under the table was the usual transforming apparatus and at the other end . . .
“That’s the normal station,” explained Daimon, “for ordinary conversation. The other is our extinguishing station. With it we send out those antiwaves, contra-currents, magnetic storms, or whatever you like to call them. That’s our secret. Can you understand it?”
“No.” Prokop quickly looked over a piece of apparatus which was completely different from anything he had ever seen. There was a quantity of resistances, a sort of wire screen, something resem-
