bling cathode pipe, several isolated drums or something of the sort, an extraordinary coherer and a taster with contacts; he could not make out what it all meant. He left the apparatus and looked up at the ceiling to see if there was on it that extraordinary marking on the wood which always at home recalled to him the head of an old man. Yes, it was there. And there also was the little mirror with the corner broken off. . . .
“What do you think of the apparatus?” asked Daimon.
“It’s . . . your first model, eh? It’s still too complicated.” His eyes fell on a photograph which was supported on an induction spool. He took it up and examined it; it represented the head of an extraordinarily beautiful girl, “Who’s this?” he asked hoarsely.
Daimon looked at it over his shoulder. ‘Surely you recognize her? That’s your beauty whom you carried here in your arms. A lovely girl, eh?”
“How did she get here?”
Daimon grinned. “Well, probably our telegraphist worships her. Wouldn’t you like to turn on that large switch? That one with a lever. He’s that shrunken little man. Didn’t you notice him? He was sitting in the front row.”
Prokop threw the photograph down on the table and turned on the switch. A blue spark ran across the metal screen. Daimon’s fingers played on the taster and short blue sparks began to flash all over the apparatus. “So,” said Daimon in a satisfied tone, watching the display motionlessly.
Prokop grasped the photograph with burning
