They stood on the top of the slag heap. Beneath their feet the sleeping earth stretched out of sight. “Look over there,” said Daimon, pointing to the horizon, “do you see anything?”
“Nothing. “No, there’s a tiny light. It’s shining faintly.”
“Do you know what it is?”
Then there was a faint sound, like the moaning of the wind on a still night.
“That’s that,” said Daimon triumphantly, and took off his hat. “Good-night, comrades.”
Prokop turned to him inquiringly.
“Don’t you understand?” said Daimon. “The noise of the explosion has only just reached us. Fifty kilometres as the crow flies. Exactly two and a half minutes.”
“What explosion?”
“Krakatit. Those idiots collected it in matchboxes. I don’t think we shall be bothered with them any more. We’ll call a new conference . . . elect a new committee”
“Did—you?”
Daimon nodded. “It was impossible to work with them. Up to the very last moment they quarrelled about tactics. There’s certainly a fire there.”
A faint red light was to be seen on the horizon.
“The inventor of our apparatus was there as well. They were all there. Now you can take it into your own hands. Listen how quiet it is. And yet from these wires a silent and exact cannonade is going out into space. Now we have interrupted all wireless communications and the telegraphists are hearing in their ears, crack, crack! Let them rage. Mean-
