CHAPTER LI
Daimon hurried along. “Where exactly is Grottup?” asked Prokop on a sudden impulse, when they had descended.
“Come,” said Daimon, “I’ll show you.” He led him into the factory office to a map hanging on the wall. “Here,” and he indicated on the map with his enormous nail a little circle. “Wouldn’t you like to drink something? This sort of thing warms you up.” He poured out a glassful of some jet-black liquid for Prokop and himself. “Your health.” Prokop tossed down his portion and gulped; it was red-hot and as bitter as quinine; his head began to spin dizzily. “Any more?” said Daimon through his yellow teeth. “No? A pity. You don’t want to keep your little beauty waiting, eh?” He drank glass after glass. His eyes flashed with a green light, he wanted to babble but could not master his tongue. “Listen, you’re a good chap,” he said. “Get to work to-morrow. Old Daimon will give you everything you ask for.” He rose unsteadily and made him a low bow. “Now everything’s in order. And now—wa-wait” He began to talk all possible languages at once. As far as Prokop was able to understand, it was unutterable filth. Finally he hummed some senseless song, threw himself about as if in a fit and lost consciousness. Yellow foam appeared on his lips.
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