CHAPTER XIX
“Do you mean to say,” stammered Prokop, “that . . . that perhaps . . .”
“We know,” Carson interrupted, “that there exist various transmitting and receiving stations. That regularly on Tuesdays and Fridays they certainly say something more than good-night. That they have at their disposition certain forces at present unknown to us: explosions, oscillations, sparks, rays or some other cursed things. Or certain counter-waves, counter-oscillations or whatever they may be called, something which just obliterates our waves, you understand?” Mr. Carson glanced about the laboratory. “Aha!” said he, and took up a piece of chalk. “It may be like this,” he went on, drawing a long arrow on the floor with the chalk, “or like this,” and he scribbled over the whole of the board and added, by wetting his finger, a dark streak. “So or so, you understand? Positive or negative. They either send new waves into our medium or interfere with ours at fixed intervals, you see? In both cases they can do without our control. Both systems are at present though technically and physically . . . a pure mystery. Hell!” said Mr. Carson and in a sudden access of anger broke the chalk into pieces, “that’s too much! To send secret messages by secret waves to a secret addressee who is doing—what do you think?”
“Perhaps the Martians,” said Prokop, forcing himself to jest; but he was certainly not in the mood for doing so.
Mr. Carson looked at him with hostility and then neighed exactly like a horse. “Let us say the Martians. Magnificent! But let us rather say somebody on the earth. Let us say that some earthly power is sending out its secret instructions. Let us say that it has extremely serious reasons for escaping human control. Let us say that there exists some sort of . . . international service or organization, or the devil knows what, and that it has at its disposal certain mysterious forces, secret stations and the rest. In any case . . . in any case we have the right to be interested in those secret messages, eh? Whether they are from hell or from Mars. It’s simply in the interests of human society. You can imagine. . . . Well, my dear sir, they certainly won’t be wireless messages about Little Red Riding Hood. So.”
Mr. Carson moved rapidly up and down the shed. “One thing is certain to begin with,” he said loudly, “that the transmitting station in question is somewhere in Central Europe, approximately in the middle of the areas where these disturbances occur, eh? Relatively, it’s not very strong, as it only talks at night. All the worse; there’s no difficulty in finding the Eiffel Tower or Nauen, eh? My friend,” he shouted suddenly and stood still: “Imagine that in the very heart of Europe something extraordinary is being prepared. The organization has branches and offices, and the branches are in touch with one another; it has technical devices unknown to us, secret powers and, that you may know,” roared Mr. Carson, “it has also Krakatit, so!”
Prokop jumped up like a madman. “What!”
“Krakatit. Nine grammes and thirty-five decigrammes. All that we had left.”
“What did you do with it?” said Prokop fiercely.
“Experiments. We handled it as carefully as if . . . as if it were something very precious. And one evening”
“What?”
“It disappeared. Including the porcelain box.”
“Stolen?”
“Yes,”
“And who—who”
“Obviously the Martians,” grinned Mr. Carson. “Unfortunatey through the base collusion of a lab. boy who has disappeared—of course with the porcelain box.”
“When did that happen?”
“Well, just before they sent me here in search of you. An educated man, a Saxon. He left us not even a grain of powder. Now you know why I came.”
“And you think that it fell into the hands . . . of these mysterious people?”
Mr. Carson only snorted.
“How do you know?”
“I am certain. Listen,” said Mr. Carson, jumping about on his short legs, “do I look like a timid person?”
“N—no.”
“But I tell you that this frightens me. Honestly, I’m terrified. Krakatit . . that’s bad enough; and that unknown wireless station is still worse; and if they both fall into the same hands, then . . . good-morning. Then Mr. Carson will pack his bag and go off to the cannibals of Tasmania. You know, I shouldn’t like to see the end of Europe.”
Prokop only rubbed his hands together between his knees. “Christ, Christ,” he whispered to himself.
“Well, yes,” said Mr. Carson. “I’m only surprised, you know, that nothing . . . nothing large has gone up in the air already. All you have to do is to press some button or other and two thousand kilometres away—bang! And there you are. What else do you expect?”
“That’s clear,” said Prokop feverishly. “Krakatit mustn’t be given up. And Thomas—Thomas must be stopped . . .”
“Mr. Thomas,” said Carson rapidly, “would sell Krakatit to the Devil himself if he paid him for it. At the present moment Mr. Thomas is one of the most dangerous people in the world.”
“My God,” muttered Prokop desperately, “what are we to do now?”
Mr. Carson waited for some time. “It\s clear,” he said finally. ‘“Krakatit must be given up.”
“N-n-no! Never!”
“Given up. Simply because it’s a . . . decipherink key. It’s the very moment to do so, my dear sir. For goodness sake give it to anybody you like, only don’t make all this fuss about it. Give it to the Swiss or to the League of Aged Virgins or to the Devil’s grandmother; it will take them six months to realize that you are not insane. Or give it to us. We’ve already set up a receiving apparatus at Balttin. Just consider . . . infinitely rapid explosions of microscopic fragments of Krakatit. Ignited by an unknown current. Directly they turn on the switch somewhere the whole business starts off: t-r-r-r ta ta t-r-r-r t-r-r-r ta t-r-r-r ta ta. And there you are. Decipher it and you have the message. If only one had Krakatit!”
“I won’t give it up,” Prokop replied, covered with a cold sweat. “I don’t believe you. You would . . . make Krakatit for yourself.”
Mr. Carson only pulled down the corner of his mouth. “Well,” he said, “it’s only a question of . . . we’ll call a Conference. The League of Nations, The World Postal Union, The Eucharistic Congress or anything you like. For the sake of being in peace. I’m a Dane and have no use for politics. So. And you can give Krakatit to an International Commission. What’s the matter?”
“I—I’ve been ill for a long time,” Prokop excused himself, deathly pale. “I don’t feel quite well . . . and . . . I haven’t eaten for two days.”
“Weakness,” said Mr. Carson, sitting down next to him and putting his arm round his neck. “It’ll soon pass. You must go to Balttin. A very healthy region. And then you must go after Mr. Thomas. You shall have as much money as a millionaire. You'll be a big man. Well?”
“Yes,”’ whispered Prokop like a little child, and meekly allowed himself to be rocked.
“So so. Too much strain, see? That’s nothing. The chief thing . . . is the future. You’ve had a lot of poverty, man, eh? You’re a good chap, see? Now you’re better.” Mr. Carson smoked reflectively. “The future is something tremendous. You’ll get tons of money. You’ll give me ten per cent, eh? An international custom. You need Carson as well . . .”
In front of the shed there resounded the horn of a motor-car.
“Thank God,” said Carson with relief, “here’s the car. Well, my dear sir, we’ll be off.”
“Where?”
“For the moment, to eat.”