tridge. Terrible energy . I . . . I thought at first that it was the por-porcel-por-ce-lain, polcelain, porcelene . . . the white insulator, you know, that had exploded. Aluminium silicate.”
“Porcelain.”
“Snuff-box. I thought it had exploded. So I strike a match and there it is unharmed, unharmed, unharmed. And I stay there like a post . . . until the match burns my fingers. And then—across country—in the dark to Brevnov or Stresovic—and somewhere on the way the word Krakatoe, Krakatit came into my head. Kra-ka-tit. No, no, it wasn’t li—like that. When it went up, I fell on the floor and shouted out Krakatit. Krakatit. Then I forgot it. Who’s that there? Who—who are you?”
“Thomas.”
“Thomas, aha! That lousy fellow! We used to lend one another our notes. He never gave me back a chemistry notebook. Thomas, what was his first name?”
“George.”
“I know now, George. You’re George, I know. George Thomas. Where’s my notebook? Wait a moment and I’ll tell you something. If the rest goes up there’ll be trouble. Man, it’ll flatten out the whole of Prague. Wipe it away. Blow it off the earth—f-t! When that por-ce-lain box explodes, see?”
“What box?”
“You are George Thomas, I know. Go to Karlin or to Vysocany and watch it explode. Run, run!”
