CHAPTER III
He dreamed that he heard a noise made by innumerable wheels. “It’s some factory or other,” he thought and ran up the steps. All at once he found himself standing in front of a large door, on which was a glass plate with the name: Plinius. Inordinately delighted, he went in. “Is Mr. Plinius in?” he asked of a girl sitting at a typewriter. “He’ll be here in a moment,” she answered and directly afterwards there appeared a tall, clean-shaven man with enormous circular spectacles. “What can I do for you?” he asked.
Prokop glanced inquiringly at his extraordinarily expressive face. His mouth was of the British variety, his forehead was covered with lines and had a wart the size of a sixpence, his chin was that of a cinema artist. “Are y—you Mr. Plinius?”
“Please,” said the tall man, and with an abrupt gesture indicated the way to his study.
“I am extremely . . . it’s a great honour for me,” stammered Prokop, taking a seat.
“What is it you want?” the tall man interrupted him.
“I’ve disintegrated matter,” announced Prokop. Plinius remained silent; he only played with a steel key and, behind his spectacles, closed his heavy lids.
“It’s like this,” began Prokop impetuously. “E-e-everything is disintegrating, you understand?
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