I were an idiot. Where does it come from, this energy?” demanded Prokop feverishly. “Tell me.”
“Well, perhaps from the atom,” suggested Plinius.
“Aha,” cried Prokop exultantly, and wiped the sweat away from his face. “That’s the amusing part of it. Simply from the atom. It throws the atoms together . . . and t-t-t—tears off the Beta layer . . . and the core disintegrates. It’s an Alpha explosion. Do you realize who I am? I am the first man, sir, who has overcome the coefficient of compressibility. I . . . I have extracted tantalum from bismuth. Listen, do you know the amount of power there is in one gramme of mercury? Four hundred and sixty-two millions of kilogramometres. Matter is frightfully powerful. Matter is a regiment which is marching without moving: one two, one two; but give it the right order and the regiment will attack. En avant! That’s the explosion, you understand? Hurrah!
Prokop was pulled up by his own exclamation; the beating in his head was so loud that he ceased to understand anything. “Excuse me,” he said, in order to cover his confusion, and with a shaking hand felt for his cigar case. “You smoke?”
“No.”
“Even the ancient Romans used to smoke,” Prokop assured him, and opened his case. Inside was nothing but some heavy fuses.
“Light up,” he urged, “this one’s a small Nobel Extra.” He himself bit off the end of a tetryl cartridge and looked round for matches. “Never mind,” he said, “but have you ever heard of explo-
