`Possibly.But it is a matter of degree obviously, since, for instance, I am not impressed by them.Therefore they are inferior.They cannot be otherwise.Their character is built upon conventional morality.It leans on the social order.Mine stands free from everything artificial.They are bound in all sorts of conventions.They depend on life, which, in this connection, is a historical fact surrounded by all sorts of restraints and considerations, a complex, organized fact open to attack at every point;whereas I depend on death, which knows no restraint and cannot be attacked.
My superiority is evident.'
`This is a transcendental way of putting it,' said Ossipon, watching the cold glitter of the round spectacles.`I've heard Karl Yundt say much the same thing not very long ago.'
`Karl Yundt,' mumbled the other, contemptuously, `the delegate of the International Red Committee, has been a posturing shadow all his life.
There are three of you delegates, aren't there? I won't define the other two, as you are one of them.But what you say means nothing.You are the worthy delegates for revolutionary propaganda, but the trouble is not only that you are as unable to think independently as any respectable grocer or journalist of them all, but that you have no character whatever.'
Ossipon could not restrain a start of indignation.
`But what do you want from us?' he exclaimed in a deadened voice.`What is it you are after yourself?'
`A perfect detonator,' was the peremptory answer.`What are you making that face for? You see, you can't even bear the mention of something conclusive.'
`I am not making a face,' growled the annoyed Ossipon bearishly.`You revolutionists,' the other continued, with leisurely self-confidence, `are the slaves of the social convention, which is afraid of you; slaves of it as much as the very police that stand up in the defence of that convention.
Clearly you are, since you want to revolutionize it.It governs your thought, of course, and your action, too, and thus neither your thought nor your action can ever be conclusive.' He paused, tranquil, with that air of close, endless silence, then almost immediately went on: `You are not a bit better than the forces arrayed against you - than the police, for instance.The other day I came suddenly upon Chief Inspector Heat at the corner of Tottenham Court Road.He looked at me very steadily.But I did not look at him.Why should I give him more than a glance? He was thinking of many things -of his superiors, of his reputation, of the law courts, of his salary, of newspapers - of a hundred things.But I was thinking of my perfect detonator only.He meant nothing to me.He was as insignificant as - I can't call to mind anything insignificant enough to compare him with - except Karl Yundt perhaps.Like to like.The terrorist and the policeman both come from the same basket.Revolution, legality - counter moves in the same game; forms of idleness at bottom identical.He plays his little game -so do you propagandists.But I don't play; I work fourteen hours a day, and go hungry sometimes.My experiments cost money now and again, and then I must do without food for a day or two.You're looking at my beer.Yes.
I have had two glasses already, and shall have another presently.This is a little holiday, and I celebrate it alone.Why not? I've the grit to work alone, quite alone, absolutely alone.I've worked alone for years.
Ossipon's face had turned dusky red.
`At the perfect detonator - eh?' he sneered, very low.
`Yes,' retorted the other.`It is a good definition.You couldn't find anything half so precise to define the nature of your activity with all your committees and delegations.It is I who am the true propagandist.'
`We won't discuss that point,' said Ossipon, with an air of rising above personal considerations.`I am afraid I'll have to spoil your holiday for you, though.There's a man blown up in Greenwich Park this morning.'
`How do you know?'
`They have been yelling the news in the streets since two o'clock.Ibought the paper, and just ran in here.Then I saw you sitting at this table.I've got it in my pocket now.'
He pulled the newspaper out.It was a good-sized, rosy sheet, as if flushed by the warmth of its own convictions which were optimistic.He scanned the pages rapidly.
`Ah! Here it is.Bomb in Greenwich Park.There isn't much so far.Half past eleven.Foggy morning.Effects of explosion felt as far as Romney Road and Park Place.Enormous hole in the ground under a tree filled with smashed roots and broken branches.All round fragments of a man's body blown to pieces.That's all.The rest's mere newspaper gup.No doubt a wicked attempt to blow up the Observatory, they say.H'm.That's hardly credible.'
He looked at the paper for a while longer in silence then passed it to the other, who, after gazing abstractedly at the print, laid it down without comment.
It was Ossipon who spoke first - still resentful.
`The fragments of only one man, you note.Ergo: blew himself up.That spoils your day off for you - don't it? Were you expecting that sort of move? I hadn't the slightest idea - not the ghost of a notion of anything of the sort being planned to come off here - in this country.
Under the present circumstances it's nothing short of criminal.'
The little man lifted his thin black eyebrows with dispassionate scorn.
`Criminal! What is that? What is crime? What can be the meaning of such an assertion?'
`How am I to express myself? One must use the current words,' said Ossipon, impatiently.`The meaning of this assertion is that this business may affect our position very adversely in this country.Isn't that crime enough for you? I am convinced you have been giving away some of your stuff lately.'
Ossipon stared hard.The other, without flinching, lowered and raised his head slowly.
`You have!' burst out the editor of the F.P.leaflets in an intense whisper.`No! And are you really handing it over at large like this, for the asking, to the first fool that comes along?'
