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started the engine and jumped into the car. “We shall be there in a moment.” The car dropped down from the Hill of Temptation into a broad valley, flew through a silent night, flashed past a number of country houses and drew up in front of a long wooden house surrounded by alders; it looked like an old mill. Daimon sprang out of the car and led Prokop to the foot of some wooden steps, but here their path was barred by a man with his collar turned up. “The password?” he asked. “One Piece,” said Daimon and removed his goggles. The man stepped back and Daimon hurried on. They came into a large, low room, which looked like a schoolroom; two rows of seats, a platform, a desk and a blackboard. The only difference was that the place was full of smoke and noise. The benches were crammed with people who were wearing their hats. They were all quarrelling with one another; some red-haired lout was shouting something from the platform, while at the desk there stood a dry, pedantic old man, desperately ringing a bell.

Daimon went straight up to the platform and mounted it. “Comrades,” he cried, and his voice was as inhuman as that of a seagull. “I have brought some one to you. Comrade Krakatit.” There was a dead silence and Prokop felt himself seized and mercilessly examined by fifty pairs of