fell back in his chair, purple with suppressed laughter. Angrily
darting at him and catching his left shoulder in a vicelike grip,
Karospina growled:

"You fool, how dare you mock something you know nothing of?" He shook
his guest roughly.

"Uncle, uncle, be patient! Tell Mr. Shannon, and he, too, will become a
believer. I believe in you. I believe in him, Mr. Shannon. Don't sneer!
Tell him, uncle." Mila's words, almost imploring in their tone, calmed
the infuriated inventor, who left the room. He reentered in a moment,
his head dripping, and he was grinning broadly.

"Whenever I encounter a refractory pattern in my fireworks--as you call
them--I am compelled to throw a bucket of water over it to quench its
too ardent spirits. I have just done the same to my own head, dear Mr.
Shannon, and I ask your pardon for my rudeness. Get some fresh tea,
Mila, strong tea, Mila." Pipes were relighted and the conversation
resumed.

"I forgot in my obsession, in what Jacob Boehme calls 'the shudder of
divine excitement,' that I was talking to one of the uninitiated. I
suppose you think by pyrotechny I mean the old-fashioned methods of set
pieces, ghastly portraits in fire, big, spouting wheels, rockets, war
scenes from contemporary history, seaside stuff, badly done--and flowery
squibs. My boy, all that, still admired by our country cousins, is the
very infancy of my art. In China, where nearly everything was invented
ages ago, in China I learned the first principles, also the
possibilities of the art of fireworks; yes, call it by its humble title.
In China I have seen surprising things at night. Pagodas blown across
the sky, an army of elephants in pursuit, and all bathed in the most
divine hues imaginable. But their art suffers from convention. They
accomplish miracles considering the medium they work in--largely
gunpowder. And their art has no meaning, no message, no moral principle,
no soul. Years ago I discovered all the aids necessary to the
pyrotechnist. I am not a chemist for nothing. If I can paint a fair
imitation of a Claude Monet on canvas, I can also produce for you a
colourless gas which, when handled by a virtuoso, produces astonishing
illusions. In the open air, against the dark background of the horizon,
I can show you the luminous dots planewise of the Impressionists; or I
can give you the broad, sabrelike brushwork of Velasquez, or the
imperial tintings of Titian. I can paint pictures on the sky. I can
produc