on that night, more than a week ago, Comrade Ossipon walked without
looking where he put his feet, feeling no fatigue, feeling nothing,
seeing nothing, hearing not a sound. “AN IMPENETRABLE MYSTERY. . .
.” He walked disregarded. . . . “THIS ACT OF MADNESS OR DESPAIR.”
And the incorruptible Professor walked too, averting his eyes from
the odious multitude of mankind. He had no future. He disdained
it. He was a force. His thoughts caressed the images of ruin and
destruction. He walked frail, insignificant, shabby, miserable –
and terrible in the simplicity of his idea calling madness and
despair to the regeneration of the world. Nobody looked at him.
He passed on unsuspected and deadly, like a pest in the street full
of men.