“I have the privilege,” he said to his audience, “of introducing to you our comrade, Professor Le Vey.”
“Le Vey,” whispered Brisson in Palla’s ear. “He’s a crack-brained chemist, and they ought to nab him.”
The professor rose from one of the benches on the rostrum and came forward––a tall, black-bearded man, deathly pale, whose protruding, bluish eyes seemed almost stupid in their fixity.
“Words are by-products,” he said, “and of minor importance. Deeds educate. T. N. T., also, is a byproduct, and of no use in conversation unless employed as an argument––” A roar of applause drowned his voice: he gazed at the audience out of his stupid pop-eyes.
“Tyranny has kicked you into the gutter,” he went on. “Capital makes laws to keep you there and hires police and soldiers to enforce those laws. This is called civilisation. Is there anything for you to do except to pick yourselves out of the gutter and destroy 156 what kicked you into it and what keeps you there?”
“No!” roared the audience.
“Only a clean sweep will do it,” said Le Vey. “If you have a single germ of plague in the world, it will multiply. If you leave a single trace of what is called civilisation in the world, it will hatch out more tyrants, more capitalists, more laws. So there is only one remedy. Destruction. Total annihilation. Nothing less can purify this rotten hell they call the world!”
Amid storms of applause he unrolled a manuscript and read without emphasis:
“Therefore, the Workers of the World, in council assembled, hereby proclaim at midnight to-night, throughout the entire world:
“1. That all debts, public and private, are cancelled.