"Because, Colonel, the matter of my husband's health, his very life, is
involved."
"There is some degree of risk in shock treatments, too. But--"
"It isn't quite the same, Colonel. Elliot Macklin has a history of
vascular spasm, a mild pseudostroke some years ago. Now you want to
give those cerebral arteries back the ability to constrict. To
paralyze. To kill. No court would give you that authority."
"I suppose there's some chance of that. But without the treatment
there is _no_ chance of your husband regaining his right senses, Mrs.
Macklin," Mitchell interjected.
Her mouth grew petulant. "I don't care. I would rather have a live
husband than a dead genius. I can take care of him this way, make him
comfortable...."
Carson opened his mouth and closed his fist, then relaxed. Mitchell led
him back into the hall.
"I'm no psychiatrist," Mitchell said, "but I think she wants Macklin
stupid. Prefers it that way. She's always dominated his personal life,
and now she can dominate him completely."
"What is she? A monster?" the Army officer muttered.
"No," Mitchell said. "She's an intelligent woman unconsciously jealous
of her husband's genius."
"Maybe," Carson said. "I don't know. I don't know what the hell to tell
the Pentagon. I think I'll go out and get drunk."
"I'll go with you," Ferris said.
Mitchell glanced sharply at the little biologist.