* * * * *
Mitchell greeted the orangish sunrise with a feeling of defeat. He
turned from the window to face the instruments of his laboratory.
Mrs. Macklin had come. Numbly she signed the release allowing the
restorative treatment. By the time she, Carson and the mathematician
left, Macklin had been able to say "mama" and--embarrassingly--"papa"
to him. Mitchell was confident he would regain his full senses and that
the brain cells had only become passive, and had not decayed.
But still it was only the wiping out of one horrendous mistake. Months
and months of work wasted.
The door banged open and a small man entered with a long, slender brown
paper bag and proceeding on an aeronautical search pattern.
"Dr. Ferris!" Mitchell said. "You mustn't take it so hard. I tried to
get in touch with you. But at least I have been able to administer the
antitoxin to Dr. Macklin."
"Who gives a damn about that egghead?" Ferris said, placing the
paperbag upright on the work table. "Don't you understand, man? We're
rich! Where are the glasses?"
"Rich?" Mitchell said. "Doctor, would you like me to help you over to
your own quarters?"
"Relax, Mitchell. I'm not _that_ drunk. I know what I'm talking about.
I tell you the F-M Virus is going to make us rich! Powerful! Men like
Elliot Macklin will be insignificant beside us."