"Colonel, look at this. I was wrong after all. Disastrously wrong. I haven't seen a blood-type distribution pattern like Hamelin's since I was a medical student, and even back then it was only a demonstration, not a real live patient. Look at it from the genetic point of view—the migration factors."
He passed the protocol across the desk. Mudgett was not by background a scientist, but he was an enormously able administrator, of the breed that makes it its business to know the technicalities on which any project ultimately rests. He was not much more than half-way through the tally before his eyebrows were gaining altitude like shock-waves.
"Carson, we can't let that man into the machine! He's—"
"He's already in it, Colonel, you know that. And if we interrupt the process before it runs to term, we'll kill him."
"Let's kill him, then," Mudgett said harshly. "Say he died while being processed. Do the country a favor."
"That would produce a hell of a stink. Besides, we have no proof."
Mudgett flourished the protocol excitedly.
"That's not proof to anyone but a haemotologist."
"But Carson, the man's a saboteur!" Mudgett shouted. "Nobody but an Asiatic could have a typing pattern like this! And he's no melting-pot product, either—he's a classical mixture, very probably a Georgian. And every move he's made since we first heard of him has been aimed directly at us—aimed directly at tricking us into getting him into the machine!"
"I think so too," Carson said grimly. "I just hope the enemy hasn't many more agents as brilliant."