"You can?" Mitchell said.
Ferris nodded. "We made a slight miscalculation. It appears as if the virus colony overcontrols the supply of posterior pituitary extract in the cerebrum. It isn't more than necessary to stop headaches. But that necessary amount of control to stop pain is too much to allow the brain cells to function properly."
"Why won't they function?" Carson roared.
"They don't get enough food—blood, oxygen, hemoglobin," Ferris explained. "The cerebral vessels don't contract enough to pump the blood through the brain as fast and as hard as is needed. The brain cells remain sluggish, dormant. Perhaps decaying."
The colonel yelled.
Mitchell groaned. He was abruptly sure Ferris was correct.
The colonel drew himself to attention, fists trembling at his sides. "I'll see you hung for treason! Don't you know what Elliot Macklin means to us? Do you want those filthy Luxemburgians to reach Pluto before we do? Macklin's formula is essential to the FTL engine. You might just as well have blown up Washington, D.C. Better! The capital is replaceable. But the chances of an Elliot Macklin are very nearly once in a human race."
"Just a moment," Mitchell interrupted, "we can cure Macklin."
"You can?" Carson said. For a moment Mitchell thought the man was going to clasp his hands and sink to his knees.