Carson looked dazed. "I—I'll call her."
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."
He knew that Ferris was in sober earnest. "What do you mean, Doctor?"