"But, my dear man, the blood of these beasts is the favourite haunt of the trypanosome."
They argued it to and fro with the pertinacity of enthusiasts improperly equipped with knowledge. Roger fought for his "fairy story," Lionel for his dead and dying cultures. At last Lionel finished the preparation of the mixture.
"Look here," he said. "This atoxyl, you say, is to be kept? Well. If I get a relapse before it is used, you will please remember that it is to be used to paralyse artificially-raised trypanosomes, which will afterwards be injected into me. You will try none of your sera on me, my friend. If you like to go getting sera from dying, dirty, anthraxy wild beasts, do so; but don't put any of the poison, so got, into me. I see you so plainly strangling a deer in a mud-wallow, and drawing off the blood into a methylated spirits can. Here's the mixture ready. And now that our water of life is ready for use, comes the great question: Which of all these sleepers is to live? Here are twenty-nine men, women, and children. They are all condemned to die within a few weeks. Now then, Roger. You are a writer, that is to say a law-giver, a disposer and settler of moral issues. Which of these is to live? We can say thumbs down to any we choose. If we live to be a hundred we shall probably never have to make such a solemn choice again."
"It isn't certain life," said Roger, hesitating for a moment, staggered by the responsibility. "Atoxyl isn't a certain cure, even of moderate cases."
"It's a practically certain cure if the patient is all right in other ways; that is, of course, if the case has not gone too far."
"What is the percentage of deaths?" said Roger.
"With atoxyl?"
"Yes."
"Eight per cent. for slight cases, and twenty-two per cent. for bad ones. Without atoxyl, it's a certain hundred per cent."
"I see."