Garry seized the opportunity to air some of his ideas. He was all enthusiasm.
"We'll put the vault in Michigan, Mr. Haworth, not here in California—too many earthquakes. Might be a long time before they know enough about bio-chemistry to revive a dead man and restore his youth. Not that you'll be dead," he amended hastily, "just in a state of suspended animation. I'm sure Dr. Stevens can work that out.
"Anyway, we'd better put the vault in Michigan—very safe country, geologically. We'll make the vault and the coolers of the very best, of course, granite and stainless steel and quartz that will never wear out. And then," he added, coyly, "I have a little idea for a power plant that will be really dependable, if I am the one that says it."
"It better be!" snapped H.D., suddenly ferocious.
"Yes—of course. There's the problem of keeping everything secret but I'm sure we can manage it. The workers won't know what they're doing, Dr. Stevens, and I can do all the really technical work. And there'll be only one trustee each generation to keep his eye on things, starting with me."
Stevens was leaning forward, wearing a somewhat bewildered expression.
"But I thought—but surely after we demonstrate that suspended animation is feasible and we've verified our results, we'll publish?" Seeing the odd-faces the other two were pulling, he repeated plaintively, "I always publish."
H.D. Haworth pronounced a certain four-letter word. Garibaldi Jones cast his eyes to the heavens and tore his hair, coming away empty-handed, of course.
"Well, what's wrong with that?" Stevens snapped, a little color in his face. "Don't the people have a right to know?"
"Young man," quavered H.D., tottering to his feet and shaking the bony forefinger, "what you know about people I could stick in my—"