But Mannheim hadn't mentioned it aloud to the Executive Council.
Nor had he pointed out that ten thousand times as many people had died during the same period through preventable accidents. That would not have had the effect he wanted.
These particular men had died for this particular purpose. They had not asked to die. They had not known they were being sacrificed. None of them could be said to have died a hero's death. They had died simply because they were in a particular place at a particular time.
They had been allowed to die for a specific purpose. To abort that purpose at this time would be to make their deaths, retroactively, murder.
Mannheim put his head on the pillow and lifted his feet up on the bed. All he wanted was a few minutes of relaxation. He'd get ready for sleep later. He pressed the control button on the bedframe that lifted the head of the bed up so that he was in a semi-reclining position. He picked up his drink and took a second long pull from it.
Then he touched the phone switch and put the receiver to his ear.
"Beta-beta," he said when he heard the tone.
He heard the hum, and he knew that the ultraprivate phone on the desk of Dr. Farnsworth, in St. Louis, was signaling. Then Farnsworth's voice came over the linkage.
"F here."
"M here," Mannheim replied. Then he asked guardedly, "Any sign of our boy?"