The chemist, Dr. Petrelli, looked at the fruit in his hand, snarled suddenly, and smashed it to the floor. Its skin burst, splattering pulp all over the gray plastic.
“It looks,” he said in a high, savage voice, “as if that hulking idiot will be the only one left alive when the ship returns!” He turned to look at Smathers, who was peering through a binocular microscope. “Smathers, what makes him different?”
“How do I know?” growled Dr. Smathers, still peering. “There’s something different about him, that’s all.”
Petrelli forcibly restrained his temper. “Very funny,” he snapped.
“Not funny at all,” Smathers snapped back. “No two human beings are identical—you know that.” He lifted his gaze from the eyepiece of the instrument and settled in on the chemist. “He’s got AB blood type, for one thing, which none of the volunteers had. Is that what makes him immune to whatever poison is in those things? I don’t know.
“Were the other three allergic to some protein substance in the fruit, while MacNeil isn’t? I don’t know.
“Do his digestive processes destroy the poison? I don’t know.
“It’s got something to do with his blood, I think, but I can’t even be sure of that. The leucocytes are a little high, the red cell count is a little low, the hemoglobin shows a little high on the colorimeter, but none of ’em seems enough to do any harm.
“It might be an enzyme that destroys the ability of the cells to utilize oxygen. It might be anything!”