"Understand," said Isaac Trigg, his gray Van Dyke jerking angrily, "we have a democracy in its purest form—not anarchism. Whatever the decision of the majority is, it will hold for all of us!" And he bent his gaze on Nesbit.
The palaeontologist looked sullen, Matt thought. His jaw was still swollen and bruised. He sat about halfway down the table, gazing into space.
"Before we take any steps about our—er—captives," Isaac went on, "there are two things that should be made clear.
"In the present crisis, we need every hand we can get. If we are to save any forms of carbon life at all—especially vegetation—there isn't a moment to spare. This fort has to be converted into an airtight island for our form of protoplasm, because, in weeks or months at the longest, the alien protozoa will have made a desert of Earth!"
Matt heard a leg-band clank behind him in the silence. He twisted around. Margot Drake was staring open mouthed at the director.
"It's not possible! You're lying!" she burst out in a throaty voice.
Isaac wheeled around.
"Lying? The chances are that all the normal bacterial organisms whether in the water, soil or air have already been destroyed by the alien amoebas! What do you think of that, young woman?"
Margot didn't say anything.
Isaac turned back to the table. "The second factor to be considered is that these women are emotionally unbalanced."