Tom nodded as if he did not know he was lying. With the two orderlies looking very relieved, we left the hospital. "What about Ann?" I asked outside.
Tom shook his head. "Take me to the lab."
"But—"
"Shut up, Luke. I know what I'm doing."
I wish I could have said the same for myself.
In the lab, Tom surveyed ruefully the damage the fire and water had done. He stood for a long time staring at the spot on the wall where the painting had hung, then sighed and shook his head. I had the impression that he was sorry for the whole human race.
"I want you to pick up all the scraps of paper that were on the big table," he said. "It doesn't matter if they are scorched or soaked. Enough will remain for me to reassemble my own equations that I developed from the painting. Bring these to the old lab. Then I want you to make certain that I have all the black coffee on hand I can drink. Then—" He hesitated. "Do you think they will be back?" he said at last.
"I hope so." I said.
I collected the scraps of paper and took them to the old lab and set up an electric coffee maker that would keep the black brew hot at all times. Digging a folding cot out of the basement, I put it across the door. Putting my gun within easy reach, I lay down on the cot. The last glimpse I had of Tom before I went to sleep, he was frowning at the pieces of paper on the table in front of him. With the bandages on his face, he looked like a mummy in grave clothes risen from the tomb to try to solve the riddle of the Sphinx, and not doing very well with the problem.
During the night I awakened. Tom was still at the table. When morning came, he was still there, but his head was beginning to droop. When I tried to coax him to take a turn on the cot, he glared at me as if I were crazy.