The plane roared on. Presently Bell said shortly:
"That stuff he has won't last indefinitely. I'm glad I left him that revolver."
Jamison stirred suddenly. He dug down in his pocket and fished out a cigar.
"Since I feel that I may live long enough to finish smoking this," he observed dryly, "I think I'll light it. I haven't felt that I had twenty minutes of life ahead of me for a long time, now. A sense of economy made me smoke cigarettes. It wouldn't be so much waste if you left half a cigarette behind you when you were killed."
he tight little cabin began to reek of the tobacco. Paula pressed close to Bell.
"But—Charles," she asked hopefully, "is—is it really all right, now?"
"I think so," said Bell, frowning. "Our job's over, anyhow. We go up the Chilean coast and find that navy boat. We turn our stuff over to them. They'll take over the task of seeing that every doctor, everywhere in South America, knows how to get The Master's poison out of the system of anybody who's affected. Some of them won't be reached, but most of them will. I looked at his formula. Standard drugs, all of them. There won't be any trouble getting the news spread. The Master's slaves will nearly go crazy with joy. And," he added grimly, "I'm going to see to it that the Rio police take back what they said about us. I think we'll have enough pull to demand that much!"
He was silent for a moment or so, thinking.