“It’s over,” he said, in a low voice. “I’ll never see Nautilus swim in my lifetime.” Kydd moved his chair closer. “How can you say that, Toot? The committee haven’t given it enough thought, is all.” “So who will bring ’em to their senses? Gresham isn’t alone, damn his soul, for it’s in the nature of the mariner to distrust new things. No, I’m one man against a whole tribe of Noahs. Pity me, Tom.” Kydd grimaced at the street noises outside Fulton’s small rooms, loud and unceasing. They were a sad distraction for any thinking man. Fulton deserved better but obviously could not afford it. Then a thought came: could he himself fund the development? Fulton was proud and independent, and would allow it only under contract as a form of investment, shares in his company, perhaps. But as a venture the yield would be considerable, even as much as— What was he thinking? To profit by the murder of sailors, however logically necessary?
