“still thee, Phipps,” says Jenner, “we do this for England’s saving.” the boy strains taut against the straps; were he unmuzzled, he’d rightly be raving.
later, when all syringes are spent, he breathes wet and heavy and ragged. his teeth chatter hard; years of these treatments have rendered them craggy and jagged. “that’s what you said in ’96, you cursèd old magician!”
Jenner mumbles to himself: “study physics and you’re a physicist, but go beyond and you’re a metaphysician. isn’t that telling?” he leaves the room (and Phipps in it, still yelling), walks slowly down to his study. “poor child,” he clucks, “who would have thought our work would turn so bloody?” he sits down at his desk and opens volume twenty-four.
he mouths the words he writes. ” . . . but more and more it seems as if the hunger can’t be sated. to review,” he sits up, ticks his fingers: “feeding: unabated, whether natural or adulterated. injection: ineffective, neither curing nor protective. the bones become more brittle, the sinews still wind tight.” Jenner sighs and rubs his eyes, so sensitive lately a candle seems bright. “all i can do is try to be humane.” (he still uses leather and lock, for example, instead of the more common chain.) “conclusions, test two-c-one-three: another useless brain.”
he drops the pen and stretches, eyes the copper pan. “well then, better not to let it go to waste.” Jenner can’t help it, he still groans with pleasure at the thick soft taste.