Damadian and Minkoff, as usual, were working late. “I really wonder,” Damadian said without preamble, “will these dewars ever, ever get done?”
Minkoff said nothing. What was there to say? At this point, his guess was no better than anyone else’s.
Arms propped up on his knees, his head in his hands, Damadian sat stoically in the laboratory, eyeing the floor vacantly. Minkoff sat slump-shouldered near him. Their hair was unruly. Their complexions were pale. Their conversation was freighted with more subdued vocabulary than was the custom. Metal parts lay strewn all over the floor, and their enthusiasm was as scattered as the parts. They were beginning to feel imprisoned by the machine.
A baffling problem had developed with one of the vacuum ...