“Then it’s only since this patent has begun to make money that it does interest you?”
Dr. Crane twisted his shoulders. “Yes. It’s the money.”
“Heaven knows I’d like to see you get some of it. But why did you put it off so long? Why didn’t you make some claim when you delivered the papers to his executor, since you hadn’t done so before? Why didn’t you bring the matter up to me then, and let me make a claim against the estate for you?”
Dr. Crane could endure his chair no longer. He began to walk softly about in his slippers, looking at nothing, but, as he talked, picking up objects here and there—drawing-tools, his cocoa-cup, a china cream-pitcher, turning them round and carefully putting them down again, just as he often absently handled pieces of apparatus when he was lecturing.
“I know,” he said, “appearances are against me. But you must understand my negligence. You know how little opportunity a man has to carry on his own line of investigation here. You know how much time I give to any of my students who are doing honest work. Outland was, of course, the most brilliant pupil I ever had, and I gave him time and thought without stint. Gladly, of course. If he were reaping the rewards of his discovery himself, I’d have nothing to say—though I’ve not the least doubt he would compensate me liberally. But it does not seem right that a stranger should profit, and not those who helped him. You, of course, do profit—indirectly, if not directly. You cannot shut your eyes to the fact that this money, coming into your family, has strengthened your credit and your general security. That’s as it should be. But your claim was less definite than mine. I spent time and strength I could ill afford to spare on the very series of experiments that led to this result. Marsellus gets the benefit of my work as well as of Outland’s. I have certainly been ill-used—and, as you say, it’s difficult to get recompense when I ask for it