In New York, at the research and development building of Argyle & Co. Foods.
Felix and Catherine stood in Dr. Thorne's laboratory.
It was now completely different from the empty shell it had been when it was completed a month ago.
The air was filled with a scent that was a mix of alcohol, iodine, and a certain fruity sweetness.
Chemists, all wearing white lab coats and personally selected by Dr. Thorne, were busily and orderly working at their respective lab benches.
This had become the most mysterious and most expensive department in the entire company.
"Boss, Miss Catherine."
Dr. Thorne's face showed the fervor and confidence of someone about to present his great invention to investors, "Please follow me."
He led the two to the deepest part of the laboratory.
There, a peculiar-looking new machine, handcrafted by Smith, was placed.
It was connected to the factory's main steam line. Its main body was a huge glass bell jar that could open and close.
"Mr. Smith is a true genius," Dr. Thorne praised sincerely, "He truly turned my theoretical 'vacuum' into reality."
Then he nodded to Jones, who had been waiting for a long time nearby.
Seeing this, Jones quickly stepped forward to operate it.
He carefully placed a special glass bottle filled with bright peach slices into the bell jar, then pulled down the machine's valve.
Accompanied by the characteristic hiss of a steam pump, the oddly shaped machine came to life.
The piston pump connected to the bell jar began to move rhythmically back and forth, starting the sterilization process.
Everyone held their breath, staring intently at the pointer of the brass pressure gauge next to the bell jar.
The pointer began to slowly deflect to the left.
This indicated that the air inside the bell jar was being slowly drawn out.
Dr. Thorne almost pressed his face against the glass bell jar.
"Very good... continue... the pressure is still dropping..."
When the pointer finally stabilized at a red mark indicating "high vacuum."
Jones pulled down the second valve.
"Click!"
Another mechanical arm, driven by a complex gear set, slowly pressed down from above. It precisely screwed a metal bottle cap tightly onto the bottle mouth with a torque that human hands could never achieve.
The entire process was smooth and took no more than ten seconds.
"Success."
Jones closed the valve and took out the perfectly sealed glass bottle.
Dr. Thorne took it, then retrieved another identical sample from the constant-temperature storage room behind him, which had been sealed using the same method two weeks prior.
"Boss." He tapped the bottom of the bottle, then twisted the metal cap firmly to open the sample.
With a crisp "pop," the wonderful sound of the vacuum being broken was heard.
He offered a slice of golden-colored peach, looking as if it had just been picked from the tree yesterday, to Felix and Catherine with a silver fork.
Catherine took a bite.
The next second, her blue eyes were filled with incredible surprise.
"Oh... Boss." She looked at him, "This... this tastes like the first ripe peach I ate in an orchard in Ireland when I was a child."
"It's nothing like those overcooked jams."
"This is the power of science, Catherine," Felix also took a bite, nodding with satisfaction.
"Doctor," he looked at Thorne, "You and your team, as well as Smith and Jones, have done an excellent job. Together, you have created a miracle that could be worth tens of millions of dollars."
"So," he asked, "when can we start mass production?"
"Anytime, Boss," Thorne's face was full of confidence, "as long as Supervisor Jones can build a few more of these vacuum sealing machines. My laboratory can immediately produce a set of the low-temperature sterilization standardized production processes you mentioned."
"Very good." Felix turned to Jones, "Did you hear that? Immediately have Smith drop everything he's doing. Within a month, I want to see a brand new fruit canning production line on our civilian production line."
"Yes, Boss!"
"So," Felix's gaze returned to Thorne, "what about the second project? That more important thing."
At the mention of this, Dr. Thorne's expression became serious, even reverent.
"That project has also achieved a decisive breakthrough."
He led them to the next room, the animal testing center, which had higher security and was more daunting.
"My Iodoglycerol formula has completed its final refinement," he pointed to rows of densely recorded experimental reports, "By adding trace amounts of potassium iodide as a stabilizer to the solution, we successfully solved the biggest problem of iodine tincture being prone to volatilization and oxidation."
"We conducted the final round of simulated combat injury experiments on monkeys."
He looked at Felix, clearly announcing the astonishing data that could change the history of modern medicine.
"In the experimental group using our latest formula, out of a total of twenty-four severe open wounds, the post-operative infection rate was zero."
"Zero?" Catherine couldn't help but gasp.
"Yes, that's right, zero," Dr. Thorne affirmed, "The safety and effectiveness of this Iodoglycerol disinfectant have far exceeded all surgical knowledge of this era."
"But..." his tone shifted, becoming somewhat solemn, "Boss, we cannot announce production yet."
"Why?"
"Because pigs are not humans."
Dr. Thorne looked at Felix, his eyes revealing seriousness, and made a proposal that was relatively uncommon in this era.
"We need to conduct clinical trials."
"Before I can confidently put this in the hands of military surgeons, we must conduct rigorous human trials," he said, "We need to know if it will cause allergic reactions on human skin. We need to know the safest and most effective dosage for people of different weights. This requires a large amount of clinical data."
Felix nodded silently; indeed, without human trials, it couldn't be easily given to the military, otherwise, problems would be troublesome.
"Tell me, Doctor, what do you need?"
"I need volunteers," Dr. Thorne replied, "I need volunteers with fresh, open wounds. I will use the medicine on them and conduct continuous observation and recording."
"This is almost impossible in New York," Thorne's face showed a troubled expression, "Although the public is not resistant to human trials, no hospital will approve such an experiment. Nor will any respectable person be willing to risk their body."
Felix fell silent.
He paced back and forth in the office.
After a long time, he stopped and looked at Miller, the security supervisor who understood the city's dark side.
"Miller."
"What are your orders, Boss?"
"I heard there are many underground boxing rings in Five Points and the dock areas. Is that right?"
"Yes, Boss," Miller nodded, "Some desperate poor people will fight there, bloodying each other for a few dollars in prize money."
"Very good."
Felix looked at Flynn, who had been silent and had no sense of presence.
"Flynn, starting tomorrow," he ordered, "have the intelligence department 'talk' to the owners of all these underground boxing rings."
"Tell them that a pharmaceutical company is willing to become the medical sponsor for their boxing matches."
"We will set up a temporary medical station backstage at every boxing ring, staffed personally by Dr. Thorne's team."
"They will provide free wound treatment services for all their injured boxers."
"In return," Felix looked at Miller, "I need those boxers to sign an agreement to voluntarily accept treatment with our new drug. And for the next month, they must undergo daily physical examinations."
A clinical trial plan was presented by Felix.
"Boss..." Catherine's eyes were filled with complex emotions, "Doing this..."
"This is saving them, Catherine," Felix's reply was calm; Catherine's heart was still not ruthless enough, "Those boxers would still bleed and get injured even without us. Then they would die painfully from infection in dirty environments. And we are giving them money and a chance to be medically cured."
"Doctor," he finally looked at Thorne, "go prepare; you will soon get the clinical data you want."
----
The location was the Five Points district in New York, a neighborhood civilization had long forgotten. Even in daylight, the streets reeked of cheap alcohol, despair, and desperation.
The Paradise Arena was the largest and most brutal underground fighting club in Five Points. Here, every week, countless desperate men beat each other bloody for a few meager dollars in prize money.
This particular evening, however, the large storeroom behind the arena, normally reserved for discarded equipment, had been transformed. The space was meticulously cleaned, the walls whitewashed, and several new kerosene lamps, requisitioned from Felix's factory, cast a stark, clinical glare over the scene. In the center stood a surgical table draped with a fresh white linen cloth. Nearby, shelves displayed gleaming surgical instruments and glass bottles.
Dr. Aris Thorne and his two young assistants, all in pristine white lab coats, were meticulously sterilizing the equipment with alcohol. Their focus was absolute. At the entrance, Miller and Flynn, Felix's chief lieutenants, commanded ten of the most elite security guards, sealing the room impenetrably.
Miller looked at the complex medical apparatus, things he'd never seen before, and whispered, "Hey, you really think this thing can be as amazing as the Boss claims?"
"You're boring, Miller," Flynn shrugged. "How the hell would I know? I just follow orders."
The arena's owner, a shrewd Irishman named Fennerty, walked in, beaming. "Mr. Miller, Mr. Flynn," he said, rubbing his hands, "Everything's ready. The fighters outside are roaring. They heard there's a 'miracle doctor' from Europe tonight. They not only get paid if they lose, they get the best patch-up money can't buy for free. They're queuing up!"
"The agreement?" Flynn demanded.
"Signed! All signed!" Fennerty quickly produced a stack of documents covered with red thumbprints. "As instructed, every man who enters the ring has put his print on this 'Voluntary Acceptance of New Drug Treatment' form. They are very willing to exchange their worthless injuries for ten dollars in nutrition fees."
"Very good," Flynn nodded. "Then, Mr. Fennerty, let your warriors begin."
A moment later, heavy, dragging footsteps echoed from the corridor. The first volunteer was carried in: a muscular Black fighter with a gash above his brow bone so deep the white of the bone was exposed. Blood gushed, painting half his face crimson.
"Damn it! Let go of me!" he roared, still consumed by the fight's frenzy. "Give me alcohol, and another bottle of whiskey! I can still fight!"
"Hold him steady," Miller ordered his subordinates. Two burly guards clamped onto the struggling fighter, securing him firmly onto a chair next to the surgical table.
Dr. Thorne approached. There was no fear or disgust in his eyes, only the cold, precise fanaticism of a scientist viewing a perfect experimental sample.
"Record," he dictated to his assistant. "Subject A. Male, African. Approximately twenty-five years old. Weight one hundred eighty pounds. Wound: right brow bone, approximately two inches long, depth reaching the skull, active bleeding."
He dictated calmly while cleaning the wound with tweezers and cotton balls. The fighter let out a painful shout.
"Now, administer the disinfectant," Dr. Thorne instructed the second assistant. "Seven percent concentration, ten milliliters dosage, applied topically."
Dark brown, viscous Iodoglycerol was carefully applied to the open gash.
"Record the patient's immediate reaction."
"Slight burning sensation reported. No allergic redness or swelling. Bleeding effectively controlled within thirty seconds."
After disinfection and recording, Dr. Thorne picked up the needle and thread. His hands, usually reserved for beakers, moved with the speed and dexterity of a seasoned surgeon. Debridement, disinfection, suturing, bandaging, the entire process was smooth and fluid.
Ten minutes later, the fighter, who had been struggling wildly moments ago, stared dumbfounded at his professionally treated wound.
"Next," Dr. Thorne said to Miller.
That night, Dr. Thorne and his team worked like tireless medical machines, treating seventeen volunteers. Injuries ranged from split brow bones and broken noses to one man whose abdomen had been sliced by a nail hidden in an opponent's glove.
While the bloody clinical trial proceeded, another group of uninvited "volunteers" appeared: several well-dressed Irishmen carrying a companion whose abdomen bore a fresh dagger wound.
"Doctor! Quick! Save him!" the leader shouted anxiously.
Flynn stepped up, blocking their path. "This is not a hospital."
"We heard," the gang leader stated, "You have a doctor here who doesn't ask questions and doesn't call the police."
"Our services have rules," Flynn said coolly.
"I understand." The gang leader pulled out a thick wad of cash. "Money is not an issue."
"We don't want money," Flynn shook his head, holding out a single sheet of paper. "We just need him to put his handprint on this document." It was the same Voluntary Acceptance of New Drug Treatment agreement.
The gang leader looked at his pale, bleeding companion. He didn't hesitate. "Okay! I'll sign for him!"
----
In Felix's office the next day.
Dr. Thorne and Flynn were reporting the findings.
"Boss, an unparalleled success!" Dr. Thorne's face was flushed with excitement. "We collected a total of twenty-three valid human clinical cases! This includes seventeen blunt force traumas and six sharp weapon/gunshot wounds!"
"'Number One' showed astonishing effects in all cases! There were no significant adverse reactions in any instance!"
"Very good, Doctor," Felix nodded. "Continue. I need at least one hundred such cases, and continuous observation data for a month."
He looked at Flynn. "So, how effective was our sponsorship beyond the medical results?"
"Very good, Boss," Flynn replied, placing a small wooden box on the desk. "Fennerty and the fighters are incredibly grateful. And as for the Irish gang member we saved, their leader sent this over this afternoon."
Inside the box lay a "Peace Agreement," jointly signed by all major Irish gangs in New York. The document declared that they would not harass Felix's company or personnel. They cited his Irish descent and his burgeoning wealth and military connections, signaling a desire to form an 'alliance.' In return, they requested that Felix's underground clinic become their designated facility for resolving all future "work injury" issues.
A slow smile spread across Felix's face. He had not only solved the challenge of new drug trials in a nearly zero-cost way, but he had also incidentally, and quite peculiarly, neutralized future underground threats in New York.
"Catherine," he finally said.
"Yes, Boss."
"Go tell our lawyers. They can start registering patents for our 'Iodoglycerol' disinfectant and our 'Vacuum Low-Temperature Preservation Technology'."
"We must use the law to build a moat around our science."