Lynn closed the last financial statement and tossed it onto the velvet sofa.
The statement showed that total war bond sales generated by the "Captain America national tour" were an astronomical figure, enough to set any tycoon's heart racing.
They even exceeded Hammer Industries' total arms orders for a quarter of the previous year.
At the very bottom of the statement, the expenditure under "publicity and event expenses" was just as staggering.
After passing through numerous hands and being padded with false charges, the money had been disguised as stage construction, media relations, and logistical support expenses.
In the end, it had flowed like countless little streams into the dozens of anonymous accounts he had opened in Switzerland.
Very lucrative.
But the process was too inefficient, and it left dirty traces.
The money reeked of blood and filthy lucre, every cent tied to some greedy officer or politician.
War was the biggest business in the world.
Lynn now held the two hottest "products" in that business-Soldier Boy and Captain America.
But he needed a more stable, more legitimate business entity.
A front that could wash this bloodstained dirty money cleaner than God's robes.
A future... Vought International.
A week later.
Bern, Switzerland.
A German Jew named "Jacob Rosenberg" signed the registration documents for the holding company Foresight at a law firm.
Every detail in Mr. Rosenberg's records was impeccable.
They were a masterpiece Lynn had personally selected from thousands of deceased war refugee files over the course of three days.
He had been born in Berlin to a wealthy family of watchmakers.
After "Kristallnacht," he had fled from place to place. His entire family had died in Nazi atrocities, and he alone had escaped with the last of the family's assets.
A perfect, sympathetic image of a war victim.
No one knew that the real Jacob Rosenberg had died of illness two years earlier, in an obscure refugee camp along his escape route.
Lynn had dug his identity, along with his tragic past, out of a pile of old records.
It became his perfect disguise.
On the day Foresight was established, it began a discreet but rapid expansion.
It used "legitimate" funds from Swiss banks to cross the Atlantic.
It acquired several small United States companies that had been driven to the brink of bankruptcy by the war.
A pharmaceutical plant in New Jersey.
A machine shop in Detroit that supplied screws and parts exclusively to the Big Three automakers.
And a transport company with a dozen or so battered trucks.
These inconspicuous assets, worthless as garbage in the eyes of Wall Street's giants, were key pieces being placed on Lynn's board for the future.
The pharmaceutical plant would provide fertile ground for future serum research.
The machine shop had already set its sights on the scraps outsourced by Howard Stark's vast industrial empire.
And with Lynn's connections in the military, the transport company would soon be able to claim the largest share of the river of gold that was supply transport.
Just like that, the nerve endings of a vast business empire quietly spread through unnoticed corners.
"Mr. Morris, have you studied penicillin too?"
In the Strategic Scientific Reserve's pharmaceutical research and development department, the gray-haired Professor Fleming looked at the young "consultant" before him in some surprise.
Lynn was there as a representative of the military, inspecting the production progress of "important strategic supplies."
And penicillin, the miraculous drug hailed as "God's gift," was undoubtedly a more important strategic supply than bullets and shells.
The problem was that production was far too low.
The existing "surface culture method" was like growing vegetables in one's own backyard.
The yield depended entirely on the weather and luck.
It simply could not meet the bottomless demand on the front lines.
"I wouldn't call it study, Professor."
Wearing a modest smile, Lynn pointed to the thin layer of blue-green mold in the petri dish.
"I was just wondering if we've been too gentle."
"Gentle?"
Professor Fleming adjusted his glasses, his face full of confusion.
"Mr. Morris, cultivating microorganisms is a precise science. The slightest change in the environment could kill the strain. We must provide it with the perfect conditions."
"We keep it in a dish and give it the best conditions, terrified that it might die."
"But what if... we threw it into a deeper, harsher environment and forced it to reproduce like mad to survive?"
He picked up a pencil and drew a crude cylinder on a sheet of scrap paper.
"Say, a fermentation tank. We fill it with culture medium, then pump sterile air in through the bottom so that the liquid throughout the tank churns."
"That way, the mold won't just grow on the surface. It'll fight and reproduce throughout the entire three-dimensional space!"
This "deep fermentation method," which would seem like common knowledge to chemical engineering students in later generations, struck Professor Fleming like a thunderbolt!
He stared fixedly at the sketch, a fervent light bursting from his eyes.
"And..."
Lynn suddenly remembered something and added, "I've heard corn steep liquor is cheap and nutritious. If we used it instead of the expensive beef broth culture medium, couldn't we bring the cost..."
He said no more.
Because Professor Fleming had already rushed toward his laboratory like a gust of wind.
He even knocked over a row of test tubes as he turned.
He muttered "deep fermentation," "corn steep liquor," and "oh, God" over and over under his breath.
Lynn watched him leave, then casually tossed the paper with the sketch into the trash can.
He didn't need his name to go down in history. He only needed patent licensing rights.
Half a month later.
Penicillin production increased several hundredfold in an almost explosive surge!
The entire Allied high command was shaken!
In his report, Professor Fleming credited the historic breakthrough to "a brilliant idea casually proposed by a young consultant who wishes to remain anonymous."
Everyone knew who the "young consultant" was.
Lynn Morris.
The man who had discovered Captain America, Dr. Erskine's close friend, and now a genius who had saved countless soldiers' lives.
His prestige was unmatched for a time.
As the person who had made the "key suggestion,"
Lynn's Foresight pharmaceutical company in New Jersey, which had just finished upgrading its equipment, naturally received partial civilian production authorization from the military.
It was a signal.
A signal tacitly approved by the military high command to cultivate and reward this "god of wealth."
Lynn's pharmaceutical plant ran at full capacity.
A steady stream of cheap penicillin was sent to the front, earning him the reputation of a "patriotic businessman."
Only he knew.
For every ten crates of medicine produced, seven were secretly given different labels and shipped to his secret warehouses across the country for stockpiling.
Late at night.
Lynn stood in an underground warehouse, where rows of wooden crates were stacked high as mountains.
The war would eventually end.
When that time came, these unremarkable crates of medicine would be more valuable than gold, more enticing than power.
It could save lives.
And, of course, it could also decide who should die and who could live.
Lynn casually picked up a sealed penicillin injection, the glass tube resting against his fingertips.
This stuff could save people.
But what he saw, clearly marked on it, was a price for every person who needed it.