“Words to that effect.”
Novee turned to Cimon. “You’re heading our group. Why don’t you do something about this?”
Cimon snarled, “In cases like this, I’m heading the group. My responsibilities always come on suddenly. Let them fight it out. Sheffield talks an excellent fight and the captain never takes his hands out of the small of his back. Vernadsky’s jitterbugging description doesn’t mean there’ll be physical violence.”
“All right, but there’s no point in having feuds of any kind in an expedition like ours.”
“You mean our mission!” Vernadsky raised both hands in mock-awe and rolled his eyes upward. “How I dread the time when we must find ourselves among the rags and bones of the first expedition.”
And as though the picture brought to mind by that was not one that bore levity well after all, there was suddenly nothing to say. Even the back of Cimon’s head which was all that showed over the back of the easy-chair seemed a bit the stiffer for the thought.
Oswald Mayer Sheffield—psychologist, thin as a string and as tall as a good length of it, and with a voice that could be used either for singing an operatic selection with surprising virtuosity or for making a point of argument, softly but with stinging accuracy—did not show the anger one would have expected from Vernadsky’s account.
He was even smiling when he entered the captain’s cabin.
The captain broke out mauvely, as soon as he entered. “Look here, Sheffield—”