Sheffield followed after, his long body all elbows and knees as he made a path. He murmured “Sorry” half a dozen times.
Rodriguez, in an advanced stage of exasperation thrust out his lower lip and said, “What do you want?”
Mark flinched. Less eagerly, he said, “You said you knew it wasn’t infection mathematically. I was wondering how… mathematics—” He ran down.
Rodriguez said, “I have stated my professional opinion.”
He said it formally, stiltedly, then turned away. No man questioned another’s professional opinion unless he was of the same specialty. Otherwise the implication, clearly enough, was that the specialist’s experience and knowledge was sufficiently dubious to be brought into question by an outsider.
Mark knew this, but then he was of the Mnemonic Service. He tapped Rodriguez’s shoulder, while the others standing about listened in stunned fascination, and said, “I know it’s your professional opinion, but still I’d like to have it explained.”
He didn’t mean to sound peremptory. He was just stating a fact.
Rodriguez whirled. “You’d like to have il explained? Who the eternal Universe are you to ask me questions.”
Mark was startled at the other’s vehemence, but Sheffield had reached him now, and he gained courage and with it, anger. He disregarded Sheffield’s quick whisper and said shrilly, “I’m Mark Annuncio of Mnemonic Service and I’ve asked you a question. I want your statement explained.”
“It won’t be explained. Sheffield, take this young nut out of here and tuck him into bed, will you? And keep him away from me after this. Young jackass.” The last was a clearly-heard aside.