Sheffield took Mark’s wrist but it was wrenched out of his grasp. The young Mnemonic screamed, “You stupid noncompos. You… you moron. You forgettery on two feet. Sieve-mind. Let me go, Dr. Sheffield—You’re no expert. You don’t remember anything you’ve learned, and you haven’t learned much in the first place. You’re not a specialist; none of you—”
“For space’s sake,” cried Cimon, “take the young idiot out of here, Sheffield.”
Sheffield, his long cheeks burning, stopped and lifted Mark bodily into the air. Holding him close, he made his way out of the room.
Tears squeezed out of Mark’s eyes and just outside the door, he managed to speak with difficulty. “Let me down, I want to hear—I want to hear what they say.”
Sheffield said, “Don’t go back in. Please, Mark.”
“I won’t. Don’t worry. But—”
He didn’t finish the but.
Inside the observatory room, Cimon, looking haggard, said, “All right. All right. Let’s get back to the point. Come on, now. Quiet! I’m accepting Rodriguez’s viewpoint. It’s good enough for me and I don’t suppose there’s anyone else here who questions Rodriguez’s professional opinion.”
(“Be Her not,” muttered Rodriguez, his dark eyes hot with sustained fury.)