“Give me that!” Cimon hurled himself at the lanky psychologist.
Sheffield held him off. “Don’t try force, Cimon. I was in amateur wrestling not too long ago. Look, I’ll make a deal with you.”
Cimon was still writhing toward him, dignity forgotten, panting his fury. Sheffield kept him at arm’s length, backing slowly.
Sheffield said, “Let Mark and myself come along and no one will ever see or hear this.”
Slowly, Cimon simmered down. He gasped, “Will you let me have it, then?”
“After Mark and I are out at the settlement site.”
“I’m to trust you.” He seemed to take pains to make that as offensive as possible.
“Why not? You can certainly trust me to broadcast this if you don’t agree. I’ll play it off for Vernadsky first. He’ll love it. You know his corny sense of humor.”
Cimon said in a voice so low it could hardly be heard, “You and the boy can come along.” Then, vigorously, “But remember this, Sheffield: When we get back to Earth, I’ll have you before the Central Committee of the G.A.A.S. That’s a promise. You’ll be de-professionalized.”
Sheffield said, “I’m not afraid of the Galactic Association for the Advancement of Science.” He let the syllables resound. “After all, what will you accuse me of? Are you going to play this recording before the Central Committee as evidence? Come, come, let’s be friendly about this. You don’t want to broadcast your own… uh… mistake before the primmest stuffed shirts in eighty-three thousand worlds.”