And there was Myrtle. Head thrust forward, one thick arm belligerently akimbo, she stood by the desk, reading Horning's note.
Horning stopped short.
Myrtle's glance flicked to him. Her eyes, black and beady, drew to fury-glinting, fat-rimmed slits.
Horning stumbled from the ramp, fumbling at the transit unit's harness.
But Myrtle was upon him in three walloping strides—clutching his shirt-front, shoving her face close to his. An aura of cheap perfume, stale face powder, clothes that could have done with more frequent laundering, washed over Horning in unpleasant waves.
"You—!"
She spat the word with such venom that her face shook.
Horning tried to speak, but no words came.
"Leave me, will you—!"
"Myrtle—"