He did not let his social development slide either. Lunarport was far more advanced culturally than the crude settlement on Phobus. Here Dr. Whitemarsh was able to have a luxurious apartment in the New Dome sector, could hear lectures and concerts, and could even indulge in winter sports such as skiing in the lava around the craters (protected of course by a heated suit and an oxygen mask.) He found Miss Chester a satisfactory companion for such endeavors, even though she spoke little of her private life or how she had avoided marriage in her twenty-five years. But he played a waiting game with her as well as with the lab job. He admitted to himself that a research chemist's life at Lunar Lab was a pleasant one, particularly if one didn't care how accurate one's results were. Unfortunately, the same quirk which had driven him into science also made him suspicious of all easy methods. He had never recovered from the shock of discovering that just because a reaction worked in a book, it did not necessarily have to do so in a laboratory.
Dr. Whitemarsh's promotion came within five rather than six months. There was some grumbling among the older scientists, but there was not much they could do about it. Kercheval, who had twelve years' service on the Moon, did not have his Ph.D. and did not care particularly for executive work. Neither did Sturtevant with a doctorate and ten years service. But others objected; even Miss Chester, long one of Whitemarsh's defenders, felt that the older men deserved at least the chance of refusal. (It never occurred to Whitemarsh that she might have had some ambitions of her own.)
He called the group leaders together for a conference the day after his appointment. He was now ensconced behind Sheridan's desk and was not yet accustomed to having a secretary. The leaders came in grim and resentful. He wasted no words.
"I'm going to reorganize the set-up to get the Laboratorians under us, whether they like it or not. This sloppy technical data and unsubstantiated findings is not my idea of a good lab—nor yours, I'm sure. It's up to you to show it during the next year. Meanwhile you've all been pushed up fifty dollars a month in salary. So long!"
His next step was to call on Lo Presti. The Master Mechanic's Office was outside the Lab Dome near the Shaft of Lunar Mine No. 1. The old man had been in the preliminary Selenium exploration party and never could forget the old days when he drove the men and robots to find the metal that paid for the cost of the Expedition. The President of the Home Office, Dr. Barker, had never forgotten either, and Lo Presti was always taken care of. The 200 Laboratorians probably caused him more headaches than the five thousand miners ever had, since a delegation visited him every day or so now that Dr. Whitemarsh was rumored in.
But the Lo Presti knew that times change too, and realized that the brawling space adventurer did not fit into a sleek world of test tubes and retorts. Ninety-five years old and arrogant as ever, he sat in his office and greeted Dr. Whitemarsh with a bonecrushing handshake. He offered a cigar and Whitemarsh thanked him, lighting a pipe instead.
"I hear from the boys you've been cracking down on them," he stated.
"No more than you would if you'd been there yourself. What would you do if a driller split a core?"
"Why I'd give the careless sap a clout that would wake him up. But the Laboratorians aren't drillers!"