"Calm," she screamed, "how can I be calm when an officious busybody starts getting drunk with power and acting like a Twentieth Century dictator? After all I've done for this stinking Lunar Lab, how come that I have to take an exam in freshman chemistry?"
"I thought you were exempt," began the chastened director.
"Sorry, your honor! Your order says five years at Lunarport. I've only been around this sweat shop for four years and six months. What are you going to do if I fail? Throw me out and I'm moving over to Campo Sano with every one of our trade secrets!"
"I'll get you exempted," he offered.
"What, and have the other chemists cry favoritism? Not on your life, you coffee-swilling Judas," she yelled. "And stop grinning at me like a Cheshire Cat!"
He did not answer. He was content only to admire her in her rage. Her usually mild face was flushed through the tan and her graceful hands were tightly clenched into fists that pounded on his desk.
"Answer me, you moron!" she shouted. Then she started to cry. Within one minute the seething Amazon had changed into a defenseless white-coated girl cowering in the visitor's chair, weeping bitterly. Whitemarsh approached and held her hand.
"Listen, Sally," he told her, "the only reason I was going to let you out of the test was because you know more chemistry than any of the scientists here. But go ahead and take the test; you'll get the highest grade!"
She brightened, "You think so?"
"Know it," he affirmed gallantly, "now, how about going to the Space Opera at the Symphorium tomorrow? Kluchesky is singing in Pomme de Terre."