The door behind her banged open. Immediately, the room rumbled with the great basso voice of Theodore Zakheim, psychologist with the Ural-Altaic team.
"Hah-haaaaaaa!" he roared. "We're all here now!"
Light footsteps behind Zakheim told Francine that he was accompanied by Emile Goré of the Indo-European Latin-Root team.
Zakheim flopped onto a chair beside Francine. It creaked dangerously to his bulk.
Like a great uncouth bear! she thought.
"Do you always have to be so noisy?" she asked.
Goré slammed the door behind them.
"Naturally!" boomed Zakheim. "I am noisy! It's my nature, my little puchkin!"
Goré moved behind Francine, passing to the head of the table, but she kept her attention on Zakheim. He was a thick-bodied man, thick without fat, like the heaviness of a wrestler. His wide face and slanting pale blue eyes carried hints of Mongol ancestry. Rusty hair formed an uncombed brush atop his head.
Zakheim brought up his briefcase, flopped it onto the table, rested his hands on the dark leather. They were flat slab hands with thick fingers, pale wisps of hair growing down almost to the nails.