"She insists on going to the main office."
"Y'might let her," said McBride thoughtfully, his voice slightly sour with distaste.
"Gosh, boss, you can't do that."
"I know. Well, she can't get out of the lock without your assistance. Unless I'm mistaken, all of you are far too busy to bother with a headstrong female."
The phone was silent for a few seconds, and the sounds of a light scuffle came over the line. Then a cool contralto came.
"I'm Sandra Drake," it said with a world of impertinence. "No man is going to tell me where I can't go!"
"Sister," snapped McBride, "you keep that up and we'll jolly well tell you where you can go!" McBride hung up and redoubled his efforts on the charge-reversal generator. "Women," he snarled, twisting the generator controls as though he had the Drake woman by the throat.
Ten minutes before they landed at 6, McBride picked up the phone and called 1. He spoke to his apartment. "Hello Enid," he said.
"John! What's all the shouting about?"
"La Drake tried to run her crate through the lens. She broke it."