"Kidding around!" Huber looked dangerous. "That's what you call kidding around? They could have burned Chafnu to a crisp! You know how sensitive he is!"
Burke, the small parts man, said placatingly: "Well, the boys are kinda edgy, Mr. Huber. It must be the weather or something. They need a little what-do-you-call-it, outlet."
"Besides," said Curly, "the Goons kinda provoke 'em, you know what I mean—"
"Don't ever use that word to me!"
The irritation that had been brewing in Huber all day now boiled over. He walked around the desk and shoved his big-jawed face up close to Curly's chin. His small stature made no difference; Curly trembled nervously.
"They're Martians," the boss said. "Not Goons. Understand? Martians! Isn't that right, Chafnu?"
Chafnu looked as if he wished Earth had never been born. He glanced up guiltily at the assembled foremen.
"All right," said Huber. "Now let's get this straight. One more incident like today, and I'll hold you guys responsible. Chafnu and all the other Martians in this plant are doing good work—better, if you want to know, than most of you Earth guys—"
"Sure," mumbled Curly. "If we had three hands, we could—"
"That's enough, I said!" shouted the boss. He swabbed his forehead with his hand. "We got Oxco tanks to turn out, so let's get to it. The meeting's over!"