"Nobody's done anything against you, have they?" Pete complained. "You're throwing away a whole lot, son. It won't be gotten back easy." His shrewd, little eyes watched Morrow, pensively. "The country needs young fellas like you now, Bill—"
Morrow forced the sneer across his face again. "That's just too damn' bad," he said evenly.
Pete's eyes narrowed. "You're talkin' like a commie—"
Morrow lashed out. The back of his hand smacked across the little man's mouth. "Beat it," he said huskily. "Beat it, you damned little shrimp."
Pete stared at him for a moment, then turned slowly and walked away.
Instantly, Mart Sumter came stalking across the lab. Sumter was big, broad-shouldered, with muscles bulging against his stained smock. He stopped in front of Morrow, his fists clenched.
"If I ever see you do that again," he said softly, "I'll give you the worst beating you've ever had in your life!"
Morrow returned his angry glare, then whirled and went back to his work.
"You heard me, didn't you?" Sumter's breath whispered on his neck.
"I heard you," Morrow rasped.