"Enough analysis," she said abruptly, so strongly that he wasn't sure what she meant by the words. "Sit down—sit down." He felt for the chair behind him and sat. Norma cast a keen eye over the nearby crowds, spotted an empty chair and went off for it. "Later," she told him, when she had placed herself next to him, "we can join the crowd. For now, let's get—let's get better acquainted. Johnny."
"That's the first time you've called me Johnny," he said.
"So it is," she said. Her face was a mask: and then it lightened. "What do you work at, Johnny?"
"I'm in Building Three," he said: it was easier to answer her than anatomize the confusions he felt. "I work with smelting and quality control—you know." He took another sip of his drink, and found to his surprise that it was more than half gone.
"With the Alberts," she said. "I know."
He thought he read her look correctly. "I don't like it either," he told her earnestly. "But somebody has to do it. I think—"
"You don't have to get defensive," Norma said. "Relax. Enjoy yourself. Join the party. Did I look at you as if you were a murderer of small children?"
"I just—don't like it," he said carefully. "I—well, there isn't anything I can do about it, is there?"
"I wouldn't know," she said, and then (had she made a decision? He couldn't tell) she went on: "I'm in Psych, myself."
"Psych? You?"