Mars grimaced. "No. I was just talking to myself."
Vern grinned widely. "That's good. I'd sure hate to have anybody think those words were a description of me. Good old Vern, that's me. Combination office boy, slave, master of ceremonies and soothing balm for ruffled egos. That's my description of me. Master of all trades, Jack of none. Of course, I can't say what others think."
"You don't make much sense," Mars growled thickly, biting again into the pencil.
"Neither do you," Vern countered quickly. "But then again, what man does to a struggling young genius like myself?"
"Oh dry up," came the reply. "And take that drawing table into the new drafter's room."
"Oh, sure. You only need about three men to move that monster but...." He left the sentence unfinished and dragged the table from the wall. Mars smiled sympathetically, shook his head, and pointed to his bad leg when Vern indicated he could use some help.
"Such is the life of a slave," the younger man sighed and hoisting the clumsy article, headed for the door.
"Look out!" Mars suddenly yelled and jumped forward to catch a falling rocket model as the table edge glanced off it. Vern yelped in surprise, jolted backward and fell against the wall, the heavy board crashing down on his foot.
"My God, Vern. Your foot...."
The other grinned, withdrew his foot from beneath the board and pulled down his sock. "Not this baby," he flipped. "I've got cast-iron insurance. It's plastic from the ankle down, see?"