I had just suggested we haul our equipment out of the locker when the door slid open. Deborah, her red hair half over her eyes as usual, came in—a blazing little fireball of energy. She was going full blast. I shrank within myself and wanted to crawl under a desk. If Charley thought this was enchanting and feminine, he could have it.
Although—she had the throatiest, most electrifying voice I had ever heard. It was a muted female foghorn with a lovely liquid cold. It turned my spine to wax even though I got angry the minute she opened her mouth and used it to say, witheringly, "What's the matter? How many people have to die before you big shots get interested? You two wouldn't dream of offering to help even if you aren't going after the story!"
"I've been trying to get hold of you," I said coldly.
She just looked her contempt. "I've been at rescue headquarters since 6:00 a.m. You might have tried there. Two thousand people face death, you know."
"And little Deborah has trundled out her armor and is in there pitching like mad," I said.
"You hardboiled newsmen," she said, and she was really upset. "You louses."
"Lice," I said. She had made me feel like a louse. I didn't want it to show, so I got sly and mean. "Don't you think this trip is too dangerous for you?"
She had calmed down. She didn't look like Joan of Arc, any more, just tired and troubled. "No," she said briefly.
"O.K.," I said cheerfully. I was only a little bit sorry to be so mean. "Then there's no bonus involved."