"I'm Dr. Sonya Vartanian."
Peal introduced Blane and himself. After the handshaking, Blane gestured toward the main station, eager to see it and looking for an excuse. "I'm delighted to know you. But I think I'd better see your commanding officer."
"I'm in command." She said it quite simply. Then at their surprise she chuckled. "We don't have the male chauvinism of America. Besides, all the military officers were below when—when everything was destroyed. But perhaps you'd like to see our station?"
There was a great deal that was crude, and some that seemed to be handmade where American products were smoothly machine made. But generally, it was something to arouse envy in Blane. Obviously, there had been no effort made to save on costs here, and the great Russian boosters had lifted fantastic weights where American engineers had been limited to what ships of lesser thrust would carry. With no restrictions on cost or size, the Russian engineers had simply designed for what they felt desirable, rather than what was possible. The command suite was even equipped with a bar that contained a private refrigerator, though that was now off, due to the need to save power.
The quarters of the staff were spacious, and many showed signs of never having been occupied. The laboratories were beautifully equipped, and again less than a third had ever been used.
"We had great plans—but now we are limited. The threat of war makes even our leaders hesitate to begin so many long-range plans," she explained.
Peal nodded. "You see, Jerry? It's the same here. Waste and inefficiency. This place could make ten times the profit of any other comparable investment, but it's wasted under government control."
Sonya darted him a sudden piercing gaze and stopped in her tracks. Then she laughed uncertainly. "You'll forgive me, Dr. Peal. But those words—they were just what I was going to say."
"You?" Blane stared at her doubtfully. "Isn't capitalistic talk deviationist, at least?"