She spun on him. "But the omelets don't turn out so well if some of the eggs you use are rotten."
The South African's voice turned gentle. "Miss Cunningham," he said, "working in the field, like this, can have its rugged side for a young and delicate woman—"
"Delicate!" she snapped. "I'll have you know—"
"Hey, everybody, hold it," Cliff injected. "What goes on?"
Dave Moroka shrugged. "It just seems to me that Isobel might do better back in Dakar, or in New York with your friend Jake Armstrong. Somewhere where her sensibilities wouldn't be so bruised, and where her assets"—his eyes went up and down her lithe body—"could be put to better use."
Isobel's sepia face had gone a shade or more lighter. She said, very flatly, "My assets, Mr. Moroka, are in my head."
Homer Crawford said disgustedly, "O.K., O.K., let's all knock it off."
His eyes flicked back and forth between them, in definite command. "I don't want to hear any more in the way of personalities between you two."
Moroka shrugged again. "Yes, sir," he said without inflection.
Isobel turned away and took up some paperwork, without further words. She suppressed her feeling of seething indignation.