"I'll get you exempted," he offered.
"What, and have the other chemists cry favoritism? Not on your life, you coffee-swilling Judas," she yelled. "And stop grinning at me like a Cheshire Cat!"
He did not answer. He was content only to admire her in her rage. Her usually mild face was flushed through the tan and her graceful hands were tightly clenched into fists that pounded on his desk.
"Answer me, you moron!" she shouted. Then she started to cry. Within one minute the seething Amazon had changed into a defenseless white-coated girl cowering in the visitor's chair, weeping bitterly. Whitemarsh approached and held her hand.
"Listen, Sally," he told her, "the only reason I was going to let you out of the test was because you know more chemistry than any of the scientists here. But go ahead and take the test; you'll get the highest grade!"
She brightened, "You think so?"
"Know it," he affirmed gallantly, "now, how about going to the Space Opera at the Symphorium tomorrow? Kluchesky is singing in Pomme de Terre."
She stiffened slightly and stood up. "Listen, Mr. Frank Whitemarsh! Privately you're not a bad guy. You even had potentialities. But you're a hell of a failure as a boss and the less I see of you, the happier I'll be. Good-bye!" And she was gone. Whitemarsh resumed his contemplation of the Earth with less interest.
The results of the examination might have been foretold. The intelligent and professionally alert junior chemists retained enough fundamentals to do well. The majority failed the questions on laboratory technique. Consequently Whitemarsh enlisted the aid of the older men to conduct a series of refresher lectures to bring up to date the scientific knowledge of those who failed. The Laboratorians were delighted with the spectacle presented by these lectures, and loved going home at night while erstwhile bosses sat listening to Dr. Sturtevant discuss "The Theory of Washing Precipitates", or to hear Dr. Whitemarsh talk on "Balancing the Redox equation." The Laboratorians' happiness lasted until one day in October.
That was the day that Lo Presti retired. The old man was given a small space ship by the Corporation and a space-time chronometer by the Laboratorians. Then he sorrowfully said farewell. The next day the Laboratorians were absorbed into Research.
Somebody had to plan for janitor service, figure where to place time cards, design new proficiency ratings and decide on such complex matters as where the Laboratorians were to hang their coats. All these services had been provided for by the miner's shop organization. Whitemarsh stayed late at night for a week arranging the new payroll plan and raising the salaries somewhat.
All this was handled, if not without incidents, at least without violence. Even the janitors and secretaries were now part of a team. All but Miss Chester. She had stopped speaking to Whitemarsh in the halls and had been seen in the company of a younger (and Whitemarsh felt) better looking physicist.
Then Whitemarsh dropped his second bombshell. The junior chemists were ordered to rate the Laboratorians for proficiency! Fresh from six months' study under such taskmasters as Whitemarsh and Kercheval, the chastened scientists were now able to interpret the antics of their tormentors of yesterday. An old tradition had fallen and the howls extended back to the Front Office on Earth.
For a change, Miss Chester did not object. She was evidently past all comment. She merely wrote out a list of the faults and virtues of all her assistants, rated them all Excellent and went back to her research.
But Rocco was tried and found incapable of running titrations. Harry Crowe was found to be weighing incorrectly, Zachary had been fixing his calculations for the last ten years and even faithful Bruno had been found to be adding 15 to all of his Iodine numbers in order to pass the specs easier.
It suddenly occurred to every one that all the laboratory's reports were based on incorrect data. All work stopped for a week until the scientists found what their assistants had been trying to do all along. And the results were a bit terrifying. When Kercheval found that an incorrectly calibrated reflectometer had negated five years of his pet project, he tore up his notebooks, flung them on the floor and stalked into Whitemarsh's office.
"Frank, I'm taking my back vacations and going to Venus to forget it all for about six months. And mind you, when I get back I don't want to see my present assistants. I'm going to start from scratch."
He left, banging the door.
Next was Sturtevant.
"Frank, we've got to get Interstellar Review to hold my last paper. I want to recheck the melting points of some of those diazo compounds."
Then came the young physicist, Dr. Slezak, who was rumored to be Miss Chester's present skiing companion. "Dr. Whitemarsh," he stammered, "I'm not sure about the data on my last report."
"Didn't you take it all yourself?"
"Yes, but I used some of Kercheval's data for my fundamental calculations and, if that's wrong, all my conclusions may not be valid."
"Stop worrying," Whitemarsh told him. "When Kercheval recalculates his values, you can revise your own report. As long as your own work is right, you have nothing to worry about."
The young man left, nervously wringing his hands. Whitemarsh couldn't see what Sally saw in him. He figured she ought to be along by now.
She was.
"I told you so," Sally said theatrically. "You've got the whole lab mistrusting each other. All the chemists are quarreling like mad and the Laboratorians all look like whipped dogs. You've pulled the chair right out from under everything and you sit here gloating."
"Relax, Sally," he told her. "They're just growing pains. Take it easy and ride out the storm.... Now, how about tearing over to Lunar 7 to see the crucial Spaceball series between the Space Rangers and the Callisto Satellites?"
She looked horrified. "I'm afraid you don't take hints very well. I'm not interested in going anywhere with you. Actually, I'm going with Jack Slezak to see 'Nova of the Leprous Soul', and I might suggest a fit subject."
She flounced out again and Whitemarsh felt lost. He tried to cheer himself with a book on Hyper Plutonium Elements.
The transition took longer than Whitemarsh had bargained for. After the Laboratorians were re-educated, and a tiresome process it was, chemists went over the notebooks to look for inaccuracies, doubtful data was examined, all microfilms had to be edited and corrected; and they found that most of the chemicals developed at the laboratory in the past decade had been founded on doubtful data. But since all of them had passed the Development Group, Whitemarsh didn't think it was wise to try to recall them. But new products scheduled for release were re-examined and retested after the fundamental work on them was checked.
Finally the problems were unscrambled and the laboratory began to run smoothly again. The research projects were reestablished and the work started out anew. Frayed tempers were soothed and the scientists finally got around to trusting each others' results again. The Laboratorians were now carefully but tactfully watched by the junior chemists who, in turn, were spending more time in the laboratories and less in their offices.
When the new, sound results started grinding forth, Whitemarsh permitted himself a sigh of relief. Lunar Lab had lost its individuality, he admitted, even though the easy-going camaraderie he had noticed when he first came was also gone. The results of Lunar Research Lab of Interspatial were now as reliable as those of the Campo Sano and Roque laboratories back on Earth.
But it had been a hard fight. None of the chemists ever stopped around his office any more for small talk about sports and politics. His secretary brought him coffee in his sanctum sanctorum and he did not find himself wandering around the laboratory as he had formerly done. When he did, there was usually a restrained silence and a suspicious neatness. Miss Chester was apparently irrevocably lost and there were rumors of an engagement with the brilliant Dr. Slezak. Though he had won the day, he had lost something too. The Lab was now able to turn out results, but Frank Whitemarsh had paid a personal price for its new efficiency.
Almost a year after taking over as Research Director, Sheridan, now a Vice President, brought him some news. "Get ready to pack, Frank," he told the younger man as they sat and smoked in the director's office watching the clouds moving over the Earth.
"The Front Office like what I did?" asked Whitemarsh puffing on his pipe.
"Well." There was a slight pause. "All the scientists on the board are behind you to a man. But the business men, the advertising boys and accountants, well ... you know how they are."
"What's eating them?"
"The lab didn't release any new products this past year. Development and even Advertising are pretty much slowed down."
"That's right. We've got some good products about ready, but we're making a final check before release. Don't you think we sent out a lot of junk before?"
"We sure did, even in my time though I tried to stop it. But the development boys want something, anything."
"Well?" asked Whitemarsh.
"So they'd probably rather run the risk of getting something bad than nothing at all."
"They won't!"
"That's right, they never will again. Now, I know that the products you have ready are going to be good and I'm not worried about them. All we have to do is keep the business geniuses out of our hair for another six months."
"And?"
"So we're kicking you upstairs. It's a good job, don't worry about that, at three times your director's salary."
"What if I quit?"
"Don't be that silly."
"What's the other job?"
"Works Manager at Quercus Mountain on Phobus. Sole boss of the biggest Isotope Works in the Solar System. You'll have 50,000 men under you and have a free hand at starting any kind of laboratory you want."
"No Laboratorians?"
"Right. You can start out from scratch and make the kind of lab you've always dreamed of. Here we're thinking of pushing up Kercheval if it's all right with you, you always rated him highly. It's just like changing Spaceball managers. We all know the Space Sox won the pennant last year on the team developed by Kanter even though Balhiser was manager. These wolves will keep off our tail until the new products start coming through and then we'll say we knew it all along."
"You've got me half convinced not to quit," said Whitemarsh quietly.
"Now listen Frank," came back Sheridan just as seriously, "you're too good a man to waste. Now take your promotion like a nice boy and keep in line."
"I still think I did a good job here."
"So do I, but the Board of Directors can't forgive those retractions, even though you and I know they're necessary. They don't know what scientific truth and pride are. Within ten years, on the foundations you laid, we'll have the best research record in the country...."
After Sheridan had left, Whitemarsh cast a last look at his former domain. He called Kercheval in to give him the news and then tell him to keep quiet until verified. Then he decided to take a last tour around the laboratories. He finally found himself up at the Snack Bar and his eyes were taking the same look over the Laboratory that they had done two years before. The view looked about the same. He had supervised the installation of a new Matter Probe over in the front center and he was responsible for the Atom Analyzer, but these were only minor changes.
The major change, he thought bitterly, is that no one speaks to me unless spoken to—I've become a pariah. Never tamper with the status quo, it disturbs too many people. It's a very lonely job.
There was no one else in the Snack Bar. At least, almost no one else. He heard a discreet cough behind him. He turned and found Miss Chester seated behind him. She had her legs crossed, a cup of coffee in one hand and the Space News Want-Ads in the other.
"Hello, Napoleon," she greeted him. "Have you just been surveying your empire? Did you see the stern men of science jumping through the hoops out there? Can you remember the happy place this was a year ago when you came? Then the Laboratorians took pride in their work; now they're flunkies for the green kids fresh from Alma Mater!"
"Stop it, Sally," he told her. "You're not too far wrong on that Napoleon business. I'm taking off for my new St. Helena, Quercus Mountain on Phobus."
"Quercus Mountain? That's a big place. Lab Director?"
"No. Works Manager."
"Heaven help the poor Atomic workers!"
"Don't be that harsh. Dammit! Sally, maybe I am a Napoleon, but scientific accuracy is too important to play fast and loose with, the way they were around here. You know it. You're the only one who didn't relax that vigilance—who saw to it that everything you turned out was without error. I know now that I forgot the human equation—that I was so eager for errorless research that I trod pretty roughshod over a lot of people. But you're guilty too, you know, you had the secret—you managed to balance the equation when everyone else here didn't. Why didn't you help me? Sure, you came in and ranted and raved at me—called me all sorts of names, but you didn't help me, you didn't try to show me the way."
"I—"
"Let me finish," he interrupted her. "I love you, you know—have for a long, long, time. I still need help, Sally. I don't want to keep playing Napoleon and going into exile over and over again. A bigger job with more men under me isn't the answer. When a man is lonely it makes him hard and cruel in circumstances like that. I made all of you here relearn scientific facts, I need to relearn the humanities...." He paused for a moment. "Sally, will you teach me?"
Her eyes were bright with unshed tears and a catch in her throat made the words husky and half-whispered. "I wanted to help—I love you too—but I thought you were arrogant and didn't need me—" She swallowed, controlling a sob. "I'll make it up to you, darling. You won't be alone again—on Phobus or anywhere else in the galaxy."