"As my wife." He got up and came over to her. She stood still, almost
stunned. "That solves the whole problem tidily. An office is no place
for you, darling--you're really a simple home-girl at heart. Newspaper
work is too strenuous for you; it upsets you and makes you nervous and
irritable. I want you to stay home and take care of our house and hatch
our eggs--unostentatiously, of course."
"Why, you--" she spluttered.
He put his foot over her mouth. "Don't give me your answer now. You're
in no condition to think. Tell me tomorrow."
* * * * *
It rained all night and continued on into the morning. Tarb's head
ached, but she had to make an appearance at the office. First she vizzed
an acquaintance she had made the day before; then she took her umbrella
and set forth.
As she kicked open the door to the newsroom, all sound ceased. Voices
stopped abruptly. Typewriters halted in mid-click. Even the roar of the
presses downstairs suddenly seemed to mute. Every head turned to look at
Tarb.
_Humph_, she thought, removing her plastic oversocks, _so suppose I was
a little oblique yesterday. They needn't stare at me. They never stare
at Drosmig. Just because I'm a woman, I suppose!_ The gate crashed
loudly behind her.
"Oh, Miss Morfatch," Miss Snow called. "Mr. Zarnon said he wanted to
see you as soon as you came in. It's urgent." And she giggled.
"Really?" Tarb said. "Well, he'll just have to wait until I've wrung out
my wings." Sooner or later, she would have to face Stet, but she wanted
to put it off as long as possible.
She opened the door to her office and halted in amazement. For, seated
on a stool behind the desk, haggard but vertical, was Senbot Drosmig,
busily reading letters and blue-penciling comments on them with his
feet.
"Good morning, my dear," he said, giving her a wan smile. "Surprised to
see me functioning again, eh?"
"Well--yes." She opened her dripping umbrella mechanically and stood it
in a corner. "How--"
"I realized last night that all that happened to you was my fault. You
were my responsibility and I failed you."
"Oh, don't be melodramatic, Senbot. I wasn't your responsibility and you
didn't fail me. Not that I'm not glad to see you up and doing again,
but--"
"But I did fail you!" the aged journalist insisted. "And, in the same
way, I failed my people. I shouldn't have given in. I should have fought
Zarnon as you, my dear, tried to do. But it isn't too late!" The fire of
the crusader lit up in his watery old eyes. "I can still fight him and
his sacred crows--his Earthlings! If I have to, I can go over his head
to Grupe. Grupe may not understand Stet's moral failings, but he
certainly will comprehend his commercial ones. Grupe owns stock in other
Fizbian enterprises besides the _Times_. Autofax, for example."
"Oh, Senbot!" Tarb wailed. "The whole thing's such an awful mess!"
"I don't think it'll be necessary to threaten that far," he comforted
her. "Stet is no fool. He knows which side of his breadnut is peeled."
"I'm sure you'll do a wonderful job," she exclaimed, impulsively giving
a ritual _entrechat_. "And I wish I could stay and help you, but...."
"I know, my dear."
"You do?" She was puzzled. "But how did the news get around so quickly?"
He shrugged. "The Terrestrial grapevine is almost as efficient as the
Fizbian. Didn't you notice any change in the--ah--atmosphere when you
came in?"
"Oh, was that the reason?" Tarb laughed merrily. "Somehow it never
occurred to me that they could have heard so soon."
"But the morning editions have been out for hours."
The door to the office was flung open. Stet stormed in, bristling with a
most unloverlike rage.
"Miss Morfatch--" he waved a crumpled copy of the _Terrestrial Tribune_
at her--"when I give an order, I expect to be obeyed! Didn't Miss Snow
tell you to report directly to my office the instant you came in?
Although that's a question I don't have to ask; I know Miss Snow, at
least, is someone I can trust."
"I was coming to see you, Stet," Tarb said soothingly. "Right away."
"Oh, you were, were you? And have you seen this?" Stet fairly threw the
paper at her. Smack in the middle of the front page was a picture of
herself in full flight over the airfield bar. Not a very good picture,
but what could you expect with Terrestrial equipment? When the autofax
came, perhaps she would be done justice.