The Laboratorians
BY EDWARD PEATTIE
Playing "Napoleon" can get to be a
habit, especially when a man is devoted
to pure science. Which was Dr. Whitemarsh's
devotion—until Dr. Sally Chester came along!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1955.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"Yeah, we drop in just three c.c. from this here tube," said Rocco ashe expertly twirled the erlenmeyer flask and watched the color shootpast the methyl orange end-point. Whitemarsh was annoyed and said so.
"That's the sixth straight you've missed, and the acid comes out of theburette, not the tube; and you don't call the graduations c.c., youcall them milliliters."
"Yeah? Well, here we call it a tube!"
"And why don't you go down to the end-point drop by drop?"
"Because the book don't say so! That's why! You technos make me sick.Here we do all the blasted work, and you try to tell us how to do whatwe've been doing for ten years!"
Rocco was beginning to work himself into one of his famous rages. Hisbull neck was beginning to redden; his eyes started to flash. Hisentire squat body started to quiver.
Whitemarsh wasn't impressed. Over at the atomic plant, Phobus's QuercusMountain, he had bossed a pretty quarrelsome crew of isotope wranglers.He had never dodged a fight in his life. But this was in a chemicallaboratory and it surprised him to hear the assistants talk back.
The only assistants he had ever known were clear-eyed youths takinga year away from their studies to recoup their tuition money and whotried to copy everything the chemists did. But Whitemarsh was new tothe Interspatial Research Center on the Moon, and he still could notfigure why the assistants acted as they did. So he waited.
Rocco banged the flask down on the stone bench, glared at Whitemarshfor an instant, and then rushed out of the Laboratory, muttering a fewobscenities.
"Queer place this," mused Whitemarsh, filling up another flask andfinishing the titration himself. "Here the helpers tell the chemistswhat to do and get mad if we ask them what they're doing."
He started to look over Rocco's notes and ruefully decided all thework would have to be done over again. He was interrupted when a girlopened the door. In the week he had been stationed at IRC, he had beenintroduced to so many scientists that he had forgotten most of thenames, but he remembered all the girls. His former Atomic Plant atQuercus Mountain had had all too few for him not to appreciate themnow. Miss Sally Chester was a statuesque chemist with long blonde hairand a luscious figure which she hid under a white lab robe. He managedto stammer some sort of greeting.
"Why Dr. Whitemarsh!" She seemed somewhat puzzled. "You're not actuallyworking with your hands?"
"I sure am, unless we're both space struck. Why not?"
"Well, I suppose it's all right other places, here we let theLaboratorians do all the manual work. It's sort of their privilege."
"Yes, but their technique's lousy. I sat here this afternoon andwatched that blow-hard Rocco muff six straight end-points in a row andwhen I asked him how come, he blew his top!"
She laughed at that. She sat down on the lab desk and said, "You'reabsolutely right. Antonio Rocco's color blind and always misses hisMethyl Orange end-points. And he's been doing them for ten years.But it hurts his feelings to be criticized, you should have been