into the temporary office. Inside, they
were met by a young man with a deputy marshal's badge on his flannel
shirt and a .38 revolver on his hip.

"Ben Puryear: Dr. Rives," Melroy introduced. "Who's the mouthy character
outside?"

"One of the roustabouts; name's Burris," Puryear replied. "Wash-room
lawyer."

Melroy nodded. "You always get one or two like that. How're the rest
taking it?"

Puryear shrugged. "About how you'd expect. A lot of kidding about who's
got any intelligence to test. Burris seems to be the only one who's
trying to make an issue out of it."

"Well, what are they doing ganged up here?" Melroy wanted to know. "It's
past oh-eight-hundred; why aren't they at work?"

"Reactor's still too hot. Temperature and radioactivity both too high;
radioactivity's still up around eight hundred REM's."

"Well, then, we'll give them all the written portion of the test
together, and start the personal interviews and oral tests as soon as
they're through." He turned to Doris Rives. "Can you give all of them
the written test together?" he asked. "And can Ben help
you--distributing forms, timing the test, seeing that there's no
fudging, and collecting the forms when they're done?"

"Oh, yes; all they'll have to do is follow the printed instructions."
She looked around. "I'll need a desk, and an extra chair for the
interview subject."

"Right over here, doctor." Puryear said. "And here are the forms and
cards, and the sound-recorder, and blank sound disks."

"Yes," Melroy added. "Be sure you get a recording of every interview and
oral test; we may need them for evidence."

He broke off as a man in white coveralls came pushing into the office.
He was a scrawny little fellow with a wide, loose-lipped mouth and a
protuberant Adam's apple; beside his identity badge, he wore a two-inch
celluloid button lettered: I.F.A.W. STEWARD.

"Wanta use the phone," he said. "Union business."

Melroy gestured toward a telephone on the desk beside him. The newcomer
shook his head, twisting his mouth into a smirk.

"Not that one; the one with the whisper mouthpiece," he said. "This is
private union business."

* * * * *

Melroy shrugged and indicated another phone. The man with the union
steward's badge picked it up, dialed, and held a lengthy conversation
into it, turning his head away in case Melroy might happen to be a lip
reader. Finally he turned.

"Mr. Crandall wants to talk to you,