Ch 1 P.5. The Argument

“Please,” prompted Marle.

“I wanna know,” said Rowan, slurring his words. “What I wanna know is, who's the boss around here?”

“All too obvious,” answered Marle. “It's the short drunk.”

Rowan shook his head back and forth in an exaggerated manner. He took a breath and began again. “I wanna know why a farmer with a diploma thinks he can put my crew at risk?” Rowan stuck out his chest and continued in a belligerent spirit. “I wanna know what the hell anyone gets out of putting a damned acorn on the outside of my station? Who's in command here, the farmer or the boss?”

Marle felt his mood grow dark. The little man was tripping all the right triggers; if it were someone other than an immediate supervisor, Marle would have stepped around the table and smacked him into a coma. Hera tugged at his arm until he looked down and saw her shake her head. He looked up at the station chief with narrowing eyes. He would not hit the man, but Marle was unsure he could hold his tongue.

Everyone looked between Marle and Rowan. Marle found that he was gritting his teeth from the effort to remain calm. Calm had never been his strong point. Swallowing his pride before so many onlookers was hateful. He could feel the fire burning in himself. Taking a deep breath under the pressure of the chief's demand, Marle looked down at his clenched fist, opened his hand, and exhaled.

“We all work for the same people,” said Marle, trying not to sound like he was biting off each word, even though he was. “I'm a civilian, but just like you, the military has me under its authority. Even Corporate has to answer to them. Somebody tell me I'm wrong. Central Government is the boss.”

Cleo tried to lead Rowan aside with pleading, gentle persuasions, but he pulled away. He swayed on unsteady legs and glowered at Marle. He said, “Know-it-alls make me gag. Doctorates? Don't make me laugh. Experience is what put me here. Hard work and blisters, mister.” Rowan's chin tucked back as he rubbed his paunch with a blank stare.

Marle wanted to stay quiet, let the man have his say, and get through it, but he couldn't. “We all have our jobs to do, station chief. I've been sent here to do a job for Corporate. The results of my work will provide valuable information on the effects of the green wave on living cells. Perhaps, if you spent less time with your beers, which you obviously can't hold, and spent more time growing hair, you'd have a clue, and maybe get laid.”

Rowan opened his mouth in retort, yet no words issued forth. Instead, his chin moved in and out as if he might hurl at any moment. Hera tugged on Marle's arm while Cleo tried to guide the station chief away without success. Then, Rowan stumbled forward. The crew of the Tin Can flinched in their seats. Rowan steadied, stepped back into Cleo's arms, and fell, his weight pulling her down with him. Crew members jumped from their seats as Cleo called for help.

Hera stood and said, “You men, help our chief to his room.”

As Felix and Joel raised Rowan to his feet and Cleo stood with a dark blush, Marle asked, “How much did he drink?” When Cleo held up two fingers, Marle's exasperation burst forth in an explosive breath. Then, thinking beyond himself, Marle turned to Hera and said, “I'm sorry.”

“No,” answered Hera. “It's not your fault. That's just how he is. The men will put him to bed, and he'll sleep it off. He'll stay in his office for a day, and then we'll be back to normal.”

Marle replied, “Yeah, but I could have used more tact.” Hera smiled and nodded.

Just then, the music stopped, lights spun in the ceiling, and Astra warned calmly, “Three by three. Three by three. Incoming green wave. Time to pass over, five minutes.”

People scattered, Hera took Marle's arm and turned him. “It's a big one,” she said. “We need to pull in the shields.”

Marle turned and ran for the jet, knowing it would take that long to reach the lab.