“You did that on purpose!” Chip grabbed the hammer.
“Don’t be a loon, Chip,” snorted Fal. “How could he—she—plan to do something behind it? Her.”
“Of course it was an accident. I saw. I had considered doing it on purpose myself,” said the galago. “At least that horrible caterwauling she is stopped. Not one piece of Wagner has been played on it.”
“No Strauss waltzes, either. Don’t you like classical music, Chip?” Virginia apparently thought any subject was safer than the Professor’s clumsiness.
“What I don’t like is that self-admitted klutz near this workshop. Get her out of here, Ms. Shaw. And of course I like the classics. I’m a big Jimi Hendrix fan. And I like The Doors and Eric Clapton, too.”
* * *
“An assembly line is what we need.” Bronstein began organizing the rats while Chip still fumed over his smashed radio. “Fal, you and Doc can try to manage the sawing. We need fifty pipe sections. Eamon has marked where the pipe must be cut.”
“But we have paws! We’re not dexterous.” The rats were clearly disgruntled.
Bronstein hissed impatiently, like a bad-tempered kettle. “You can manage a hacksaw between the two of you. It is only plastic pipe, for heaven’s sake! Now, while they’re busy doing that, I want a window-putty plug, the diesel and ammonium nitrate in and the top full of metal junk. Doll, Melene and you and O’Niel can get to filling those one gallon and five gallon cans with diesel. When you finished that, come back to me.”
“Dictator,” muttered O’Niel. “Tyrant.” But he and the two rat-girls started lugging cans out.
Virginia followed Melene, offering her help. “Load the cans into that barrow, and I’ll take them out for you.”
“Good idea,” said Mel. As soon as they were outside, she added: “Then you and I can have a little talk about males. Bronstein said you had a girl-problem.”
Virginia blushed. “Okay,” she squeaked.
* * *
Bronstein turned on the galago, who was surveying the scene with thumbs stuck in his waistcoat pockets. “And you, little one. Are you up to a man’s job?”
“Of a certainty!” he said with pride.
She smiled. “Excellent. You can hammer in nails.”
The galago was taken aback. Plainly enough, that wasn’t what he’d had in mind. “But, señorita-bat, a man’s job is to sit the shade and watch the girls dance or wash the clothes.”
“Not while there is breath in this ‘señorita-bat’s’ body, it isn’t.” Bronstein’s tone would have intimidated a pro football player. The galago got busy, hastily.
“It would have been nice to have some music with this lot,” grumbled Chip.
Virginia came back in just in time to hear the last statement. “Seeing as the radio’s broken, we could sing,” she suggested brightly, while loading more cans in the barrow.
“And what would you be after having us sing, Miss Shaw?” demanded Eamon. The big bat’s tone of voice was surly. ” ‘Four Green Fields’? Or ‘Joe Hill’?”
“I don’t know either. But I’d like to learn both,” was her earnest reply. She hefted the handles of the now-loaded barrow, straightened, and pushed it through the door. The effort brought out all the curvature in her slender figure.
A moment later, she was gone. “Humph,” grumbled Eamon. Chip said nothing. He was preoccupied with the memory of the departing figure. In the sunlight . . .
Humph. Forget it!
* * *
“Pull the pump handle for a bit,” said Melene. “Now, what is the problem with you and Chip? Bronstein actually came to me, believe it or not, and asked me to advise you. She seemed to think you had a rat-type problem.”
Virginia blushed again. She’d brought the barrow load of cans out to the diesel pump and now Melene was giving her the fifth degree inquisition. She didn’t even know what the problem was herself.
“You can tell me all about it. Bronstein says you’re one of us.” The rat-girl’s tone was kindly.
Virginia swallowed. One of them? Then she realized. She was. And they did not consider themselves inferior. “I’m in love!” she blurted.
“So what’s the problem? Can’t he get it up? Generally I found if you get them before they have too much to drink . . .”