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decorated apartment.
The lilac-tinted walls deftly blended from one room to another. A
white curved sofa and chrome-and-glass accessories dominated the
living room, while a harmonious mix of refinished antiques and
oriental touches complemented the dining area. "You know, I'm
really glad you got Joan Scoville's sublet. She's a fantastic
interior designer, and this place certainly strokes one's
morale."
    "Diane, if you think your steamrolling tactics are going to work
on me again, you can just-"
    "Ginger!"-she affected a shocked position with the back of her
hand against her forehead-"you wound me. I've never met any more
effective steamroller than yourself during our high-school days."
Diane grinned and flashed her a disarming smile.
    "Run along and take a shower and shampoo that spray paint out of
your hair. I'll fix us some lunch, and then we can spend the rest
of this glorious, sunny day shopping the boutiques in the Port of
Call Village. I saw the inside of your closet last night; your
wardrobe needs help. A few new blouses and sweaters, better fitting
slacks, and-"
    Virginia's loud, painful groan was smothered by Diane's
continued tirade. With a resigned sigh she pushed herself away from
the table and shuffled toward the bathroom. It was useless to try
and stop a steamroller, especially one with a loving heart.
    The Santa Anas were blowing-strong, dry, and hot off the
Rockies. The winds mixed with the sun and the auto fumes to spread
a cloying blanket of grit and smog over Los Angeles and the
commuter-congested freeway. The winds made everyone restless and
uncomfortable, provoked tempers, sapped energy, and dampened
creativity.
    Virginia cursed that hellish Monday sixteen times before noon.
She tossed her third and final lab coat into the laundry bin. The
first had been splattered with hot solder, the second was soaked
with a phosphorus doping solution, and this one still sizzled from
arsenic burns. The day was definitely jinxed- and it had started
the minute the alarm had gone off.
    In her haste over breakfast she had neglected to put coffee
grounds in the percolator, and after her shower was greeted by a
steaming cup of water. Her hair normally stayed in a neat,
controlled topknot, but this morning it had defied the strength of
four rubber bands and two-dozen bobby pins. The obstinate thick
brown waves refused to be coerced into anything but a side-parted
pageboy.
    If that hadn't been enough-Virginia snorted as she reached for a
rubberized chemical apron-she felt ill at ease in her new clothes.
The tailored brown-and-white-striped oxford cloth shirt defined her
full breasts and slim midriff, while the narrow khaki twill pants
encased smooth hips and long legs. They were just part of a sleek
designer wardrobe purchased on her Sunday shopping spree. Diane had
made sure she didn't go back to her loose blouses and baggy slacks
by depositing them in a Salvation Army canister.
    The new outfit had already caused her an embarrassing moment in
the company parking lot. She had bent to retrieve textbooks,
manuals, and an attache case from the rear seat of her rented beige
Ford Fiesta. One of the young, gum-chewing mailroom clerks walked
by, whistled, and muttered, "Very nice, babe."
    Virginia's palms followed the rounded contours of her backside.
"Very nice, indeed," she muttered gruffly. She was not at all
comfortable with the image her new clothes projected. Her only
consolation was that she was the sole occupant of the
electrochemical lab. The office staff rarely ventured through the
ultraviolet-lit air lock into the contaminate-free "white
room."
    With her sleeves rolled up and shield gloves protecting her
hands, Virginia secured long-handled forceps to lift a vial of
liquid helium from a pressurized storage container. Using a special
insertion hook, she extracted a cryotron chip from its
minus-four-hundred-degree environment, then quickly returned it to
the receptacle before rime frost occurred.
    The cumbersome gloves were