No, he hadn’t. Else glanced at the other physicists, who all seemed interested in their own hands. “Me? I don’t know how to use it.”
“Then learn. Quickly. I need copies now—twenty-five of them.”
Else stood staring, her cheeks hot.
Jørgen Wolff glanced up at her with a narrow-eyed, intent look.
How humiliating. Mortensen had gone too far, and words scalded their way up her throat.
Mortensen waved to the door. “Now.”
She blinked. How could she make a scene in front of some of the institute’s most esteemed physicists?
The words scalded even more on their way down. “Where—where’s your paper? And where’s the mimeo—”
“For heaven’s sake, Jensen. Use your brain.” He shook his head at the other men. “Useless woman.”
Else whirled out the door, everything burning and churning inside her. But she choked back her anger so she wouldn’t unleash it on sweet Mrs. Iversen.
In the secretary’s office, Mrs. Iversen slid papers into a file drawer. She lifted her gray head and smiled at Else. The smile fell. “Dr. Jensen? What’s the matter?”
Else pressed her hand to her tumbling belly and stilled her face. “Dr. Mortensen asked me to make copies of his paper. Do you have it?”
Her light eyes stretched wide, wrinkling her forehead. “How strange. Miss Bruun makes copies for me, the dear girl. I can’t figure out that contraption. But this morning, Mortensen told me not to take the stencil to her.”
“He told you not to?” Else’s mouth drew tight. Mortensen had set her up. He’d planned the whole spectacle just to humiliate her.
Mrs. Iversen rose from behind her desk. “He asked you to make copies?”
“Ordered me.” Her voice came out clipped.
“That man. Come with me, dear.” Mrs. Iversen snatched up a folder, and she led Else out of the office and down the hall, herwell-padded hips swaying. “Five more years, and I can retire. I keep praying Dr. Bohr will transfer me to someone else’s lab.”
Else gave her a wobbly smile. “I say the same prayer.”
Mrs. Iversen entered the office of Dr. Wolff’s secretary. “Miss Bruun? I apologize for the short notice. Mortensen.”
Miss Bruun rolled dark eyes. “What did he do now?”
“This morning he told menotto make copies.” She slapped the folder down on the desk. “Now he’s demanding them from Dr. Jensen. Would you—”
“Oh dear. I promised to type up Dr. Wolff’s letter. It needs to go out in today’s mail.”
Else stepped closer. “He told me to make the copies.”
“That would be wonderful.” Miss Bruun gave her a smile. “Do you know how?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Miss Bruun frowned at the clock. “If you learn quickly, I could show you in about five minutes.”
“Would you?” Mrs. Iversen said. “You’re such a dear.”
Else tried to smile but failed. She followed Miss Bruun’s quick steps down to the basement. The secretary opened a door to a little room smelling of ink and oil.
“This is the mimeograph machine.” On a table sat a small machine with a cylindrical drum in the middle and two trays on either end. In a whirlwind of words and motions, Miss Bruun described its use.
After the secretary left, Else opened the folder. The stencils were made of a waxy, translucent, floppy paper with a cardboard strip at each end. Almost invisible print had been cut into the stencil with Mrs. Iversen’s typewriter.
