Only Mortensen remained, puzzling over a diagram on the blackboard.
Else might as well start mimeographing. She grabbed her hat and her briefcase weighted down with paper and stencils, and she entered Mrs. Iversen’s office. “Mortensen said you had an article for me to mimeograph.”
“Yes. He’d like ten copies.” The secretary handed her stencils separated by sheets of paper.
Else studied the milky-hued stencils and the almost-invisible typing. “I can’t wait to see this paper. One of my ideas. It’s nice to contribute something.”
Mrs. Iversen tilted her gray head and frowned. “This must be a different article. You’re not listed among the authors.”
Her mind swam, and a sick feeling swirled in her belly. “We don’t have another article in the works. May I—do you have the original?”
Mrs. Iversen handed Else a typewritten article. The title—that was the paper. And the list of authors included everyone, even the graduate students. But not Else Jensen, PhD.
That sick feeling stopped swirling and hardened into rock. She flipped through the pages. There was her idea, her chain of equations, exactly as she’d written them on the board. “That’s mine. That’s my work.”
Mrs. Iversen huffed. “That man.”
The solidity of the rock spread from her belly to her spine. This time she wouldn’t wait to confront him.
She marched into the lab, where Mortensen packed papers into his briefcase.
Else worked up a benign expression. “Excuse me. I was about to make copies of the article, when I realized my name wasn’t listed among the authors.”
He snapped the clasps of his briefcase shut. “Your name doesn’t belong there.”
Her emotions churned and threatened to erupt, but she forced herself to stay calm. “Pardon? This is my idea.” She flashed the page where her equations started.
“Your idea?” His lip curled.
She waved the papers toward the blackboard. “I wrote this derivation on the board. You saw. You heard.”
Mortensen slid his briefcase off the desk. “You said it was a team effort. As everyone knows, when a person says that, it means everyone contributedexceptthat person.”
A gasp burst out. “But—but you heard Knudsen and Gebhardt give me credit.”
“I heardteam.”
He heard what he wanted to hear.
“Sorry, Jensen. Writing down someone else’s ideas on the blackboard makes you a secretary, not a physicist.” He smirked and headed for the door. “Now be a good little secretary and make copies.”
Else’s chest heaved, and she gaped at his back. How dare he use her modesty as a weapon against her? The graduate students had indeed helped. Claiming all the credit would have been arrogant and dismissive. And for that, he’d strip her of any credit?
She didn’t want acclaim, only inclusion.
Should she go over his head? Wolff expected her to solve problems herself, but she couldn’t solve this one.
Else’s breath steamed in her mouth and nostrils, and she marched down to Wolff’s office.
Mollification didn’t work with Mortensen, but confrontation didn’t work either.
She arranged her argument so she’d sound reasonable, not hysterical. Although she felt hysterical.
The door to Wolff’s office was locked, and she knocked. No answer.
She puffed out a sigh. Maybe talking to him tomorrow when she’d had time to compose her thoughts would be wise anyway.
In the meantime, she’d printFrit Danmark, but she refused to waste paper and ink on the article—partly plagiarized!
