CRITICAL MASS
Liz Westbrook-TrenholmAfter all the waiting, it was over fast. The red-faced official tossed Grete’s letter of invitation onto his desk so carelessly that it drifted to the floor, forcing her to scramble after it. He leaned back, his neck puffing out over his collar.
“Denied,” he said.
“But, in England, the official gave me this visa. He noted my status as of need to your war effort.”
The man leaned forward, head c****d to the side. “Our war effort? Isn’t it yours as well?”
“Obviously,” Grete said in her most dignified manner, demonstrating to this creature just how far apart they were in social level. The nasty fat object narrowed its eyes.
“Obviously, you obtained this visa under false pretenses. Obviously, the letter of invitation was intended for your husband.”
“Hu
