“Doctor,” she answered calmly, “you’re saying that this body could reject the brain—or vice versa, it’s the same thing. Or that I could drop dead, heart failure, for no defined reason. I know it; I read a great deal on transplants, while I was still Johann Smith. I am not afraid. If it happens—well, I’ve had a wonderful vacation from old age, with its pain and boredom.” She smiled happily. “It’s been like dying and going to Heaven—and even a few weeks of Heaven can be eternity.”
“I’m glad you accept it so philosophically.”
“Not ‘philosophically,’ Doctor. With wonder and joy and reaching out greedily for every golden second!”
“Well… I’m pleased that Winifred is going to stay with you and I hope that you will keep her a long time—”
“As long as she will stay! Always, I hope.”
“—because, otherwise, I would worry. But Winnie can do in an emergency anything I could do, and she’ll have everything here with which to do it—and she knows and I want you to know that I will get here fast if she sends for me. All right, my dear, let’s get that transmitter off you; you won’t be monitored any longer. Nurse. Rubbing alcohol, and cotton.”
“Yes, Doctor.” Winifred went past the massage table, reached into a cupboard.
Dr. Garcia detached the tiny transmitter. “Slight erythema, and a faint circle of mechanical dermatitis. With your amazing repair factor I’m betting you won’t be able to find where it’s been by tomorrow. But I’m going to miss my morning movie.”
“Sir?”
“I don’t suppose anyone has told you but I have watched the monitors every morning, while you exercised…waiting for your heart to pound. Or your respiration to warn me. Nothing. Never anything abnormal, I mean; I could tell that you were exercising. Very mild exercise, I concluded.”
“Why, yes, I suppose so. Yoga.”
“Well! I would not class yoga as ‘mild.’ If we mean the same thing.”
“I meant that yoga isn’t a hundred-yard dash, or weight lifting. But I—well, both of us—have been doing the classic poses. Except the headstands; I’m not foolish, I know I have a Sears-Roebuck skull.”
“I wouldn’t have let her, Doctor! But she never tried one; truly she didn’t.”
“Doctor, I haven’t been building muscles for show; I am simply trying to get perfect control over my new—wonderful!—body. Here, let me show you.”
Joan stood up, letting the negligee fall, stood on the floor six inches from the exercise mat—shifted her weight onto her left foot, brought her right leg up behind her in perfect extension while she leaned slowly forward…deep…deeper…until she clasped her left ankle with both hands and pressed her cheek against her shin, with her right leg arrow straight above her in a perfect split.
She held it for three controlled breaths, then dropped her hands flat to the floor, slowly lifted her left leg, balancing it against the right, until she was holding a hand stand, legs together, back arched, toes pointed.
Again slowly she let her limbs sink like drooping petals until they touched the mat—let the Arch sink into the Wheel, melted still farther into the Diamond pose, knees and elbows touching mat and floor—held it—let it roll slowly forward into Lotus. “Om Mani Padme Hum.” (Om Mani Padme Hum. Pick up your check at the gate, girl; we won’t need to shoot this scene over.) (Thanks, Eunice. But I had a good guru, Guru.) (De nada, Chela.)
Dr. Garcia was applauding. “Terrific! Unbelievable. Like everything else about this case. Winnie! Can you do that?”
Joan flowed upward, was standing. “Sure she can! Skin ’em off, dear, and show Doctor.”
The nurse blushed deeply. “No, I can’t. Don’t believe her, Doctor; I’m just learning.”
“Oh, fuff. I have to steady her only a little. Come back in two weeks, Doctor, and she’ll do it by herself. It’s not hard—just takes angleworms in your ancestry.”
“Which you seem to have. But, if Winnie didn’t teach you, where did you learn it, Joan?”
(Oh, oh! Watch it, Boss—he smells a mouse.)
“How old are you, Doctor?”
“Eh? Thirty-seven.”
“I learned it about forty years before you were born. But didn’t have time to keep it up,” she went on. “Then for many years didn’t have the physique even to try. But it all came back so easily that I am forced to assume that Mrs. Branca was better at it than I was even as a limber kid.” (Let’s see him check that, sweetheart.) (Never make a lie too complicated, Boss.) (Look, infant, I was lying with a straight face when your grandmother was in rompers. Erase and correct—your great-grandmother.)
“Well… I’m going to write it up as part of your final physical—if I can figure out how to describe it. Your robe, Joan?”
“Thank you.” She took it and held it, instead of presenting her back for him to put it on her. “Doctor, Mr. Salomon will be settling your fees and expenses. But, to show my great appreciation, I want to add something.”
He shook his head. “A doctor should not accept more than his fee…and, I assure you, mine are high.”
“Nevertheless I want to.” She dropped the robe. “Winnie, turn your back, dear.” She went straight into his startled arms, put up her face to be kissed.
He hesitated about one heartbeat, then put his arms around her and kissed her. Joan sighed softly, her lips came open, and she flowed more closely against him
(Don’t faint! Let’s not miss any of this.) (Don’t bother me, Eunice; I’m busy!)
The Doctor broke from it, caught his breath, and looked at her soberly. Then he reached down, recovered her robe and held it. Joan let him put it on her, then said, “Thank you, Doctor.” She turned and smiled.
“Um. I think I can honestly report that you are in excellent physical condition. Mr. Salomon is waiting.”
“Please tell him I’ll be out in a moment.”
Joan waited until the door closed. Then she went into Winifred’s arms and giggled against her shoulder. “Winnie, did you turn your back? Didn’t you peek a little? I hope.”
“I turned my back. But I had a full view in the mirror. Whew!”
“Whew twice. So that’s what it feels like. Honey, I don’t feel nearly so virginal now.”
“Is he good? It looked like it.”
“I don’t know. I have no way to judge. Dear darling Jake kisses me; you’ve seen him—but just ‘uncle’ sort of pecks. And you kiss me—and yours aren’t pecks. But you’re a girl and smaller than I am. Doctor is the first man who has really kissed me…and it made me feel so little and helpless that I darn near dragged him down onto the mat. You’ve never kissed him?”
“Him? Joan honey, if I told any of the nurses about this, I would not be believed. Dr. Garcia doesn’t even pat bottoms; he just growls.”
“He patted my bottom. I think he did. Things were fuzzy right then.”
“I know he did. I saw it and didn’t believe it. Joan? You wouldn’t have made me skin down. Would you?”
“Why not? I was.”
“Yes, but you’re a patient. I’m a nurse, I’m supposed to be a robot and a chaperon.”
“Only we know you’re not. Don’t we?”
“Well…anyhow I can’t do that one; it’s much too hard.”
“I told him to come back in two weeks and you’d be able to. Shall I remind him?”
“Oh, Joan! You’re teasing me again.” The redhead added thoughtfully, “Do you really think I could, by myself, in only two more weeks?”
“I know you can. But not in clothes, not even tights. So if you are going to blush and go chicken, I had better not remind dear Doctor.”
“Uh…that did look like quite a kiss. But Paul wouldn’t like it.”
“Wouldn’t like what? Your demonstrating precision body control to a doctor? Or kissing a doctor? Or what the kiss might lead to? And how is Paul to know if you don’t tell him?” (Boss, you are corrupting the youth of the land.) (Egg feathers, Eunice. Either Paul won’t marry her…or he’s marrie
d and can’t. Either way he’s got no business monopolizing her. As you pointed out, sex is not a sport, it’s for being happy.)
“Uh… Doctor wouldn’t kiss me, anyway. He doesn’t even know I’m female.”
“Never believe it. You are and he’s not stupid. He’ll kiss you if I suggest that it’s the applause expected for a perfect performance. You’ve got two weeks to make up your mind, and right now I’ve got to go see dear Jake.”
13
“—having business before this Honorable Court draw nigh!”—“May it please the Court, while Petitioners are ready to proceed, may they respectfully invite to the Court’s attention that no proper foundation has been laid. This matter relates to the competency of Johann Sebastian Bach Smith, grandfather of the four Petitioners…and Counsel is not aware that he is in court.”
“Order! There will be order in the court—at once. Or the room will be cleared. Counsel, are you suggesting that Miss Smith—this young lady at whom I am pointing—is not Johann Sebastian Bach Smith?”
“Counsel suggests nothing, Your Honor. I merely note that we have nothing in the record to show that the person at whom the Court pointed is Johann Sebastian Bach Smith—and that the question of competency cannot be considered until proof of identity is indubitably established.”
“Is Counsel attempting to instruct this Court in the law?”
“Oh, not at all!”
“It sounded like that. May I remind Counsel that this Court sits today in equity, not in law—and that the procedures are what the Court says they are.”
“Most certainly, Your Honor. I regret if I inadvertently sounded otherwise.”
“You were one-sixteenth of an inch from contempt, and don’t let it happen again.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“......as I am sick and tired of the behavior of about fifty percent of the spectators and at least ninety percent of the press, I order the Bailiff to clear the room. Use a platoon, Evelyn, and clear these cattle out of the chutes promptly—and if that fancy video equipment is damaged in the process, we won’t worry about it.
“Counsels, Petitioners, Guardian, and Ward—putative ward, let the record show—will adjourn to my chambers while we get this silly hassle cleared up.”
“Jake, this is fun! If I’m not me, then I’m flat broke and footloose. You’ll have to marry me—to keep me off Welfare.”
“Johann, shut up that drivel. This is serious.”
“Jake, I refuse to see doom. If I’m not me, then I’m dead and it would be worth being broke to hear my will read and see the faces of my loving descendants when they discover that they wind up with trivial incomes that aren’t even tax-free. Jake, every rich man wants to hear his will read—and I may get the chance.”
“Hmm. Under the theory they seem to be following, Eunice is entitled to hear your will read—remember that paragraph about ‘all persons not specifically named who are in my personal and private employ at the time of my demise—’”
“Can’t say that I do, but if you put it in, it’s there.”
“It’s there. If you’re not Johann, then you have to be Eunice. It’s an ‘either-or’” (Nope! It’s both.) (Eunice, this is going to be fun?) (I think so, too, Boss.)
The part of his chambers selected by Judge McCampbell was a comfortable lounge. Once in it he looked around.
“Mmm… Jake, Ned, Miss Smith, Alec, Mrs. Seward, Mrs. Frabish, you’re Mrs. Crampton, aren’t you?—Mrs. Lopez. Parkinson, how the devil did you get in here?”
“Amicus curiae, Your Honor.”
“You’re no friend of this Court and you don’t belong here.”
“But—”
“Will you walk or would you rather be thrown out?”
Parkinson elected to walk. When the door sealed behind him, the Judge said, “Sperling, set that thing so I can record when I feel like it, then you can leave. Alec, you look as if you were all set to object.”
“Me? Oh, not at all, Judge.”
“Good. Because we’re going to cut through the fog on this silly business. Who needs a fog cutter?” The Judge stepped to a corner bar. “Alec? Gin and tonic as usual?”
“Thanks, Judge.”
“I’m forgetting the ladies. Mrs. Seward? Something with alcohol? Or coffee? This machine will make tea, too, if I can remember which buttons to push. And how about your sister? And your cousins? Miss Smith? I recall what you used to order at the Gib some years back. Are your tastes the same now?”
(Watch it, Boss! It’s loaded.) (Relax, Eunice.) “Judge, with a new body my tastes have changed in some respects. But I remember fondly Glen Grant on the rocks—back before my doctors put a stop to it. But I haven’t tasted anything with that much authority since those days, and, since this is a competency hearing, I’ll settle for coffee. Or a Coke, if you can twist its tail for that.”
The Judge rubbed his nose and looked thoughtful. “I’m not sure it’s a competency hearing until we settle this matter of identity. Jake could have told you about Glen Grant. The idea of Johann Smith ordering a Coke shakes me.”
Joan smiled at him. “I know—hardly seems in character. My doctors made me quit carbonated drinks long before they made me give up whisky. Back about the time you entered law school. If I’m Johann Smith, that is. If I’m not, I’ll ask to be excused—as in that case I’m not a ward of the Court and shouldn’t be here. Isn’t that correct?”
McCampbell looked still more thoughtful. “Jake, do you want to caution your client? No, not your ‘client,’ your—no, not that either. Blessed if I know what you are; that’s what we’ve got to find out. Young lady, sit down and I’ll fetch you a Coke. Alec, get drink orders from your four ladies and serve them. Jake, you and Ned serve yourselves—Alee and I have a date with some fish in Nova Scotia tomorrow morning and I’ll be switched if I’ll keep fish waiting over a surprise turn in this hearing. Alec, confound your Irish soul, are you seriously questioning the identity of this young lady?”
“Well—Judge, are you going to talk about contempt if I suggest that your question is not properly put?”
McCampbell sighed. “Young lady, pay no attention to him. He was my roommate in college and gives me a bad time whenever he comes into my court. Someday I’m going to give him thirty days to think it over—and about four-thirty tomorrow morning I’m going to trip him into some very cold water. Accidentally.”
“Do that, Mac, and I’ll sue. In Canada.”
“I know he was your roommate, Judge; you were both ‘Big Greens’—Dartmouth seventy-eight, was it not? Why not let him ask me questions and find out for himself who I am?”
Mrs. Seward said shrilly, “That’s not the way to go about it! First you must take the fingerprints of that—that impostor—and—”
“Mrs. Seward!”
“Yes, Judge? I was just going to say—”
“Shut up!”
Mrs. Seward shut up. Judge McCampbell went on,
“Madam, simply because it suits me to be informal in my chambers do not think that this is not a court in session or that I would not find you in contempt. I would enjoy it. Alec, you had better convince her of that.”
“Yes, Your Honor. Mrs. Seward, any suggestions you have, you will make through me, not to the Court.”
“But I was just going to say that—”
“Mrs. Seward, keep quiet! You’re here only by courtesy of the Court until this matter of identity is cleared up. I’m sorry, Judge. I advised my clients that, at the most, this was a holding action. I know that Jake Salomon would not risk bringing a ringer—sorry, Miss Smith—a ringer into court.”
“And I know it.”
“But they insisted. If Mrs. Seward won’t control herself, I’ll have to ask your permission to withdraw from the case.”
The Judge shook his head and grinned. “No, sirree, Alec. You fetched them here, you’re stuck with them—at least until Court adjourns. Jake? Is Ned still fronting for you? Or will you speak for yourself?”
?
??Oh, I think we can both speak up from time to time, without friction.”
“Ned?”
“Of course, Judge. Jake can speak for himself and should. But I’m finding it interesting. Novel situation.”
“Quite. Well, speak up if you have anything to contribute. Alec, I don’t think we can get anywhere today. Do you?”
Alec Train stood mute. Joan said, “Why not, Judge? I’m here, I’m ready. Ask me anything. Bring out the rack and the thumbscrews—I’ll talk.”
The Judge again rubbed his nose. “Miss Smith, I sometimes think that my predecessors were overly hasty in letting such tools be abolished. I think I can settle to my own satisfaction whether or not you are the person known as Johann Sebastian Bach Smith, of this city and of Smith Enterprises, Limited. But it is not that simple. In an ordinary identity case Mrs. Seward’s suggestion of fingerprints would be practical. But not in this case. Alec? Do Petitioners stipulate that the brain of their grandfather was transplanted into another body?”
Petitioners’ counsel looked unhappy. “May it please the Court, I am under instructions not to stipulate anything of the sort.”
“So? What’s your theory?”
“Uh, ‘Missing and presumed dead,’ I suppose. We take the position that the burden of proof is on anyone who steps forward and claims to be Johann Sebastian Bach Smith.”
“Jake?”
“I can’t agree as to the burden of proof, Judge. But my client—my ward who is also my client, Johann Sebastian Bach Smith—is present in court and I am pointing at her. I know her to be that named individual. Both of us are ready to be questioned by the Court in any fashion in order to assure the Court as to her identity. I was about to say that both of us are willing to be questioned by anyone—but on second thought I cannot concede that there is any interested party other than my client.”
“Judge?”
“Yes, Miss Smith? Jake, do you want her to speak?”
“Oh, certainly. Anything.”
“Go ahead, Miss Smith.”
“Thank you. Judge, my granddaughters can ask me anything. I’ve known them since they were babies; if they try to trip me, I’ll have them hanging on the ropes in two minutes. For example, Johanna—the one you called ‘Mrs. Seward’—was hard to housebreak. On her eighth birthday—May fifteenth nineteen-sixty, the day the Paris Conference between Eisenhower and Khrushchev broke down—her mother, my daughter Evelyn, invited me over to see the little brat have her birthday cake, and Evelyn shoved Johanna into my lap and she cut loose—”