“Of course not; you must. But perhaps I can smooth some feathers.”
“Yes, Miss.”
He conducted her to her car; both teams were lined up by it, they saluted in unison. She smiled at them. “Good morning, friends. I’m glad to see you all looking so well. It’s been a long time.”
Dabrowski answered for them, “It has indeed, Miss Smith—and we are glad to see you looking so well.”
“Thank you.” Her eyes traveled across them. “There is one thing no one has told me…about the tragedy that started this strange sequence of events. Which team was driving the night Mrs. Branca was killed?”
For a long moment no one spoke. Then O’Neil answered, “Finchley and Shorty had the duty that night, Miss Smith.”
“Then I must thank them—for Mrs. Branca and for myself. Although I know that Dabrowski and Fred would have acted as bravely, as promptly.” She looked at Finchley, then at Shorty, her face unsmiling but serene. “Which one of you avenged Eunice? Or was it both of you?”
Finchley answered. “Shorty got him, Mrs.—Miss Smith. Bare hands, one chop. Broke his neck.”
She turned to Shorty—six feet six of smooth-black soul, two hundred ninety pounds of sudden death—and a preacher in his time off. She looked up at him and said gently, “Shorty, from the bottom of my heart—for Eunice Branca—I thank you” (I do thank him, Boss! This is news to me. I was dead before that lift opened.) “If she were here, she would thank you—not just for herself but for other girls that killer will never kill. I’m glad you killed him in the act. If he had gone to trial, he might be out by now. Doing it again.”
Shorty had said nothing up to then. “Miss—Finch got ’im, too. Zapped him. Couldn’t rightly say which one got him first.”
“Nor does it matter. Any of you four would have protected Mrs. Branca with your life. She knew it—and knows it, wherever she is. I know it, and Chief O’Neil knows it.” Joan felt tears start, let them flow. “I—all of us!—just wish to Heaven she had waited indoors until you two arrived. I know that each of you would rather see me dead than her. I ask you to do me the honor of believing that I feel the same way. Shorty, will you say a prayer for her tonight? For me? I don’t know much about praying.” (Damn it, Boss, you’ve got me crying.) (Then say a Money Hum. For Shorty. He’s still blaming himself for the unavoidable.)
“I will, Miss. I have every night. Although—Mrs. Branca—doesn’t need it. She went straight to Heaven.” (So I did, Boss. Though not the way Shorty thinks.) (And we shan’t tell him. Have I said enough?) (I think so.)
Joan said, “Thank you, Shorty. For me, not for Eunice. As you say, Eunice doesn’t really need prayers.” She turned to O’Neil. “Chief, I want to go to Gimbel’s Compound.”
“Certainly, Miss. Uh, Finchley, man the car. Both Shotguns.” O’Neil helped her in, locked her in; she locked herself in. The armor door lifted and the big car rolled out into the street. (Joan, what in the world are you going to buy at Gimbel’s?) (A gag. For you. I’ll change that order in a moment. Eunice, where did you buy clothes? You were the most smartly dressed gal in town—even when you were the nakedest.)
(Pooh, I was never naked; Joe’s designs made all the difference. Joan, where I shopped you should never shop.) (Can’t see why not.) (Johann might but you can’t; it wouldn’t do. Mmm…while I could not afford the stylish places, I know of them. Come to think of it, two of them lease space inside Gimbel’s Compound.) (So that’s where we’ll go—second. I’ll tell Finchley the change…and tell him to have Fred escort me; I think Fred feels left out.) (Wups! Fred can read.) (So? Oh! Well, Fred can guard me later.) She thumbed the order switch.
“Finchley.”
“Yes, Miss?”
“I got so preoccupied that I forgot one other stop. Please drop Shorty and me at the unloading zone where State passes over Main.”
“State and Main, Miss.”
“Please have Shorty hang the radio link on his belt; there’s no parking around there. Or was not the last time I was downtown. How long has that been? Over two years.”
“Two years and seven months, Miss. Sure you don’t want both Shotguns with you?”
“No, they can take turns staying with the car. If you have to get out, I want you covered.”
“Oh, I’ll be all right, Miss.”
“Don’t argue with me. You wouldn’t have argued when I was old Johann Smith; I assure you that Miss Johann Smith still has his poison fangs. Pass the word along.”
She heard him chuckle. “I’ll do that, Miss Smith.”
When the car stopped, Joan hooked up her yashmak, concealing her identity—either or both of them—from the curious. Shorty unlocked her and handed her out. On the crowded pedestrian walk of Main Street Joan felt suddenly vulnerable…except for the tower of strength beside her. “Shorty, the building I’m looking for is in the thirteen hundred block—thirteen-oh-seven. Can you find it?” The question was to make him feel useful; she knew where the Roberts Building was, she owned it.
“Oh, sure, Miss—I read numbers real good. Letters, too—just words bother me.”
“Let’s go then. Shorty, how do you manage in your real profession? Not being able to read the Bible, I mean.”
“No trouble, I use talking books—and as for the Book, I got every precious word memorized.”
“A remarkable memory. I wish I could say the same.”
“Just takes patience. I had the Book down pat while I was still in prison.” He added thoughtfully, “Sometimes I think I ought to learn to read…but I can’t seem to find time.” (The poor dear probably never had a teacher who could teach, Boss.) (Never tamper with a successful organization, Eunice; he’s found his niche.)
“This must be it, Miss. ‘One, three, oh, seven.’”
“Thank you, Shorty.” She was not asked for her I.D. at the building entrance, nor did she offer it, for she had none, either as Johann Smith or Eunice Branca. The guard noted the “Licensed & Deputized” shield (which matched his own) on Shorty’s uniform, released the cage turnstile, and waved them on through. Joan Eunice smiled at him with her eyes—and made note that security at the Roberts Building should be tightened; the guard should have photographed Shorty’s I.D. and logged his shield number. (Boss, he can’t handle so many people that way; he has to use his judgment.) (Look who’s talking! If that apartment house you used to live in had had tight security, you would never have been mugged. If we can’t stop violence outdoors, we must try to keep it from coming indoors.) (I won’t argue, Boss darling—I’m excited!) (Me too; this veil is a help.)
On the twelfth floor they went to the suite occupied by the Johanna Mueller Schmidt Memorial Eugenics Foundation, H. S. Olsen, M.D., Sc. D., Director, Please Ring and Wait. The guard let them in, went back to his picture magazine. Joan noted with approval that there was a goodly number of women and couples in the waiting room. She (Johann) had jacked up Olsen about the (public) purpose of the Foundation—to offer superior anonymous donors to licensed and qualified females—in her last letter accompanying a quarterly check; apparently it had had good effect.
“Wait here, Shorty; there’s video over there.”
She went to the barrier desk separating the waiting room from the outer clerical office, avoided the sign “Applications” and got the reluctant attention of the only male back of the barrier, motioned him to her. “What is it, Ma’am? If it’s an application, go to the far end, present your I.D. and fill out the questionnaire, then wait. You’ll be called.”
“I want to see the Director. Dr. Olsen.”
“Dr. Olsen never sees anyone without an appointment. Give me your name and state your business and possibly his secretary will see you.”
She leaned closer, spoke softly. “I must see him. Tell him that my husband has found out.”
The office manager looked startled. “Your name?”
“Don’t be silly. Just tell him that.”
“Uh…wait here.” He disappeared through a rear door.
>
She waited. After a remarkably short time he appeared at a side door of the waiting room, motioned her to him, then conducted her down a passage toward a door marked “Director—Keep Out” and to a door near it marked “Secretary to the Director, Ring & Wait.” There he left her with a woman who reminded Joan of Johann’s third-grade teacher, both in appearance and authoritarian manner. The woman said frostily, “What is this nonsense? You may start by showing me your I.D.” (Three fingers stiff into her solar plexus, Boss, and say she fainted!) (Maybe. We’ll try my way first.)
Joan answered in still more frozen tones, “Not likely, Miss Perkins. Why do you think I’m veiled? Will you announce me? Or do I call the police and the news snoops?”
Miss Perkins looked startled, left her stenodesk, and entered the private office behind it. She came out shortly and said angrily, “You may go in.”
Olsen did not get up as Joan entered. He said, “Madam, you have chosen an unusual way of getting my attention. Now what is it? Come to the point.”
“Doctor, don’t you offer chairs to ladies?”
“Certainly. If they are ladies. A point you have gone to some trouble to render dubious. Speak up, my good woman, or I shall have you removed.” (Boss, did you see him glance at the mike? That old bat in the next room is taking down every word.) (So I assumed, Eunice. So we won’t talk yet.) Joan stepped close to the Doctor’s desk, unhooked her yashmak, let it fall to her left shoulder.
The Doctor’s expression changed from annoyance to startled recognition. Joan Eunice leaned across his desk, flipped off the dictation microphone. Then she said quietly, “Anything else still recording? Is this room soundproof? How about that door?”
“Miss—”
“‘Miss’ is enough. Are you ready to ask me to sit down? Or shall I leave—and return with my lawyer?”
“Do please sit down—Miss.”
“Thank you.” Joan waited until he got up and moved a chair to a correct “honored-guest” position near his own. She sat down. “Now answer the rest. Are we truly private? If we are not—and you tell me that we are—I will eventually know it…and will take such steps as I deem appropriate.”
“Uh, we’re private. But just a moment.” He got up, went to his secretary’s door, bolted it manually. “Now, Miss, please tell me what this is about.”
“I shall. First, I’ve been supplementing my original endowment with quarterly checks. Have you been receiving these during my incapacitation?”
“Eh…one check failed to arrive. I waited six weeks, then wrote to Mr. Salomon and explained what your custom had been. It seems he checked the facts, for soon after we received two quarterly payments at once, with a letter saying that he would continue to authorize payments in accordance with your custom. Is there some difficulty?”
“No, Doctor. The Foundation will continue to receive my support. Let me add that the trustees are—on the whole—satisfied with your management.”
“That’s pleasing to hear. Is that why you came today? To tell me that?”
“No, Doctor. Now we get to the purpose. Are you quite certain that our privacy cannot be breached? Let me add that the answer is far more important to you than it is to me.”
“Miss, uh—Miss, I am certain.”
“Good. I want you to go into the cold vault, obtain donation 551-20-0052—I will go with you and check the number—and then I want you to impregnate me with it. At once.”
The Doctor’s face broke in astonishment. Then he regained his professional aplomb and said, “Miss—that is impossible.”
“Why? The purpose of our institution, as defined in its charter—which I wrote—is, to supply qualified females with donor sperm—on request, without fee, and without publicity. That’s exactly what I want. If you wish to give me a physical examination, I’m ready. If you want to know whether or not this body is licensed for child-bearing, I assure you that it is—although you know that, in this case, a fine for unlicensed pregnancy means less than nothing. What’s the trouble? Does it take too long to prepare the sperm to do it all in one day?”
“Oh, no, we can have it warmed and viable in thirty minutes.”
“Then impregnate me thirty minutes from now.”
“But, Miss—do you realize the trouble I could get into?”
“What trouble?”
“Well… I do follow the news. Or I would not have recognized you. I understand that there is a question of identity—”
“Oh, that.” Joan dismissed it. “Doctor, do you bet on the races?”
“Eh? I’ve been known to. Why?”
“If we are truly private, you can’t possibly get into trouble. But there comes a time in every man’s life when he must bet. You are at such a crisis. You can bet on a certain horse—on the nose, you can’t hedge your bet. And win. Or lose. As you know, the other trustees of this corporation are my dummies; I am the Foundation. Let me predict what will come to pass. Presently this identity nonsense will be over and the real Johann Sebastian Bach Smith will stand up. At that time the endowment of this institution will be doubled. At that same time the salary of the Director will be doubled. If you bet on the right horse, you will be the Director. If not—you’ll be out of a job.”
“You’re threatening me!”
“No. Prophesying. Old Johann Sebastian Bach Smith was a seventh son of a seventh son, born under a caul; he had the gift of prophecy. No matter which way you bet, the endowment will be doubled. But only you and I will ever know what is done today.”
“Mmmm…there are procedures to satisfy. I do have authority to permit any adult female to receive a sperm donation if I am satisfied that she qualifies—and let’s say that I am. Nevertheless there are routines to go through, records that must be kept.”
(He’s ready to geek, Boss. So sing him a Money Hum, with a different tune.) (Eunice, a cash bribe is to push him over if he won’t fall. Let’s see if he’ll sell it to himself.)
Joan shook her head. “No records. Just do it to me and I’ll hook my veil over my face and leave.”
“But, Miss—I don’t do these things myself. A staff doctor carries out the donation procedure, assisted by a nurse. They would think it strange if no records were kept. Very.”
“No nurses. No assistants. You alone, Doctor. You are an M.D. and a specialist in genetics and eugenics. Either you can do this…or you don’t know enough to head this institution—which the trustees would regretfully notice. Besides that, I go with you and check the number on that donation…and stick at your elbow until you place it inside me. Do we understand each other?”
The Doctor sighed. “I once thought a general practice was hard work! We can’t be sure that a placed donation will result in impregnation.”
“If not, I’ll be back in twenty-eight and a half days. Doctor, quit stalling. Or bet on the other horse and I’ll leave. No harsh words, now or later. Just that prophecy.” She stood up. (Well, Eunice? Will the frog hop?) (Can’t guess, dear. He’s seen so many female tails he’s bored with them. I can’t figure him.)
Olsen suddenly stood up. “You’ll need a cold suit.”
“All right.”
“Plus the advantage that a cold suit covers so thoroughly that a man would not recognize his own wife in one. I have a spare here, for V.I.P.s”
“I think you could class me as a V.I.P.” Joan said dryly.
Forty minutes later Dr. Olsen said, “Hold still a moment longer. I am placing a Dutch cap, a latex occlusive cervical pessary, over the donation.”
“Why, Doctor? I thought those things were for contraception.”
“Usually. And it will serve that purpose, too—mean to say, some of our clients wish to be protected at once from any possibility of impregnation from any other source. But in your case my purpose in installing this temporary barrier is to make certain that the donation does impregnate you. To give those wigglers a chance to reach target and to keep them from swimming downstream instead—follow me? Leave it in place until sometime tomo
rrow—or later, it doesn’t matter. Do you know how to remove it?”
“If I can’t get it out, I’ll call you.”
“If you wish. If you fail to skip your next menses, we can try again in four weeks.” Dr. Olsen lowered the knee supports, offered his hand. She stepped down and her skirt fell into place. She felt flushed and happy. (Eunice, it’s done!) (Yes, Boss! Beloved Boss.)
Dr. Olsen picked up her cloak, held it ready to lay around her shoulders. She said, “Doctor—don’t worry about the horse race.”
He barely smiled. “I have not been worrying about it. May I say why?”
“Please.”
“Um. If you recall, I have met Johann Smith—Mister Johann Smith—on other occasions.”
“Eleven occasions, I believe, sir, including a private interview when Dr. Andrews nominated you to succeed him.”
“Yes, Miss Smith. I’ll never forget that interview. Miss, there may be some legal point to clear up concerning your identity. But not in my mind! I do not think that any young woman of your present physiological age could simulate Mr. Johann Smith’s top-sergeant manner—and make it stick.”
“Oh, dear!”
“Pardon me?”
“Dr. Olsen, this sex change I’ve undergone is not easy to handle. It is fortunate—for both of us—that you were able to spot Johann Smith behind the face I now wear. But—darn it, sir!—I’ve got to acquire manners to match what I am now. Will you call on me—oh, say three weeks from now when I hope to have cheerful news—and let me show you that I can simulate a lady when I try? Come for tea. We can discuss how the Foundation’s work can be expanded under a doubled endowment.”
“Miss Smith, I will be honored to call on you whenever you wish. For any reason. Or none.” (Wups! Hey, Eunice, I thought you said he was bored with female tails?) (So I did. But we have an unusually pretty one, Joan, even from that angle. Gonna kiss him?) (Eunice, can’t you treat just one man impersonally?) (I don’t know; I’ve never tried. Aw, don’t be chinchy; he’s been a perfect lamb.) (Now you be a lamb, too—let’s get out of here.)