I Will Fear No Evil

11

An hour later Joan was seated in an easy chair, with her feet on a stool. To the nightgown had been added a filmy negligee and a pair of high-heeled boudoir pumps. Her hair had been arranged, her face had been most carefully made up, and she was lavishly scented with a cologne labeled "April Mist" but which deserved the title of "Criminal Assault." Her toenails were trimmed, not to Eunice's satisfaction but well enough for the time being. Best of all, she was enjoying the euphoria of a woman who is utterly clean, scented and powdered, and dressed attractively.

Beds had been switched, the room no longer held any flavor of sickroom, and Joan found that this greatly increased her feeling of well-being. Eunice's stenodesk had been restored to its usual spot beyond Johann's baby grand piano, Joan having learned that it was in her study where it had last been used, and had told Cunningham to have it brought in. It did not fit the room—but it fitted her notion of what the room should be; it was homey, it belonged.

She was alone, Winnie having gone to invite Mr. Salomon to dine with his hostess-ward. Joan sighed with satisfaction. (Feel better, hon? I do.) (Heavens, yes. But why did you lose your nerve?) (Oh, piffle, Eunice! I never intended to seduce her.) (Liar. Hypocrite. Dirty old man. You had her all set. Then you went chicken. I've met men like you before, dearie—talk a good game, then lose their nerve in the clutch. Cowardly Casanovas. Pfui!)

(Nonsense! You don't shoot ducks on water. If I ever make a real pass at her—I'm not saying I will but I admit she's a cuddlesome little bundle—) (She is indeed!) (Oh, shut up! If I ever do, I'll give her a sporting chance—not grab her when she dasn't scream.) (‘Sporting chance' my tired back. Listen to your big sister, Joan—sex isn't a sport, it's a way to be happy. There is nothing more exasperating to a woman than to be ready to give in—then have the matter dropped. You'll find out. You'll cry in your pillow and hate every man alive. Till the next time, that is.)

(Eunice? You've never had that sort of turn-down, have you? I don't believe it.) (Happens to every woman, Joan. Men are sissies, if we women weren't so willing, if we didn't just plain lead ‘em by the hand, the race would die out.)

(Uh—You know more about a woman than I do—)

(Lots more!) (—so let's talk about specifics. We're clean now and I know we're pretty; I checked us in the big glass and you agreed. But it isn't the job you used to turn out. I don't mean body paint, wouldn't be appropriate now anyhow. But, what does it take? Just that ‘tuning up'? Exercise?)

(‘More than that, Boss—although exercise is essential. You're talking about a professional job?) (Yes. The works.) (Well, I used to do myself—but I had had lots of practice, plus expert help from Joe. But let's say you want the best and don't care what it costs—) (Certainly! What's money? I can't get rid of it.) (All right, say you retain Helena Rubinstein, Limited, or some other top glamour shop. Say you phone and tell th~n to send a full team.

They would send an art director—male, but he may not be all that male and he's seen more female bodies unmade-up than an undertaker—and he doesn't touch you; he's too high up. He creates. And bosses. Won't look at you until several others get you ready. Minimum, bath girl, masseuse, manicurist, pedicurist, coiffeuse, depilatrix, parfumiste, lace and skin team of at least four, costume designer, highlight and accent specialist, and assistants for all of these if you expect the job done in less than all day. If you put a time limit on it, the price goes up—and if you don't, the price goes up.)

(Say that again?)

(It's like taxes. Any way you play it the price goes up. Boss, we don't need them. With what I know and the chassis we have to work with and a good lady's maid, you can be as glamorous as you like. I don't know where you would find a creative paint man equal to Joe; nevertheless there are good ones for hire. We can shop the market, we'll find one.)

(Eunice, 1 had no idea that being a woman was so complicated.)

(Relax, Boss. Being a woman is easier than being a man—and lots more fun. I'm going to teach you to be a twenty-first-century woman—and I'd be pleased if you would teach me how it was to be a twentieth-century man, and we'll close that silly ‘Generation Gap.' Understand each other as well as loving each other.)

(Beloved.)

(I think you're pretty nice, too, you cranky old bastard. With your brain and my body, we make a fine team. We'll get by.) (I'm sure we will, darling.) (We will. The first thing we need is a good lady's maid—scarce as whales in Kansas. We'll probably have to train one. Then lose her as soon as she's worth anything.) (Eunice, do we need a maid? You used to do yourself.) (I did, and kept house for Joe, and was your secretary and worked any hours you wanted me. But you're not used to that, Boss. You had a valet.) (Yes, of course. But I was very old and didn't have time to waste on such things. Eunice, one of the worst parts about getting old is that the days get shorter while the demands on your time increase. I didn't want a valet; I was forced into it. Didn't enjoy being dependent on a secretary, either—until you came along.)

(Dear Boss. Joan, we will need a maid. But not a secretary until you're active in business again—) (Won't be!) (We'll see. You may have to be. But may not need a secretary unless you get pushed for time. I can handle it. And thanks for having Betsy brought in; it makes me feel at home to see her again. My stenodesk, I mean. Pet name.)

(‘Betsy,' huh? I always thought of it as ‘the Octopus.')

(Why, what a nasty name to apply to a nice, respectable well-behaved machine! Boss, I'm not sure I'm speaking to you. I'm glad Betsy isn't switched on; if she had heard that her feelings would be hurt.)

(Eunice, don't be silly. I wonder what's keeping Jake?)

(Probably cutting his toenails. Lesson number two in. how to be a woman: Men are almost always late but you never, never, never notice it—because they pride: themselves on promptness. Boss, you didn't quite promise Winnie to stay in this chair—when she gave you strict orders.) (Of course not. Because it might not suit me. And it doesn't; I want to try the eighty-eight. Eunice, two gets you seven it hasn't been kept in tune—and I gave Cunningham orders about both pianos, this baby and the concert grand downstairs, not five years ago. So let's see.)

She stood up, did not notice that high heels gave her no trouble, and glided gracefully over to the little piano, sat down and opened it—let the first bars of Dvorak's Slavonic Dance # 10 run through her mind, then started to play—

—and achieved a clash of noise.

"What the hell!" She looked at the keyboard, then hit middle C with her right forefinger. It sounded okay-and so did the C an octave below it. Several one- and two-finger experiments convinced her that the piano was not at fault. Yet to strike a single chord required studying the keyboard, then carefully positioning each finger by sight.

Presently she managed a slow, uneven, faulty version of "Chopsticks" by watching the keyboard and controlling her hands so hard they trembled. She quit before reaching its undistinguished coda and crashed the keys with both hands. (There go ten years of piano lessons!) (What did you expect, Boss? I was never much good even with a guitar.) (Well, I'm glad Mama didn't hear that—she always wanted me to be a concert pianist. Eunice, why the devil didn't you study piano as a kid?) (Because I was too busy studying boys! A much more rewarding subject. Joan, if you want to play the piano again, we can learn. But we'll have to start almost from scratch. It's in your head, I know; I could hear it. But to get from there down into our bands—my hands, dear—will probably take more patient work than slimming our hips.)

(Doesn't matter, not really.) She got up from the piano bench. (Boss. Just a sec. While we're here, let's warm up Betsy and give her a check run.) (Huh? I know nothing about a stenodesk. It'll be worse than the piano.) (We'll see.)

She moved over and sat down at the stenodesk. (Well, Eunice? Which way to the Egress?) (Relax, Boss. The body remembers. Just say ‘Dictation, Eunice,' then recite something you know. Think about what you're dictating.)

(Okay.) "Dictation, Eunice. ‘Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition...

Deftly her hands touched the switches, swiveled the microphone in time to catch the first word, required the machine to listen & hold while she inserted punctuation, used erase & correct when the machine spelled "fourth" rather than "forth"—all without hurrying. —She stopped and looked at the result. (Be durned! How,

Eunice?) (Don't ask, dear—or we might get fouled up in the dilemma of the centipede. But Betsy is purring like a kitten; she's glad I'm back.) (Well, so am I. Uh, Eunice, this machine—Betsy, I mean—has access to the Congressional Library St. Louis Annex, does it not? —she not?) (Certainly. Hooked into the Interlibrary Net, rather, though you can restrict a query to one library.)

(Better query just one. I want to find out what is known about memory and how it works.) (All right. I'm interested, too; I think my memory is spotty. Can't be sure. But on a search-of-literature it's best to let Betsy handle it through preprograms—ask for references, followed by abstracts, followed by items selected from abstracts...else, on a generalized question like that, thousands of books would be transmitted and poor Betsy would gulp them down until she was constipated, and stop and not do anything until her temporary memory was erased.)

(You know how, I don't. Uh, stick in a restriction not to bother with behaviorist theories. I know all about Pavlov and his robots I care to know, namely, that every time a dog salivates a behaviorist psychologist has to ring a bell.)

(All Eight. Boss? Can we spend a little more money?) (Go ahead, buy the Pyramids. What do you want, dearest?) (Let's have a Triple-A-One snoop search run on me. Eunice Branca, I mean—the ‘me' that used to be.) (Why, beloved? If you've been selling government secrets, they can't touch you now.) (Because. It might fill some of those holes I think I have in my memory... and it might turn up something you've heard from me since I came back but which was not in the security report you got on me originally. Then you would know, dear... and could stop worrying that I may be only a figment of your imagination.)

(Eunice, if I'm crazy, the only thing that worries me is that some damned shrink might cure me. Then you would go away.)

(That's sweet of you, Boss. But I won't go away; I promised.)

(And even if I am crazy, it just makes me fit that much better into the present world. Eunice, don't you remember anything between being killed and waking up here?)

The inner voice was silent a moment. (Not really. There were dreams and I think you were in them. But there was one that does not seem like a dream; it seems as real as this room. But if I tell you, you'll think 1 am crazy.) (If so, it doesn't detract from your charm, dear.) (AU right but don't laugh. Joan, while I was away, I was in this—place. There was an old, old Man with a long white beard. He had a great big book. He looked at it, then He looked at me and said, ‘Daughter, you've been a naughty girl. But not too naughty, so I'm going to give you a second chance.')

(A dream, Eunice. Anthropomorphism, straight out of your childhood Sunday School.) (Maybe, Boss. But here I am and I do have a second chance.)

(Yes, but God didn't give it to you. Eunice my own, I don't believe in God nor Devil.)

(Well... you haven't been dead—and 1 have. Truly I don't know what I believe; I guess I wasn't dead long enough to find out. But do you mind if we pray occasionally?")

(Jesus H. Christ!)

(Stop that, Joan! Or I'll use every one of those words you consider ‘unladylike.' It's not much to ask.)

(I'm henpecked. Okay. If it's a beautiful church, with good music, and the sermon isn't over ten minutes.) (Oh, I didn't mean in a church. Can't stand ‘em. Filled with bad vibrations. I mean pray by ourselves, Joan. I'll teach you.) (Oh. All right. Now?)

(No, I want to get these search orders in. You think about something else; I don't want centipede trou­ble—think about Winnie all slickery with soapsuds.) (A pious thought. Much better than prayer.) (Dirty old man. How do you know—I'll bet you've never prayed in your life.) (Oh, yes, I have, dearest—but God had gone fishing.) (So think about Winnie.)

She was busy for several minutes. Then she patted the machine affectionately and switched it off. (Well, did you?) (Did I what?) (Did you think about Winnie? Lecher.) (I took advantage of the unusual peace and quiet to contemplate the wonders of the universe.) (So?) (I thought about Winnie.) (I know you did; I was right with you. Joan, for a girl who is, in one sense at least, a virgin, you have an unusually low and vivid imagination.) (Aw, shucks, I'll bet you say that to all the girls.) (The stark truth, Joan sweet—with your imagination I can hardly wait for you you start us on that ‘actively female' career. In all the wrestling I've done I've never had a man—or a girl—grab me the way you were thinking about.) (Oh. Learned that one from a respectable housewife, clear back in my teens. A most charming lady.) (Hmm! Perhaps, I was born too late for the real action.) (So I've been trying to tell you. Did you get those orders in?) (Certainly, Boss, when did I ever miss? Let's get back to our chair; our back is tired.)

Joan Eunice negotiated the thirty feet back to her chair without remembering that she had kicked off her pumps to handle the lower controls of the stenodesk more easily; the rug simply felt good to her bare feet. Then she did notice as she sat down in the big easy chair and folded her legs in the awkward, elegant, and surprisingly comfortable Lotus position. But it did not seem worthwhile to go get them.

The door buzzer sounded. "It's me, Winnie."

"Come in, dear."

The nurse entered. "Mr. Salomon asked me to tell you that he will be in to see you in a few minutes. But he can't stay for dinner."

"He'll stay. Come here and kiss me. What did you tell Cunningham?"

"Dinner for two, in here, just as you said—to be served when you rang. But Mr. Salomon seemed quite firm about leaving."

"I still say he'll stay. But if he doesn't, you come eat dinner with me. Would you fetch my pumps? Over there on the floor beyond the piano."

The nurse looked, fetched the pumps, stood over Joan Eunice, and sighed. "Joan, I don't know what to do about you. You've been a bad girl again. Why didn't you ring?"

"Don't scold me, dear. Here, sit on the stool and lean against my knees and talk. There. Now tell me— By any chance were you ever a lady's maid before you took nurse's training?"

"No. Why?"

"You did such a fine job of taking care of me in the bath and getting me pretty. Well, it was just a thought. I don't suppose a nurse—a professional woman—would consider a job as a maid. No matter how high the salary. But Dr. Garcia is going to insist that I have a nurse after he leaves. I don't need a nurse and you know it. But dear Doctor will insist. I do need a maid; I won't be able to dress myself at first—women's clothes are so different. Not to mention knowing nothing about makeup. Or buying women's clothes. What are you paid now, Winnie?"

The nurse told her.

"Goodness! No wonder they're always saying there's a shortage of nurses. I can't hire an in-house guard at that price. What would you think of staying on as my nurse—but actually doing things for me that a maid would do and I don't know how to do—at three times your present salary? With whatever you wish paid in cash so that you won't have to report it?"

The redhead looked thoughtful. "How would you want me to dress, Joan?"

"That's up to you. Your white nurse's uniform, if you prefer it—since you'll be my nurse in Dr. Garcia's eyes. Or what you wish. There's a bedroom through that door where my valet used to sleep. With a nice bath—and another room beyond it which we can redo as your living room. Redecorate all three rooms to suit your taste. Your private apartment."

(Boss, what was that about not shooting ducks on water?) (Stuff it, Eunice. If she takes the bait, it's better than hiring some illit and having to train her—and then have her steal the jewelry and drop out about the time she's some use.) (Oh, I see advantages. But you place Winnie one unlocked door away and she'll be in bed with you before you can say ‘Sappho.' You may not want men in our life—but I do.) (Oh, nonsense! She's already thinking about the money. If she takes the job, she'll be more standoffish—she'll start calling us ‘Miss' again.)

"Miss Joan? It'll really be my own apartment? I can entertain?"

"Of course, dear. Private. Oh, Cunningham's staff will clean and so forth, any service you want. Breakfast tray, whatever. Or never enter it if you prefer it that way."

"It sounds heavenly. I'm sharing a room with two other girls... at a rent that's horrid because it's inside an enclave. Safe—but I never have any privacy."

"Winnie. Look at me, dear, and lay it on the line. The bed in there now is, I believe, a single. Would you like to have it replaced with a big, big double bed?"

The girl blushed. "Uh, it would be nice."

"So stop blushing. I won't know you have a visitor unless you tell me; that~ door is soundproof. Of course visitors have to be identified and checked for weapons, just as visitors to an enclave have to be—but that simply means you must vouch for a visitor to my chief guard the first visit. But I won't know it unless you choose to tell me. The in-house staff all have visitors. But security is my chief guard's worry, not mine."

"But he does have to show his I.D.?"

"You still would have to vouch for him to Chief O'Neil but— Hold the countdown. Did you mean he would rather not show an I.D.? Is he married, or something?"

Winnie blushed again, did not answer. Joan Eunice went on, "Nobody's business, dear. This is a private home, not a government compound. You vouch for him, that's enough. Chief O'Neil doesn't trust I.D.s; they're often faked. But he has a photographic eye. Are you going to stay with me? As nurse in residence, or lady's companion, or social secretary, or whatever you want to call it."

"Lady's maid. If I'm to be your maid, Miss Joan, I'd rather that your staff knew it and no pretense. And dress as your maid. What sort of uniform? Traditional? Or Acapulco? Or something in between?"

"Oh, not traditional, surely; you have such pretty legs. All-out Acapulco, if you like."

Winnie looked pleased. "I might go all out. A girl gets tired of these white coveralls." (Joan! Tell her not to use an all-out Acapulco paint job. Bad for her skin.)

"Suit yourself, dear. But don't use a lot of paint. Bad for your skin."

"Oh, I know! I'm a real redhead, you probably noticed. I can't even sunbathe. I was thinking of a little black frill skirt with a white lace apron about the size of a saucer. Little perky maid's cap, white on a black ribbon. Cling-On cups, in black. Transparent? Or opaque?"

"Whichever suits you, Winnie. High heels?"

"Uh, translucent, I guess, like the panels in that nightie. High heels, certainly, or the effect is lost—I can wear real stilts if I'm barefooted most of the time. Then just enough paint for accent. There are lovely decals that go on in no time and come right off with cold cream. Butterflies and flowers and things. Cheap, too. Everything I mentioned I can buy in disposables. I'll look like a proper lady's maid, yet not spend more time getting dressed than I do in pulling on this smock and tights."

"You'll look cute, dear. Going to dress up in a maid's outfit and model it for your friend?"

Winnie started to blush again, then grinned. "I certainly am! And let him take it off me, too!"

(Cheers!) (Eunice, you have a one-track mind.) (You should know, dearie—it's your mind.)

A few moments later Winnie announced Mr. Salomon, then left. The lawyer came toward Joan solemnly, took the hand she extended and bowed over it. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Disappointed," Joan answered soberly. "Because my oldest and dearest friend hasn't time to dine with me my first day up. But physically I feel fine. Weak, but that's to be expected."

"Sure you're not overdoing?"

"I'm sure. My respiration and heartbeat are being telemetered—if I weren't all right, someone would come in and order me to bed. Truly, I'm all right, Jake—and I won't get strong unless I do stay out of bed. But how about you, old friend? I have been terribly worried."

"Oh, I'm all right. Just made a fool of myself, Johann."

"You did not make a fool of yourself... and I feel certain Eunice knows it, Jake." (Watch it, Boss!) (Pipe down.) "You could have paid her no finer tribute than those honest tears." Joan found her own tears starting; she encouraged them while ignoring them. "She was a sweet and gallant lady, Jake, and it touched me more than I can say to learn that you appreciated her wonderful qualities as much as I did. Jake—please sit down, if only for a moment. There is something I must ask you."

"Well...all right. Can't stay long."

"Whistle that chair closer, and face me. Uh, a glass of sherry? Doctor says I may have it—and I find that I need it. That Spanish cocktail sherry, dry as your wit. Will you do me the honor of pouring for us?"

Joan waited until the lawyer had filled their glasses, and had seated himself. She raised her glass and at the same time raised her chest, letting those "wicked" panels do their best. "A toast, Jake—no, don't get up. The same toast, Jake—always the same toast from now on whenever you and I drink together... but silently." She took a sip and put her glass down. "Jake—"

"Yes... Johann?"

"‘Joan,' please—I can't be ‘Johann' any longer. Jake, you know that I never expected to live through any such operation? It was a—device. A legal device."

"Yes, Joha— Yes, Joan, I knew. That's why I helped."

"I knew. The most generous act of friendship I have ever known. What is it the Japanese name it?—the friend who helps, when it is necessary to die. Never mind. Jake, look me in the eye. Do you know, deep in your heart, that I would rather be dead... than to have lived through it by this incredible circumstance? Be alive... at her expense? Do you know that, Jake? Or must I live still another life, hating myself?"

Salomon raised his eyes, met hers firmly. "Yes—Joan. I know it. It was no fault of yours... you must not hate yourself. Uh... Eunice wouldn't want you to!"

"I know. Weep, dear Jake; don't hold back your tears—see, I am not holding back mine. Just try not to go to pieces, or I will, too. Jake, each of us would happily have died rather than let this happen. I am as certain of it about you as I hope you are about me. I don't think I could stand it if you had not reassured me. Look at me, a lovely body and young—yet I am almost ninety-five years old and have not one friend left alive... but you."

"You'll make more friends."

"I wonder if I can. The span is great, perhaps too great. I feel as the Wandering Jew must have felt, alive beyond his allotted time. His name—Aha—something. My memory is not as good as this young body. But I can't forget one question which I must ask. Jake, is there any possibility that Eunice's husband had something to do with her death? That prize I put up, that blood money—did it tempt him?"

(Boss, Boss, you're way off base. I know!) (Sorry, beloved, more sorry than I can say. But I must have proof.)

"Jake? Did 1 entice a murder?"

The lawyer shook his head. "I'm astounded. But of course you don't know the circumstances. You enticed nothing. I wrote that offer most carefully. Were there any guilt I would share it. There was none."

"How do you know?" (Drop it, Boss. Please!)

"Mr. Branca was in Philadelphia, visiting his mother." (You see, Boss?) "I had to find him to get the post-death ratification. Took three days, while both of you were kept ready for surgery. Joe Branca didn't know she was dead. Hell of a job even to find him. Three long days."

"‘Three days.' Why wasn't I told!"

"And waste Eunice's death? Are you crazy? You were unconscious; Garcia put you under as soon as I notified him that a body was going to be ready. Then that dreadful wait. I need your forgiveness, too, for—Joan—no, ‘Johann!' I hated you... for being alive when she was dead. But I pushed on—for her sake. Oh, I got over it, it was a sick hate. I knew better."

"Do you hate me now?"

"Eh?" Salomon looked at her, in sorrow. "No. You are not only my old friend, who has always been honest and decent under his crusty exterior—whose virtues outweighed his faults." Salomon managed to smile. "Though sometimes just barely. But also you are the only tie I have left to her."

"Yes. You may find me better tempered now, Jake. It's easier to smile, easier to be patient, then it was in that old wreck of a body I had. But, Jake, about Joe Branca. All right, he was in Philadelphia. But could he have arranged it?"

"No."

"You're certain?"

"Certain. Joha—Joan, it's that million dollars that worries you, fear that it might have started a chain of events. When they located Joe Branca, I had to jet there and get that piece of paper. He was dazed. Couldn't believe it. But accepted the fact. But not the money. I couldn't get him to sign the post-death authorization without first preparing another document, waiving the money. The escrow trustee—Chase Manhattan—was instructed by Joe to pay it to the Rare Blood Club—his idea—as a memorial to Eunice Evans Branca." (Oh, Boss! I'm crying.) (We all are.) (But, Boss—Joe must be starving.) (We'll take care of it.)

She sighed: "I'll be damned."

"Perhaps. And perhaps myself. But I don't think Joe Branca will be. He's an unworldly man—Joan. From a slum family. A flower in the muck. I couldn't even get him to accept a lesser sum. He insisted on paying for witnessing and notarizing his mark, and the tax stamp on the assignment—and it took almost every dime he could dig up. He just shook his head and said, ‘Broke don't scare me.'

"Jake, we must take care of him."

"I don't think you can, Joan. In his own odd way he is as proud as she was. But I did one thing. In searching for him I had to get a court order to open their studio—indispensable it turned out, as an old letter from his mother gave us the clue that located him. But I learned that the rent was almost due... the corporation's rent agent wanted to know how soon the lease was going to ­lapse—he assumed that, with her dead, the rent would not be paid. So I covered the matter for the moment; then when I got back, I bought the lease. As long as Joe chooses to stay, he won't be asked for rent. Then I checked around and located her bank account and arranged with a friendly judge to let me guarantee the matter and had it assigned to Joe without bothering him with legal formalities. The little dear was smart about money—a nice sum, enough to keep him eating a couple of years, I think." (All gone in a couple of months, I think. Boss, Joe doesn't understand money. A bank account isn't real, to him.) (Don't worry, darling. Jake and I will handle it.)

She sighed. "I feel reassured, Jake. But distressed about her husband. We must look into it. If he's that unworldly, then there must be some way to subsidize him without his knowing it."

"All right, Joan, we will try. But Joe Branca taught me—at my age!—that there are things money cannot buy. Not if the prospective seller is indifferent to money."

"Will you have more sherry? And may I have another drop? If you can't stay, I think I'll ask to be put to bed and right to sleep. Skip dinner."

"Oh, but you must eat, Joan. For your strength. Look, if I stay, will you eat?"

She gave him Eunice's best sun-coming-up smile. "Yes! Yes, Jake dear! Thank you."

Dinner was informal, service only by Cunningham and two assistants. Joan did her best to simulate a charming, gracious hostess—while trying not to appear greedy; everything tasted so wonderful! But she waited until coffee had been served and Jake had refused a perfecto and accepted a glass of port, and she then could say, "Thank you, Cunningham, that will be all," before returning to personal matters.

Once they were alone she said, "Jake, when will I be up for a competency hearing?"

"Eh? Any time you feel well enough. Are you in a hurry?"

"No. I would be utterly content to be your ward the rest of my life."

Her lawyer smiled slightly. "Joan, by the actuarial tables you now have a life expectancy of about sixty years; mine is more like ten or twelve."

"Well... that's hard to answer. But will you go on as before as my de-facto manager? Or am I asking too much?"

Salomon studied his glass. "Joan... once the court dissolves this guardian-and-ward relationship, there is no reason why you should not manage your affairs."

(Joan! Change the subject; he's trying to leave us!) (So I know! Keep quiet!) (Tell him your middle name!) "Jake. Jake dear... look at me. Look hard and keep on looking. That's better, Jake—is it that you would rather not see me ...as l am now?"

The lawyer said nothing. She went on, "Isn't it better to get used to what is...than to run away from it? Wouldn't she—Eunice—want you to stay?" (Keep slugging, Sis—he wants to stay.)

"It isn't that simple... Joan."

"Nothing ever is. But I don't think you can run away from it any more than I can—for I won't stop being what I am—her body, my mind—and you will always know it. All you accomplish by leaving is to deprive me of my one friend and the only man on earth I trust utterly. What does it take to change my name?"

"Eh?"

"Just what I said. I changed my surname from ‘Schmidt' to ‘Smith' when I enlisted on December eighth nineteen-forty-one simply by spelling it that way to a recruiting sergeant: No one has bothered me about it since. This time perhaps it must be formal, considering the thousands of places where my signature appears. It is technically a sex-change case, is it not? A court takes judicial notice, or some such, and it's made a matter of record'?"

Salomon slipped into his professional persona and relaxed. "Yes, of course; I had not thought about that aspect—too many other details on my mind. Joan, your earlier name change was legal—although informal— because any person is free to call himself by any name, without permission of a court, as long as there is no criminal intent—to defraud, deceive, evade responsibility, avoid taxes, whatever. You can call yourself ‘Joan'—or ‘Johann'—or ‘Miniver Cheevy'—and that is your name, as long as your purpose is innocent. And pronounce it as you like. Knew of a case once of a man who spelled his name ‘Zaustinski' and pronounced it ‘Jones' and went to the trouble of publishing the odd pronunciation as a legal notice—although he did not have to; a name may be pronounced in any fashion its owner chooses."

"Why did he do it, Jake?"

"His grandmother's will required him to change his name in order to inherit—but did not specify how he must pronounce it. Joan, in your case a formal change of name is advisable, but it might be best to wait until you are no longer my ward. But de facto your new name is already what you say it is."

"Then my name is now—'Joan Eunice Smith.'"

Salomon knocked over his glass of port. He made quite a busyness of mopping it up. Joan said, "Jake, let it be, no importance. I did not mean to shock you. But don't you see the necessity? It's a tribute to her, a public acknowledgment of my debt to her. Since I can never pay it, I want to publish it, place it on the wall for all to see, like a Chinese man's debt to his tong. Besides that, ninety-five percent of me is Eunice...and only five percent is old Johann now named ‘Joan' and even that fraction no one can see, only surgeons have seen it. Last but by no means least—Jake dear, look at me—if you ever forget that fraction and call me ‘Eunice,' it won't matter; it's my name.

And if you intentionally-call me ‘Eunice,' it will matter, for I shall be pleased and flattered. And any time it suits you to call me ‘Joan Eunice,' it will make me happy, as I will be certain you have done it intentionally—and accepted me as I am."

"Very well... Joan Eunice."

She smiled. "Thank you, Jake. I feel happier than I have felt since I first knew. I hope you do."

"Um. Yes. I think so. It's a good change—Joan Eunice."

"Did you get wine on your clothes? If so, let Cunningham see to it. Jake, is there any reason I or you to go clear out to Safe Harbor tonight? I'm sure Cunningham can find you clean socks or whatever."

"Goodness, Joan—Joan Eunice—I've been here two nights already."

"Do you think three will wear out your welcome? You can't wear it out."

"And the drive isn't that far, as I placed my house for sale with the enclave trustees months ago. I have rooms at the Gibraltar Club now. Good service, central location, none of the fiddlin' worries of a householder."

"I see your point. Hmm, must remember to resign from the Gib myself." She smiled. "They'll never let me past the ladies' lounge—now."

The lawyer said dryly, "I took the liberty of withdrawing you from membership shortly after I became your guardian—Joan Eunice."

She laughed in delight. "And me a founding member! This is delicious—souls and honks and thirds all welcome but females are second-class citizens. Jake dear, I'm going to have to get used to a lot of things."

"I suppose so—Joan Eunice."

"So I'll need you more than ever. Where have you been sleeping?"

"The Brown Room."

"Cunningham must be slipping. He should have put you in the Green Suite."

"Well... the Green Suite has been used for hospital equipment and supplies. I authorized it."

"Then you can just unauthorize it, as that is your suite. They can store that stuff somewhere else. Or remove it, as little of it will be needed from now on7'

"Hedrick had most of it removed the middle of the day."

"All, right, you stay in the Brown Room tonight; then tomorrow Cunningham can get the Green Suite in shape for you."

"Joan Eunice, what leads you to think I'm moving in here? I'm not."

"I didn't say you were. I said that the Green Suite is yours. Whether you stay a night or a year. Yours without invitation, yours to come and go without bothering to say hello or good-bye. Although I hope it will suit you to say hello to me frequently. Is Hubert, my former valet, still around?"

"Yes. He's tended me the last two nights."

"From now on he'll tend the Green Suite and take care of you whenever you honor us with your presence. Jake, you had better move some clothes here."

"Damn it— Pardon me, Joan Eunice."

"For saying ‘Damn it'? It's a strange day when my oldest friend must curb his language in my presence. Jake, I've heard you use language that would blister paint at forty yards—and at me, not merely in my presence."

"True. But I must now remember that you are a lady, Joan Eunice."

"Please yourself. I'm going to have more trouble learning to be a lady than you will have in remembering that I am supposed to be one. If you slip, ignore it—for you know that I never took a back seat to any muleskinner in other days. You were saying?"

"Well, I was saying, ‘Damn it, we must remember your reputation—Joan Eunice."

"My what? My reputation as a woman? I doubt if I have one—other than as a sideshow freak. Doesn't worry me."

"You're not in the news, Joan Eunice, since shortly after the operation. Oh, you will be again when we go into court and perhaps sooner, when someone in your household staff or Dr. Hedrick's staff spills the fact of your recovery."

"So I'll be a sideshow freak again and who cares? A nine-day wonder lasts only a couple of days now; they wear out faster than they did when I was a kid. Jake, I haven't worried about what anyone said about me for over half a century. The image our P.R. men built up was for the company, not for me personally. As for Mrs. Grundy—I think she's dead. The present generation does not care about her opinion—a change for the better in a world otherwise deteriorating. I doubt if Eunice ever heard of Mrs. Grundy." (Sure have, Boss. My fourth-grade teacher. Used to shack with the vice-principal until his wife found out. We kids giggled over it—but you would have liked her, you dirty old darling. Keep working on Jake, dear—time to back away closer.) (Who's driving this car?) (I am.)

Mr. Salomon said thoughtfully, "I think you are right about this younger generation, Joan Eunice. Only people my age and older give such matters a thought. But you know that I should not live under your roof now. And so do I."

"Jake, I am not trying to force you. Nor am I trying to compromise you—"

"Eh? Me? It's your reputation I am thinking of. With your servants, at least."

(Why, the old hypocrite. Ask him about the time he crowded me into a cloak closet with Cunningham almost breathing down our necks. Go on, I dare you. Oh, he's a one, that one—courage under fire.) "Jake, that is sweet of you but I don't give a triple damn how my servants gossip in the kitchen. But I am able to protect you from gossip, sir. I have acquired the most conventional of Victorian chaperonage-a respectable lady's maid. She'll sleep just through that door, where Hubert used to sleep. If it frets you, she can always be present when you and I are together." (Hey, what is this? Trying to get Winnie into act? She might go for it—Jake won't. Watch it, dear.) (Qui kibitzing, Eunice.)

The lawyer raised his brows. "You've hired a maid already? Surprising. Though you never were one to dillydally. Or did you shift around part of your in-house staff?"

"Some of both, Jake. I anticipated that Dr. Garcia will insist on my having a trained nurse... so I persuaded one of the nurses to stay on, in both capacities. Winnie. You've seen her, the little redhead."

"Possibly I have."

(‘Possibly' he says. All you men are hypocrites. If he hasn't patted her butt, he's thought about it.)

"I'm lucky to get her. Intelligent. Educated. Able to teach me things I must know and, being a nurse, used to caring for people even more than a maid does. I used the usual argument—money—but I was careful to respect her professional pride; she'll still be my nurse, she'll lady's-maid me as a friendly favor. I think she may be in bed. But she would get up and chaperon us if asked. Shall I send for her?"

"What? Oh, don't be silly, Joan Eunice. You're making a mountain of a molehill."

"It seemed to me that you were, Jake. I do feel defenseless as a woman... even though I was far more vulnerable as a sick old man than I am now in this strong young body. But I feel safe with you present—and not at all safe when you are away. Jake, I can't urge you to live here... but can't you see what a favor it would be to me? As well as— How many rooms do you have at the Gib?"

"Two; Adequate for my needs."

"The rooms there aren't large... whereas the living room of the Green Suite is as large as this room. We could cut a door from it into the upstairs library and it could be your study. Move anything into it you need for my affairs or your own—plenty of room for files or books. Jake, I don't need this big mausoleum any more than you needed your house. But if I tried to sell it, I couldn't get ten percent of what it cost; I built it during the worst of the Riot Years and the cost doesn't show; it's a prettied-up fortress, stronger than police barracks. Well, we may have such years again; I may yet be glad I spared no expense. In the meantime it's big and safe and comfortable, and you might as well use it. When you wish, I mean, especially when you work on my affairs."

"Well, I have been working on some of your affairs here in the house. Uh, Joan Eunice, as your guardian, I had to take over management of your household."

"Hasn't Cunningham saved you from such picayune worries? I must speak to him."

"Well., yes, he has and I've let him go on, as before; I've made no changes. But I have had to look over the household books and authorize charges and confound it, they're stealing you blind. Cunningham especially."

"Good!"

"What's good about it?"

"Jake, you told me that it was impossible to spend my income. If my butler is black-marketing two-thirds of what he buys for me and pocketing the proceeds—and he always has—then he's anxious to keep his job. Which means that he has to please me. Jake, can you think of a cheaper way to buy the nearest thing to loyalty that can be bought? Let him steal. Do not bind the mouths of the kine who tread the grain. The good horse must always get his lump of sugar."

"Bad precedent. corrupts the country."

"The country is corrupt. But ‘it is the only game in town'; we have no choice. The problem is always how to live in a decadent society. Jake, I want you to live here. I hope you will live here. It will make me feel happy and safe for you to be under the same roof. But don't worry about my reputation—and Winnie is here to protect yours. Most certainly don't think about such trivia as household expenses; just close your eyes and sign. But don't hesitate to chew out Cunningham if the service is less than perfect; that's the price he must pay for the privilege of swindling me. By the way, my chief guard steals, too; I think he has a fifty-fifty split with Cunningham. I've never tried to find out the arrangement; it would embarrass them."

Salomon smiled. "Joan Eunice, for a young—and beautiful—woman, you sound. remarkably like a cynical old man I used to know."

"Do I, Jake dear? I must learn not to sound that way. I must now leave the ‘cynical old man' things to you and try to behave like a lady. If I can. But please don't disrupt a smooth household by trying to reform it—or it will wind up like a reform administration: less efficient and still more expensive. Didn't your servants steal from you?"

The lawyer looked sheepish. "Well...yes. But I had the best cook in Safe Harbor enclave. If I had fired her, I might have wound up with one just as expensive—who put sugar in gravy. I think I was groused that they were stealing from you—when you were helpless. But I didn't want to tamper with your household while there was any chance that you might recover. Wanted to hand it back as it was. And I have. Or shall."

"Thank you, Jake. At the moment, while I may not yet be a lady, I feel not at all like a cynical old man. I find that I feel like a woman who has been ill and is not yet fully recovered. I had best go to bed. Will you help me?"

"Uh, I'll call the nurse."

"Jake, Jake—this is the body I have; we must quit being jumpy about it. Here, lend me your arm. I can stand if you'll help me...and walk to the bed if you'll let me lean on you."

Salomon gave up, offered her both hands to help her out of the chair, steadied her with his arm to the bed. Joan Eunice got into it quickly, slid her negligee off as she slid under the sheet. "Thank you, Jake."

"My pleasure—Joan Eunice."

"Will you have breakfast with me? Or lunch if you want to sleep late?"

"Uh... lunch."

"I'm looking forward to it." She put out her hand. He took it, bowed over it—hesitated only slightly and kissed it firmly.

Joan Eunice kept his hand and pulled. "Come closer, Jake dear." She reached up, took his face between her palms. "You loved her."

"Yes."

"I loved her."

"I know."

"Say my name. My new name."

"Joan—Joan Eunice."

"Thank you, Jake." Unhurriedly, she pulled his face down, kissed him softly on the lips. "Good night, dear friend."

"Good night—Joan Eunice." He left quickly.

(Joan you bitch, you're pushing him too hard.) (I am not!) (The hell you aren't. For a second I thought you were going to drag him right into bed.) (Ridiculous!) (And you're pushing yourself too hard, too.) (Eunice, quit crabbing. I could have backed out up to the last split second. I found that I did not mind it. After all, there are many cultures in which men kiss men, as a gesture of friendship.)

(In case you haven't noticed, you are no longer a man—you're a mixed-up chick.) (I've noticed. Look, snoopy, it was a necessary symbol. I had to show Jake that he could touch me, even kiss me good-night... and not have it be tragic. And it wasn't. Reminded me of my father kissing me good-night... which he did until I was a big boy.)

(Well... perhaps Jake is going to settle for being fatherly. But don't count on it, Joan. Let mc warn you, Sis— Jake can kiss much better than that. He can kiss so well that your insides melt down, starting at your belly button and spreading in all directions.) (A possibility. A remote one. Now will you shut up, and let us sleep? I really am tired.) (Love me. Boss?) (I've never stopped loving you dear—and never will.) (Me, too——and wish I could kiss you good-night. Sleep, Boss—everything's going to he all right.)

Before she could get to sleep, Winifred came in, in robe and slippers. "Miss Joan?" she said softly.

"Yes, dear? Put the floor lights on."

"Mr. Salomon said that you had gone to bed—"

"And you look as if you had. Did he wake you?"

"Oh, no. I was chatting with Mrs. Sloan; she's on watch. But Dr. Garcia left word that your bed was to be all the way down—and I see that it isn't. How do I put it down?"

"I do it myself, right from the bed—down, like that—or back up, like that. I wasn't asleep yet. It's all right, I'll put it all the way down before you leave... and you can tell Doctor that I was a good girl."

"Fine! You can have this capsule if you want it. You don't have to take it, Mrs. Sloan says that Doctor says."

"I'll take it; I want to go right to sleep. If you'll hand me the water there... and kiss me good-night. If you won't, I'll sulk and ring for Mrs. Sloan and ask her to kiss me good-night."

The little nurse grinned. "I'll force myself."

Winifred left about sixty seconds later. (Well, Eunice? How did that one stack up?) (Quite well, Butch. Say eighty percent as well as Jake can do.) (You're teasing.) (You'll find out. Winnie is sweet—but Jake has had years more practice. I'm not chucking asparagus at Winnie. I thought you were going to drag her right in with us.) (With Mrs. Sloan outside and watching our heart rate? What do you think I am? A fool?) (Yes.) (Oh, go to sleep!)