I Will Fear No Evil

2

Mr. Salomon helped her into her cloak, rode down with her to the basement, waved his guards aside and handed her into his car. Shotgun locked them in, got in by driver-guard and locked that compartment. As she sat down Mrs. Branca said, "Oh, how big! Mr. Salomon, I knew a Rolls was roomy—but I've never been in one before."

"A Rolls only by courtesy, my dear—body by Skoda, power plant by Imperial Atomics, then Rolls-Royce pretties it and backs it with their reputation and service. You should have seen a Rolls fifty years ago, before gasoline engines were outlawed. There was a dream car!"

"This one is dreamy enough. Why, my little Gadabout would fit inside this compartment."

A voice from the ceiling said, "Orders, sir?"

Mr. Salomon touched a switch. "One moment, Rockford." He lifted his hand. "Where do you live, Eunice? Or the coordinates of wherever you want to go?"

"Oh. I'll go home. North one one eight, west thirty-seven, then up to level nineteen—though I doubt that this enormous car will fit into the vehicle lift."

"If not, Rocky and his partner will escort you up the passenger lift and to your door."

"That's nice. Joe doesn't want me to ride passenger lifts by myself."

"Joe is right. So we'll deliver you like a courier letter.

Eunice, are you in a hurry?"

"Me? Joe expects me when I get there, Mr. Smith's working hours being so irregular now. Today I'm quite early."

"Good." Mr. Salomon again touched the intercom switch. "Rockford, we're gong to kill some time. Uh, Mrs. Branca, what zone for those coordinates? Eighteen something?"

"Nineteen-B, sir."

"Find a cruising circle near nineteen-B; I'll give you coordinates later."

"Very good, sir."

Salomon went on to Eunice. "This compartment is soundproof unless I thumb this switch; they can talk to me but can't hear us. Which is good as I want to discuss things with you and make phone calls about that insurance policy."

"Oh! Surely that was a joke?"

"Joke, eh? Mrs. Branca, I have been working for Johann Smith for twenty-six years, the last fifteen with his affairs as my sole practice. Today he made me dc-facto chairman of his industrial empire. Yet if I failed to carry out his orders about that insurance policy—tomorrow I would be out of a job."

"Oh, surely not! He depends on you."

"He depends on me as long as he can depend on me and not one minute longer. That policy must be written tonight.

I thought you had quit fretting when you learned that you could step aside for the Rare Blood Club?"

"Well, yes. Except that I'm afraid I might get greedy and take it. When the time comes."

"And why not? The Rare Blood Club has done nothing for him; you have done much."

"I'm well paid."

"Listen, you silly child, don't be a silly child. He wanted you to have a million dollars in his will. And he wanted you to know it so that he could enjoy seeing your face. I pointed out that it is too late to change his will. Even this insurance gimmick is chancy if his natural heirs get a look at the books and discover it—which I shall try to prevent—as a judge might decide it was just a dodge—as it is—and require the insurance company to pay it to his estate. Which is where the Rare Blood Club comes in handy; they would probably fight it and win, if you cut them in for half.

"But there are other ways. Suppose you knew nothing about this and were invited to the reading of his will and discovered that your deceased employer had bequeathed you a lifetime income ‘in grateful appreciation of long and faithful service.' Would you turn it down?"

"Uh—" she said, and stopped.

"‘Uh,'" he repeated. "Exactly ‘uh.' Of course you wouldn't turn it down. He'd be gone and you'd be out of a job and there would be no reason to refuse it. So, instead of a lump sum so big it embarrasses you, I'm going to write a policy that sets up a trust to pay you an annuity." He paused to think. "A safe return, after taxes, on, a trust is about four percent. What would you say to around seven hundred and fifty a week? Would that upset you?"

"Well... no. I understand seven hundred and fifty dollars much better than I understand a million."

"The beauty of it is that we can use the principal to insure against inflation—and you can still leave that million, or more, to the Rare Blood Club when your own Black Camel kneels."

"Really? How wonderful! I never will understand high finance."

"That's because most people think of money as something to pay the rent. But a money man thinks of money in terms of what he can do with it. Never mind, I'll fix it so that all you need to do is spend it. I'll use a Canadian insurance company and a Canadian bank, as each will be stuffy about letting a U.S. court look at its records. In case his granddaughters find out what I've done, I mean."

"Oh. Mr. Salmon, shouldn't this money go to them?"

"Again, don't be silly. They are harpies. Snapping turtles. And had nothing to do with making this money. Do you know anything about Johann's family? Outlived three wives—and his fourth married him for his money and it cost him millions to get shut of her. His first wife gave him a son and died in doing so—then Johann's son was killed trying to capture a worthless hill. Two more wives, two divorces, a daughter by each of those two wives resulting in a total of four granddaughters—and those ex-wives and their daughters are au dead, and their four carnivorous descendants have been waiting for Johann to die and sore at him because he hasn't."

Salomon grinned. "They're in for a shock. I wrote his will so as to give them small lifetime incomes—and chop them off-with a minimal dollar if they contest. Now excuse rue; I must make phone calls, then take you home and run over to Canada and nail this down."

"Yes, sir. Do you mind if I take off my cloak? It's rather warm."

"Want the cooling turned up?"

"Only if you are too warm. But this cloak is heavier than it looks."

"I noticed it was heavy. Body armor?"

"Yes, sir. I'm out by myself quite a lot."

"No wonder you're too warm. Take it off. Take off anything you wish to."

She grinned at him. "I wonder if you are a dirty old man, too. For another million?"

"Not a durned dime! Shut up, child, and let me phone."

"Yes, sir." Mrs. Branca wiggled out of her cloak, then raised the leg rest on her side, stretched out, and relaxed.

Such a strange day! ...am I really going to be rich?...doesn't seem real...well, I'm not going to spend a dime

—or let Joe spend it—unless it's safe in the bank…learned that the hard way first year we were married...some men understand money—such as Mr. Salomon, or Boss—and some don't, such as Joe... but as sweet a husband as a girl could wish... as long as I never again let him share a joint account.

Dear Joe!... those are pretty ‘gams' if you do say so as shouldn't, you bitch....#8216;Bitch—'... how quaint Boss is with his old-fashioned taboos... always necessary not to shock him—not too much, that is; Boss enjoys a slight flavor of shock, like a whiff of garlic.... especially necessary not to annoy him with language everybody uses nowadays... Joe is good for a girl, never have to be careful around him... except about money— Wonder what Joe would think if he could see me locked in this luxurious vault with this old goat?... probably be amused but best not to tell him, dearie; men's minds don't work the way ours do, men are not logical...wrong to think of Mr. Salomon as an ‘old goat' though; he certainly has not acted like one... you had to reach for that provocative remark, didn't you, dear?... just to see what he would say...and found out! ...got squelched— Is he too old? ...hell, no, dear, the way they hike ‘em up with hormones a man is never ‘too old' until he's too feeble to move... the way Boss is...not that Boss ever made the faintest pass even years back when he was still in fair shape...

Did Boss really expect to regain his youth by transplanting his brain?... arms and legs and kidneys and even hearts, sure, sure—but a brain?...

Salomon switched off the telephone. "Done," he announced. "All but signing papers, which I'll do in Toronto this evening."

"I'm sorry to be so much trouble, sir."

"My pleasure."

"I do appreciate it. And I must think about how to thank Boss—didn't thank him today but didn't think he meant it."

"Don't thank him."

"Oh, but I must. But I don't know how. How does one thank a man for a million dollars? And not seem insincere?"

"Hmm! There are ways. But, in this case, don't. My dear, you delighted Johann when you showed no trace of gratitude; I know him. Too many people have thanked him in the past... then figured him as an easy mark and tried to bleed him again. Then tried to knife him when he turned out not to be. So don't thank him. Sweet talk he does not believe; he figures it's always aimed at his money. I notice you're spunky with him."

"I have to be, sir, or he tromps on me. He had me in tears a couple of times—years back—before I found out he wanted me to stand up to him."

"You see? The old tyrant is making bets with himself as to whether you'll come trotting in tomorrow and lick his hand like a dog. So don't even mention it. Tell me about yourself, Eunice—age, how long you've been married, and how often, number of children, childhood diseases, why you aren't on video, what your husband does, how you got to be Johann's secretary, number of arrests and for what— Or tell me to go to hell; you are entitled to privacy. But I would like to know you better; we are going to be working together from here on."

"I don't mind answering"—(I'll tell just want I want to tell!)—"but does this work both ways?" She stopped to let down the leg rest, straightened up. "Do I quiz you the same, way?"

He chuckled. "Certainly. I may take the Fifth. Or lie."

"I could lie, too, sir. But I don't need to. I'm twenty-eight and married once and still am. No children—no children yet; I'm licensed for three. As for my job—well, I won a beauty contest at eighteen, the sort that offers a one-year contract making appearances around your home state, plus a video test with an option for a seven-year contract—"

"And they didn't pick up your option. I'm astonished."

"Not that sir. Instead I took stock of myself—and quit. Winning that state contest and then losing the national; contest made me realize how many pretty girls there are. Too many. And some things I heard from them about what you have to go through to get into video and stay there, well, I didn't want it that much. And went back to school and took an associate's degree in secretarial electronics, with a minor in computer language and cybernetics, and went looking for a job." (And I'm not going to tell you how I got through school!) "And eventually filled in as Mrs. Bierman's secretary while her regular secretary had a baby then she didn't come back and I stayed on... and when Mrs. Bierman retired, Boss let me fill in. And kept me on. So here I am—a very lucky girl."

"A very smart girl. But I'm sure your looks had much to do with Johann's decision to keep you on."

"I know they did," she answered quietly. "But he would not have kept me had I not been able to do his work. I know how I look but Fm not conceited about it; appearance is a matter of heredity."

"So it is," he agreed, "but there are impressive data to show that beautiful women are, on the average, more intelligent than homely ones."

"Oh, I don't think so! Take Mrs. Bierman—downright homely. But she was terribly smart."

"I said ‘On the average,'" he repeated. "What is ‘Beauty'? A lady hippopotamus must look beautiful to her boy friend, or we would run out of hippo­potamuses—potami—in one generation. What we think of as ‘Physical beauty' is almost certainly a tag for a complex of useful survival characteristics. Smartness—intelli­gence—among them. Do you think that a male hippopotamus would regard you as beautiful?"

She giggled. "Not likely!"

"You see? In reality you're no prettier than a female hippopotamus; you are simply an inherited complex of survival characteristics useful to your species."

"I suppose so." (Humph! Give me one opening and I'll show you what I am.)

"But since Johann—and I—are of your species, what that means to us is ‘Beauty.' Which Johann has always appreciated."

"I know he does," she said quietly. She straightened her scarlet-covered leg in full extension and looked at it. "I dress this way to amuse Boss. When I first went to work for Smith Enterprises I wore as little as the other girls in the outer offices—you know, skin paint and not much else.

Then when I went to work for Mrs. Bierman I started dressing quite modestly because she did—covered up all over, I mean, like Nurse MacIntosh—not even a see-through. Uncomfortable. I went on dressing that way when Mrs. Bierman left. Until one morning I had only one such outfit—I wore disposables, cheaper than having them cleaned—and spilled coffee down the front and was caught with nothing to wear.

"And no time to buy anything for I was more afraid of being late—you know how impatient Mr. Smith is—than I was that he might disapprove of my dress. Or lack of it. So I gritted my teeth and got out an office-girl bikini and asked Joe to paint me and hurry it up! Joe's an artist, did I say?"

"I don't believe so."

"He is. He does my skin painting, even styles my face. But I was late anyhow that morning as Joe really is an artist and refused to let it go with just spraying me the background color. The two-piece was white with assorted sizes of big blue polka dots…and Joe insisted on continuing the pattern all over me, with me cussing and telling hint to hurry and him insisting on painting just one more big polka dot. I was so late that I cut through an Abandoned Area I ordinarily circled around."

"Eunice, you should never go into an Abandoned Area. Good God; child, even the police don't risk it other than in a car as well armored as this one. You could be mugged, raped, and murdered and no one would ever know."

"Yes, sir. But I was scared of losing my job. I tried to explain to Boss why I was late, and he told me to shut up and go to work. Nevertheless he was unusually mellow that day. The next day I wore the sort of full cover-up I have been wearing—and he was downright mean all day. Mr. Salmon, I don't have to be slapped in the face with a wet fish; from then on I quit trying to look like a nun, and dressed and painted to enhance what I've got, as effectively as possible."

"It's effective. But, dear, you should be mere careful. It's all very well to wear sexy clothes for Johann; that's charity, the old wretch can't get much pleasure out of life and is no threat to you, the shape he is in."

"He never was a threat, sir. In all the years I've worked for Mr. Smith he has never so much as touched my hand. He just makes flattering remarks about each new getup—sometimes quite salty and then I sass him and threaten to tell my husband, which makes him cackle. All innocent as Sunday School."

"I'm sure it is. But you must be more careful going to and from work. I don't mean just stay out of Abandoned Zones. Dressed the way you dress and looking as you do, you are in danger anywhere. Don't you realize it? Doesn't your husband know it?"

"Oh. I'm careful, sir; I know what can happen, I see the news. But I'm not afraid. I'm carrying three unregistered illegal weapons—and know how to use them. Boss got them for me and had his guards train me."

"Hmm. As an officer of the Court I should report you. As a human being who knows what a deadly jungle this city is, I applaud your good sense. If you really do know how to use them. If you have the courage to use them promptly and effectively. If, having defended yourself, you're smart enough to get away fast and say nothing to cops. That's a lot of ‘ifs,' dear."

"Truly, I'm not afraid. Uh, if you were my attorney, anything I told you would be privileged, would it not?"

"Yes. Are you asking me to be your attorney?"

"Uh... yes, sir."

"Very well, I am. Privileged. Go ahead."

"Well, one night I had to go out on a blood-donor call. By myself, Joe wasn't home. Didn't worry me, I've made donations at night many times and often alone. I keep my Gadabout in our flat and stay in it until I'm inside the hospital or whatever. But— Do you know that old, old hospital on the west side, Our Lady of Mercy?"

"I'm afraid not."

"No matter. It's old, built before the government gave up trying to guarantee safety in the streets. No vehicle lift, no indoor parking. Just a lot with a fence and a guard at the gate. Happened when I came out. This frog tried to hop me between the parked cars. Don't know whether he was after my purse. Or me. Didn't wait to find out—don't even know if it was a man, could have been a woman—"

"Unlikely."

"As may be. Stun bomb in his face with my left hand as I zapped with my right and didn't wait to see if he was dead. Buzzed out of there and straight home. Never told the police, never told Joe, never told anybody until just now."

(But it. took a triple dose of Narcotol to stop your shakes, didn't it, dearie—oh, shut up, that's not the pomt.)

"So you're a brave girl and can shoot if you have to. But you are a silly girl, too, and very lucky. Hmm. Johann has an armored car much like this and two shifts of guards to go with it."

"Of course he has guards, sir, but I know nothing about his cars."

"He has a Rolls-Skoda. Eunice, we are no longer going to depend on how fast you are with weapons. You can sell your Gadabout or plant flowers in it; from here on you'll have mobile guards and an armored car. Always."

Mrs. Branca looked startled. "But, Mr. Salomon! Even with my new salary I couldn't begin to—"

"Switch off, dear. You know that Johann will never again ride in a car. Chances are he will never leave that room. But he still owns his personal defense car; he still keeps a double crew, two drivers, two Shotguns—and maybe they run an errand once a week. Eating their heads off and playing pinochle the rest of the time. Tomorrow morning my car will pick you up; tomorrow afternoon your own car—Johann's—will take you home. And will be on call for you at all other times, too."

"I'm not sure Boss is going to like this."

"Forget it. I'm going to chew him out for letting you take I risks. If he gives me any back talk, he'll find I have enough chips to hire you away from him. Be sensible, Eunice; this doesn't cost him a dollar; it's a business expense that he is already incurring. Change of subject. What do you think of his plans for this soi-disant ‘warm body'?"

"Is a brain transplant possible? Or is he grabbing at a straw? I know he's not happy tied down to all that horrid machinery—goodness. I've been combing the shops for the naughtiest styles I can find but it gets harder and harder to get a smile out of him, is it practical, this scheme?"

"That's beside the point, dear; he's ordered it and we are going to deliver. This Rare Blood Club—does it have all the AB-Negatives?"

"Heavens, no. The last club report showed less than four thousand AB-Negs enrolled out of a nationwide probability of about million."

"Too bad. What do you think of his notion of page ads and prime time on video?"

"It would cost a dreadful lot of money. But l suppose he can afford it."

"Certainly. But it stinks."

"Sir?"

"Eunice, if this transplant is to take place, there must be no publicity. Do you remember the fuss when they started freezing people? No, you're too young. It touched a bare nerve which set off loud howls, and the practice was very nearly prohibited—on the theory that, since most people can't afford it, no one should be allowed to have it. The Peepul, bless ‘em—our country has at times been a democracy, an oligarchy, a dictatorship, a republic, a socialism, and mixtures of all of those, without changing its basic constitution, and now we are a dc-facto anarchy under an elected dictator even though we still have laws and legislatures and Congress. But through all of this that bare nerve has always been exposed: the idea that if everyone can't have something, then no one should have it.

So what will happen when one of the richest men in the country advertises that he wants to buy another man's living body—just to save his own stinking, selfish life?"

"I don't think Boss is all that bad. If you make allowances for his illness, he's rather sweet."

"Beside the point. That bare nerve will jump like an ulcerated tooth. Preachers will denounce him and bills will be submitte4 in legislatures and the A.M.A. will order its members to have nothing to with it and Congress might even pass a law against it. Oh, the Supreme Court would find such a law unconstitutional I think—but by then Johann would be long dead. So no publicity. Does the Rare Blood Club know who these other AB-Negatives are who are not members?"

"I don't know. I don't think so."

"We'll check. I would hazard that at least eighty percent of the people in this country have had their blood typed at some time. Does blood type ever change?"

"Oh, no, never. That's why we rares—that's what we call ourselves—are so in demand."

"Good. Almost all of the population who have been typed have the fact listed in computers somewhere, and with computers so interlinked today it is a matter of what questions to ask and how and where—and I don't know how, but I know the firm to hire for it. We progress, my dear. I'll get that started and off-load the details onto you, and then get other phases started and leave you to check on them while I go to South America and see this butcher Boyle. And—"

"Mr. Salomon! Bad turf coming up."

Salomon thumbed his intercom. "Roger." He added, "Damn them, those two beauties like to go through Abandoned Areas. They hope somebody will shoot so that they will have legal excuse to shoot back. I'm sorry, my dear. With you aboard I should have given orders to stay out of A.A.s no matter what."

"It's my fault," Mrs. Branca said meekly. "I should have told you that it is almost impossible to circle near Nineteen-B without crossing a bad zone. I have to detour way around to reach Boss's house. But we're safe inside, are we not?"

"Oh, yes. If we're hit, this old tank has to be prettied up, that's all. But I should not have to tell them. Rockford isn't so bad; he's just a Syndicate punk, an enforcer who took a fall. But Charlie—the one riding Shotgun—is mean. An XYZ. Committed his first murder at eleven. He—" Steel shutters slid up around them and covered the bulletproof glass. "We must be entering the A.A."

Inside lights came on as shutters darkened windows.

Mrs. Branca said, "You make it sound as if we were in more danger from your mobiles than we are from the bad zone."

He shook his head. "Not at all, my dear. Oh, I concede that any rational society would have liquidated them—but since we don't have capital punishment I make use of their flaws. Both are on probation paroled to me, and they like their jobs. Plus some other safe-" The rap-rap-rap! of an automatic weapon stitched the length of the car.

In that closed space the din was ear-splitting. Mrs. Branca gasped and clutched at her host. A single explosion, still louder, went POUNGK! She buried her face in his shoulder, clung harder. "Got ‘im!" a voice yelped. The lights went out.

"They got us?" she asked, her voice muffled by the ruffles of his shirt.

"No, no." He patted her and put his right arm firmly around her. "Charlie got them. Or thinks he did. That last was our turret gun. You're safe, dear."

"But the lights went out."

"Sometimes happens. The concussion. I'll find the switch for the emergency lights." He started to take his arms from around her.

"Oh, no! Just hold me, please—I don't mind the dark. Feel safer in it—if you hold me."

"As you wish, my dear." He settled himself more comfortably, and closer.

Presently he said softly, "My goodness, what a snuggly baby you are."

"You're pretty snuggly yourself... Mr. Salomon."

"Can't you say ‘Jake'? Try it."

"‘Jake.' Yes, Jake. Your arms are so strong. How old are you, Jake?"

"Seventy-one."

"I can't believe it. You seem ever so much younger."

"Old enough to be your grandfather, little snuggle puppy.

I simply look younger... in the dark. But one year into borrowed time according to the Bible."

"I won't let you talk that way; you're young! Let's not talk at all, Jake. Dear Jake."

"Sweet Eunice."

Some minutes later the driver's voice announced, "All clear, sir," as the shutters started sliding down—and Mrs. Branca hastily disentangled herself from her host.

She giggled nervously. "My goodness!"

"Don't fret. It's one-way glass."

"That's a comfort. Just the same, that light is like a dash of cold water."

"Um, yes. Breaks the mood. Just when I was feeling young."

"But you are young—Mr. Salomon."

"Jake."

"'Jake.' Years don't count, Jake. Goodness me, I got skin paint all over your shirt ruffles."

"Fair enough, I mussed your hair."

"My hair I can comb. But what will your wife say when she sees that shirt?"

"She'll ask why I didn't take it off. Eunice dear, I have no wife. Years ago she turned me in on a newer model."

"A woman of poor taste. You're a classic, Jake—and classics improve with age. Does my hair look better now?"

"Lovely. Perfect."

"I'm almost tempted to ask to have us driven back into that bad zone so you can muss it again."

"I'm more than ‘almost tempted.' But I had better take you home—unless you want to go with me over into Canada? Back by midnight, probably."

"I want to and I can't, really I can't. So take me home.

But let me sit close, and put your arm around me but don't muss my hair this time."

"I shall be careful." He gave his driver the coordinates of Mrs. Branca's flat, then added, "And get there without going through any more Abandoned Areas, you trigger-happy bandits!"

"Very good, Mr. Salomon."

They rode in silence; then Mrs. Branca said, "Jake, you were feeling quite young, just before we were interrupted."

"I'm sure you know it."

"Yes. I was ready to let you, and you know that, too. Jake? Would you like a skin pic of me? A good one, not one taken by that snoopy character who charges so much."

"Will your husband take one? Can you sneak me a copy?"

"No huhu, lake dear, I have dozens of skin pix—I was once a beauty contestant, remember? You are welcome to one...if you'll keep your mouth shut about it."

"Privileged communication. Your secrets are always safe with your attorney."

"What do you like? Artistic? Or sexy?"

"Uh...what a choice to have to make!"

"Mmm, a pic can be both. I'm thinking of one of me in a shower, hair soaked, wet all over, not a speck of body paint, not even face makeup, not even—well, you'll see. Is that on your wave length?"

"I'll howl like a wolf!"

"You shall have it. Quick change of subject; we're almost there. Jake? Does Boss stand any chance with this brain transplant thing?"

"I'm not a medical man. In my lay opinion—none."

"So I thought. Then he doesn't have long to live whether he has the operation or not, lake, I'm going to make still greater effort to dress even naughtier for him, as long as he lasts."

"Eunice, you are a sweet girl. There is nothing nicer you could do for him. Much better than saying thanks for this trust fund."

"I wasn't thinking about that ridiculous million dollars, lake; I was thinking about Boss. Feeling sorry for him. I'll go shopping tonight for something really exotic—or if I can't find a novel exotic, then a simple skintight see-through... passé but always effective with the right paint job underneath—Joe is good at that. And—well, if I'm going to have guards now, some days I may wear nothing but paint—stilt heels to make my legs look even better—yes, I know they're pretty!—heels, a minimum-gee, and paint."

"And perfume."

"Boss can't smell, Jake. All gone."

"I still have my sense of smell."

"Oh. All right. I'll wear perfume for you. And paint for Boss. I've never tried anything that extreme at work...but now that we no longer work at his offices—no longer see many people—and I can keep a semi-see-through smock around, just in case—I might as well see if Boss likes it. Joe will enjoy thinking up provocative designs, likes to paint me, and is not jealous of Boss, feels sorry for the poor old man just as I do. And it is so hard to find novelty in exotic clothes. Even though I shop at least one night a week."

"Eunice."

"Yes, sir. Yes, Jake."

"Don't shop tonight. That's an order—from your boss by virtue of the power of attorney I hold."

"Yes, Jake. May one ask why?"

"You can wear a paint-only job tomorrow if you wish—this car and my guards will deliver you like crown jewels. But I need the car tonight. Starting tomorrow you'll have Johann's car and guards, and you will always use them for shopping. And everything."

"Yes, sir," she said meekly.

"But you are mistaken about Johann not having long to live. His problem is that he has too long to live."

"I don't understand."

"He's trapped, dear. He's fallen into the clutches of the medical profession and they won't let him die. Once he allowed them to harness him into that life-support gear he lost his last chance. Have you noticed that his meals are served without a knife? Nor even a fork? Just a plastic spoon.,'

"But his hands tremble so. I sometimes feed him as he hates to have nurses ‘messing around' as he calls it."

"Think about it, dear. They have made it impossible for him to do anything but stay alive. A machine. A weary machine that hurts all the time. Eunice, this brain transplant is just a way for Johann to outsmart his doctors. A fancy way to commit suicide."

"No!"

"Yes. They've taken the simple ways away from him, so he's had to think up a fancy one. You and I are going to help him do it, exactly the way he wants it done. We seem to have arrived. Don't cry, damn it; your husband will want to know why and you must not tell him. Do you feel like kissing me good-bye?"

"Oh, please do!"

"Stop the tears and turn up your pretty face, they'll be unlocking us in a moment or two."

Presently she whispered, "That was as good a kiss as the very first one, Jake...and I no longer feel like crying.

But I heard them unlock us."

"They'll wait until I unlock from inside. May I go up the lift with you and see you to your door?"

"No... I can explain your guards but would have trouble explaining why the firm's chief counsel bothers to do so. Joe isn't jealous of Boss—but might be of you. I don't want him to be...especially when I came so close to giving him reason to be."

"We could correct that near miss."

"Could be, dear Jake. My Iowa-farm-girl morals don't seem very strong today—I think I've been corrupted by a million dollars and a Rolls-Royce... and a city slicker. Let me go, dear."