I Will Fear No Evil (35 page)

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? Docs 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 souce. 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 tomorrow—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 expended 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.)

Joan let the doctor lay her cloak around her shoulders; it brought his head close to hers. She turned her face toward that side, wet her lips and smiled at him.

She could see him decide to risk it. She did not dodge as his lips met hers—but did not put her arms around him and let herself be slightly clumsy, stiffened a little before giving in to it. (Twin! Don’t let him put us back on that able—make him use the couch in his office.) (Neither one, Eunice. Pipe down!)

Joan broke from it, trembling. “Thank you, Doctor. And you see I
can
be a girl if I try. How do I get back to the waiting room without passing your Miss Perkins?” She hooked her yashmak.

18

A few minutes later Shorty handed her into her car, locked her in, and mounted into the forward compartment. “Gimbel’s Compound, Miss Smith?”

“Please, Finchley.”

Once inside the compound Joan had Fred escort her to Madame Pompadour’s. The fact that she had a private bodyguard got her immediate attention from the manager, who was not Madame Pompadour even though he wore his hair in the style made famous by the notorious Marquise and had manners and gestures to match. (Eunice, are you sure we are in the right place?) (Certainly, Boss—wait till you see their prices.) “How may I serve Madame?”

“Do you have a private viewing room?”

“But of course, Madame. Uh, there is a waiting room where—”

“My guard stays with me.”

The manager looked hurt. “As Madame wishes. If you will walk this way—” (Eunice, shall we walk
that
way?) (Don’t try, twin—just follow him. Or her, as the case may be.)

Shortly Joan was seated facing a low model’s walk; Fred stood at parade rest behind her. The room was warm; she unfrogged her cloak and pushed back its hood but left the yashmak over her features. Then she dug into her purse, got out a memorandum. “Do you have a model who comes close to these measurements?”

The manager studied the list—height, weight, shoulders, bust, waist, leg. “This is Madame?”

“Yes. But here is another specs list even if you can’t match me. A friend for whom I wish to buy something pretty and exotic. She’s a redhead with pale skin to match and green eyes.” Joan had copied Winifred’s measurements from the exercise records the two had been keeping.

“I see no problems, Madame, but in your own case permit me to suggest that our great creative artist, Charlot, will be happy to check these measurements or even to design directly on—”

“Never mind. I am buying items already made up. If I buy.”

“Madame’s pleasure. May I ask one question? Will Madame be wearing her own hair?”

“If I wear a wig, it will be the same color as my hair, so assume that.” (Eunice, should I buy a wig?) (Be patient and let it grow out, dear. Wigs are hard to keep clean. And they never
smell
clean.) (Then we’ll never wear one.) (Smart Boss. Soap and water is the world’s greatest aphrodisiac.) (I’ve always thought so. Though a girl should smell like a girl.) (You do, dearie, you do—you can’t help it.)

“Madame’s hair is a beautiful shade. And now, since Madame indicated that her time is short, perhaps it would suit her convenience to let our accounting department record her credit card while I alert the two models?”

(Watch it, Boss!) (I wasn’t a-hint the door, dearie.) “I use credit cards with several names. Such as McKinley, Franklin, and Grant. Or Cleveland.” Joan reached into her purse, fanned a sheaf of bills. “The poor man’s credit card.”

The manager repressed a shudder. “Oh, goodness, we don’t expect our clients to pay
cash
.”

“I’m old-fashioned.”

The manager looked pained. “Oh, but it’s unnecessary. If Madame prefers not to use her general credit account—her privilege!—she can set up a private account with Pompadour in only moments. If she will permit me to have her I.D.—”

“Just a moment. Can you read fine print?” Joan pointed at a notice near a portrait of President McKinley. “ ‘This note is legal tender for all debts, public and private.’ I shan’t get tangled up in a computer. I pay cash.”

“But, Madame—we aren’t set up for cash! I’m not certain we could make change.”

“Well, I don’t want to put you to any inconvenience. Fred.”

“Yes, Miss?”

“Take me to La Boutique.”

The manager looked horrified. “Please, Madame! I’m sure something can be arranged. One moment while I speak to our accountant.” He hurried away without waiting for an answer.

(Why the fuss, Boss honey? I’ve bought endless things for you, against your personal-expenditures account. Jake said we could use it.) (Eunice, I’ve despised those moronic machines since the first time I was trapped by a book club. But I’m not just being balky. Today is
not
a day to admit who we are. Later—after we’re out of court—we’ll set up a “Susan Jones” account for shopping in person. If we ever do again. I can see it’s a bloody nuisance.) (Oh, no, it’s fun! You’ll see, twin. But, remember—I hold a veto until you learn something about clothes) (Sho’, sho’, little nag.) (Who are you calling a nag, you knocked-up bag?) (Happy about it, beloved?) (Wonderfully happy, Boss. Are
you?
) (Wonderfully. Even if it wasn’t romantic.) (Oh, but it was! We’re going to have
your
baby!) (Quit sniffling.) (I’m
not
sniffling; you
are
.) (Maybe we both are. Now shut up, here he comes.)

The manager beamed. “Madame! Our accountant says that it is perfectly all right to accept cash!”