Heinlein, Robert A – Friday

Anna said soothingly, “It’s all right, Friday. I checked it.”

I answered, “Thanks. But I’ll handle it just the way you handle classified documentsÄsight and touch.”

The Wainwright biddy was ready to boil me in oil but I simply moved aside a couple of meters and started checkingÄa fair-size packet: three passports in three names, an assortment of IDs, very sincere papers matching one or another identity, and a draft to “Marjorie Friday Baldwin” drawn on Ceres and South Africa Acceptances, Luna City, in the amount of Au-0.999 grams 297.3Ä which startled me but not nearly as much as the next item did:

adoption papers by Hartley M. Baldwin and Emma Baldwin for female child Friday Jones, renamed Marjorie Friday Baldwin, executed at Baltimore, Maryland, Atlantic Union. Nothing about Landsteiner CrŠche or Johns Hopkins, but the date was the day I left Landsteiner CrŠche.

And two birth certificates: one was a delayed birth certificate for Marjorie Baldwin, born in Seattle, and one was for Friday Baldwin, borne by Emma Baldwin, Boston, Atlantic Union.

Two things were certain about each of these documents: Each was phony and each could be relied on utterly; Boss never did things by halves. I said, “It checks, Anna.” I signed.

Anna accepted the receipt from me, adding quietly: “See me after.”

“Suits. Where?”

“See Goldie.”

“Miss Friday! Your credit card, please!” Wainwrigfit again.

“Oh.” Well, yes, with Boss gone and the company dissolved, I could not use my Saint Louis credit card again. “Here it is.”

She reached for it; I held on. “The punch, please. Or the shears. Whatever you’re using.”

“Oh, come now! I’ll incinerate yours along with many others, after I check the numbers.”

“Ms. Wainwright, if I am to surrender a credit card charged against meÄand I am; no argument about thatÄit will be destroyed or mutilated, rendered useless, right in front of me.”

“You are very tiresome! Don’t you trust anyone?”

“No.”

“Then you’ll have to wait, right here, until everyone else is through.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” I think MasterCard of California uses a phenolic-glass laminate; in any case their cards are tough, as credit cards must be. I had been careful not to show any enhancements around HQ, not because it would matter there but because it isn’t polite. But this was a special circumstance. I tore the card two ways, handed her the bits. “I think you can still make out the serial number.

“Very well!” She sounded as annoyed as I felt. I turned away. She snapped, “Miss Friday! Your other card, please!”

“What card?” I was wondering who among my dear friends was suddenly being deprived of that utter necessity of modern life, a valid credit card, and being left with only a draft and some small change. Clumsy. Inconvenient. I felt certain that Boss had not planned it that way.

“MasterCard . . . of. . . California, Miss Friday, issued in San Jose. Hand it over.”

“The company has nothing to do with that card. I arranged that credit on my own.”

“I find that hard to believe. Your credit on it is guaranteed by Ceres and South AfricaÄthat is to say, by the company. The affairs of which are being liquidated. So hand over that card.”

“You’re mixed up, counselor. While payment is made through

Ceres and South Africa, the credit involved is my own. It’s none of your business.”

“You’ll soon find out whose business it is! Your account will be canceled.”

“At your own risk, counselor. If you want a law suit that will leave you barefooted. Better check the facts.” I turned away, anxious not to say another word. She had me so angry that, for the moment, I was not feeling grief over Boss.

I looked around and found that Goldie had already been processed. She was sitting, waiting. I caught her eye and she patted an empty chair by her; I joined her. “Anna said for me to see you.”

“Good. I made a reservation at Cabana Hyatt in San Jose for Anna and me for tonight, and told them that there might be a third. Do you want to come with us?”

“So soon? Are you already packed?” What did I have to pack? Not much, as my New Zealand luggage was still sitting in bond in Winnipeg port because I suspected that the Winnipeg police had placed a tag on itÄso there it would sit until Janet and Ian were in the clear. “I had expected to stay here tonight but I really hadn’t thought about it.”