(All right. What are the girls using today?) (Oh, most of them use implants. Some use pills, both the daily ones and the monthly ones. But if you miss with either sort, you are on a very short fuse. I never liked monkeying with my body’s economy; I’m not convinced that anything that changes a woman’s femaleness that much is a good idea. Not superstition, Boss, I did some careful reading alter the time I got caught. There are hazards to all chemical methods. My body worked fine the way it was; I didn’t want to tamper with a successful organization—I’m quoting you, only you were talking about business.) (I see your point, Eunice, even though we’re talking about monkey business. A body is far more complex than a corporation, and the one you turned over to me is a jewel; I don’t want to tamper with it, either. But what did you use? Self restraint?)
(Never had any in stock, dearie. Oh, there are lots of other loving things you can do without getting pregnant—if you can shake off your early training and be twenty-first century—) (Look, infant, 1 knew about—and used—every one of those other things in high school. I keep telling you: You kids did not invent sex.) (You didn’t let me finish, Boss. Those are emergency measures. A girl who depends on them alone is going to add to the population explosion. Joan, I looked into it carefully, when I turned eighteen and was licensed and settled on one of the oldest methods. A diaphragm. They are still available; any physician will fit them. I wore one six days every month, even at the office—because, as the doctor who fitted me pointed out, most diaphragm failures result from leaving them at home while you run out for a pound of sugar, be right back.)
(I suspect he’s right, Eunice.) (I’m sure of it, Joan. I never liked them—I never liked any contraception; I seemed to have a deep instinct that told me to get pregnant. Boss. . . the thing—the only thing—that I really mind about being dead . . . is that I always wanted to have a baby by you. And that’s silly, as you were already too old—or maybe almost too old—when I first met you. But I would have tried, if you had offered.)
(Darling, darling!)
(Oh, I’m happy with what I have. Om Mani Padme Hum. I’m not kicking about my karma. I’m not just content, I’m happy. . . to be half of Joan Eunice.)
(Eunice, would you still be willing to have a baby by me?)
(What? Boss, don’t joke about it. Don’t mock me.)
(I’m not joking, beloved.)
(But, Boss, the necessary part of you is gone. Pickled in alcohol, or something.)
(They use formalin, I think. Or deep freeze. I’m not talking about that old wreck we discarded. We can go down and get an implant.)
(Huh? I don’t understand.)
(Do you remember a tax-deductible called the Johanna Mueller Schmidt Memorial Eugenics Foundation?)
(Of course. I wrote a check for it every quarter.)
(Eunice, despite the purposes set out in its charter, the only real purpose does not appear in the fine print. When my son was killed I was already fairly old. But I was still virile—potent—and tests showed that I was fertile. So I got married—I think I told you—to have another son. Didn’t work. But I had my bet hedged and never told anyone. Sperm bank deposit. In the cryogenic vault of the Foundation is a little piece of Johann. Hundreds of millions of extremely little pieces, that is. Presumably they are not dead, just asleep. That’s what. I meant by an implant. With a syringe. Or however they do it.
(Eunice? Are you still there?) (I’m crying, Boss. Can’t a girl cry happy? Yes!)
(Tomorrow morning, then. You can change your mind up till the last minute.)
(I’ll never change my mind. I hope you won’t.)
(Beloved.)
17
Next morning Joan found that Jake had left the house before she woke; there was a note on her tray:
“Dear Joan Eunice,
“I slept like a baby and feel ready to fight wildcats—thanks to you and Winnie. Please extend my thanks to her and say (to both of you) that I will most gratefully join your prayer meetings any time 1 am invited—especially if I’ve had a tiring day.