“Two years and seven months, Miss. Sure you don’t want both Shotguns with you?”
“No, they can take turns staying with the car. If you have to get out, I want you covered.”
“Oh, I’ll be all right, Miss.”
“Don’t argue with me. You wouldn’t have argued when I was old Johann Smith; I assure you that Miss Johann Smith still has his poison fangs. Pass the word along.” She heard him chuckle. “I’ll do that, Miss Smith.” When the car stopped, Joan hooked up her yashmak, concealing her identity—either or both of them—from the curious, Shorty unlocked her and handed her out. On the crowded pedestrian walk of Main Street Joan felt suddenly vulnerable . . . except for the tower of strength beside her. “Shorty, the building I’m looking for is in the thirteen hundred block—thirteen-oh-seven. Can you find it?” The question was to make him feel useful; she knew where the Roberts Building was, she owned it.
“Oh, sure, Miss—I read numbers real good. Letters, too—just words bother me.”
“Let’s go then. Shorty, how do you manage in your real profession? Not being able to read the Bible, I mean.”
“No trouble, I use talking books and as for the Book, I got every precious word memorized.”
“A remarkable memory. I wish I could say the same.”
“Just takes patience. I had the Book down pat while I was still in prison.” He added thoughtfully, “Sometimes I think I ought to learn to read…but I can’t seem to find time.” (The poor dear probably never had a teacher who could teach, Boss.) (Never tamper with a successful organization, Eunice; he’s found his niche.)
“This must be it, Miss. ‘One, three, oh, seven.’”
“Thank you, Shorty.” She was not asked for her I.D. at the building entrance, nor did she offer it, for she had none, either as Johann Smith or Eunice Branca. The guard noted the “Licensed & Deputized” shield (which matched his own) on Shorty’s uniform, released the cage turnstile, and waved them on through. Joan Eunice smiled at him with her eyes—and made note that security at the Roberts Building should be tightened; the guard should have photographed Shorty’s I.D. and logged his shield number.
(Boss, he can’t handle so many people that way; he has to use his judgment.) (Look who’s talking! If that apartment house you used to live in had had fight security, you would never have been mugged. If we can’t stop violence outdoors, we must try to keep it from coming indoors.) (I won’t argue, Boss darling—I’m excited!) (Me too; this veil is a help.)
On the twelfth floor they went to the suite occupied by the Johanna Mueller Schmidt Memorial Eugenics Foundation, H. S. Olsen, M.D., Sc. D., Director, Please Ring and Wait. The guard let them in, went back to his picture magazine. Joan noted with approval that there was a goodly number of women and couples in the waiting room. She (Johann) had jacked up Olsen about the (public) purpose of the Foundation—to offer superior anonymous donors to licensed and qualified females—in her last letter accompanying a quarterly check; apparently it had had good effect.
“Wait here, Shorty; there’s video over there.”
She went to the barrier desk separating the waiting room from the outer clerical office, avoided the sign “Applications” and got the reluctant attention of the only male back of the barrier, motioned him to her. “What is it, Ma’am? If it’s an application, go to the far end, present your I.D. and fill out the questionnaire, then wait. You’ll be called.”
“I want to see the Director. Dr. Olsen.”
“Dr. Olsen never sees anyone without an appointment. Give me your name and state your business and possibly his secretary will see you.”
She leaned closer, spoke softly. “I must see him. Tell him that my husband has found out.”
The office manager looked startled. “Your name?”
“Don’t be silly. Just tell him that.”
“Uh.. . wait here.” He disappeared through a rear door. She waited. After a remarkably short time he appeared at a side door of the waiting room, motioned her to him, then conducted her down a passage toward a door marked “Director—Keep Out” and to a door near it marked “Secretary to the Director, Ring & Wait.” There he left her with a woman who reminded Joan of Johann’s third-grade teacher, both in appearance and authoritarian manner. The woman said frostily, “What is this nonsense? You may start by showing me your I.D.” (Three fingers stiff into her solar plexus, Boss, and say she fainted!) (Maybe. We’ll try my way first.)