I WILL FEAR NO EVIL by Robert A. Heinlein

Joan answered in still more frozen tones, “Not likely, Miss Perkins. Why do you think I’m veiled? Will you announce me? Or do I call the police and the news snoops?”

Miss Perkins looked startled, left her stenodesk, and entered the private office behind it. She came out shortly and said angrily, “You may go in.”

Olsen did not get up as Joan entered. He said, “Madam, you have chosen an unusual way of getting my attention. Now what is it? Come to the point.”

“Doctor, don’t you offer chairs to ladies?”

“Certainly. If they are ladies. A point you have gone to some trouble to render dubious. Speak up, my good woman, or I shall have you removed.” (Boss, did you see him glance at the mike? That old bat in the next room is taking down every word.) (So I assumed, Eunice. So we won’t talk yet.) Joan stepped close to the Doctor’s desk, unhooked her yashmak, let it fall to her left shoulder.

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? Does 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.”

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