“It’ll be there, Miss,” the driver answered promptly. “But I don’t know yet what the total will be. Have to stop at their Administration Building and get us cleared through a back gate. To where you picnic.”
(start here)
“To where we picnic.” Joan stopped to think. It irked her to pay a bribe when her status as a major competitor (retired, conceded) entitled her by protocol to red-carpet treatment. But she had not sent word ahead, a minimum courtesy in visiting a competitor’s plant, to allow him time to sweep dirt under the rug or to divert the visitor away from things. Industrial espionage could not with propriety be conducted at top level. “Finchley, did you tell the gate guard whom you were driving?”
“Oh, no, Miss!” Finchley sounded shocked. “But he checked the license even though I tell him it’s your car—best to tell; he has a list of all private armoreds in the state, just like I have. What I tell him was, I’m driving guests of Mr. Salomon. . . and let him think it was a couple of Vips from the Coast with a yen to picnic in a safe spot. Didn’t tell him anything really, except Mr. Salomon’s name. That okay?”
“Just fine, Finchley.” (Eunice, I feel like an interloper, being inside without giving my name. Rude.) (Look at it this way, Boss. You know who you are. But the public doesn’t—not after that silly carnival yesterday. I think it’s best to be Jake’s guest . . . which is true, in a way.) (I still feel that I should tell Finchley to give my name to the Chief Agronomist. But would the word get out? Or, rather, how soon?) (Thirty minutes. Long enough for some clerk to phone in and a news copter to fly out. Then some snoop will try to interview you by loudspeaker because the boys won’t let him land.)
(Some picnic!)
(If he does land, Shorty and Fred will be elbowing each other for a crack at him. Eager. Too eager. Boss, maybe you haven’t noticed, but, while they call you ‘Miss Smith,’ they treat you exactly as they treated me. In their heads they know you are you…but in their guts they feel you are me.) (That’s not far wrong, Eunice. In my head I am me. . . but in my guts—your pretty belly— I am you.)
(Boss, I like that. We’re the only one-headed Siamese twins in history. But not everything in our belly is me. There’s one wiggler swimming faster than the rest—and he is ‘Johann,’ not Joan, not Eunice—and if he makes it to the finish line, he’s more important than both of us put together.)
(My love, you’re a sentimentalist.) (I’m a slob, Boss. And so are you.) (Nolo contendere. When I think about Johann and Eunice—both dead, really—getting together in Joan to make a baby, I come unstuck and want to cry.)
(Better not, Joan; the car is stopping. Boss? How long does it take a wiggler to get there? I know a spermatozoon has to move several inches to reach the ovum—but how fast does he swim?) (Durned if I know, dear. Let’s leave that cork in place at least a couple of days. Give the little bastard every possible chance.) (Good!) (Do you know how to take it out? Or do we have to see Dr. O’Neil? We don’t want to let Winnie in on this.) (Boss, I’ve seated them and taken them out so many times I can do it in my sleep. No fret, Annette. I’ve worn out more rubber baby bumpers than most girls have shoes.)
(Bragging.. Boasting.) (Only a trifle, Boss dearest. I told you I had always been an ever-ready. For years and years, any day I missed was not my idea. I knew my purpose in life clear back when I was a Girl Scout, no breasts, and still a virgin.)
Finchley returned to the car, spoke after he had buttoned in. “Miss?”
“Yes, Finchley.”
“Farm boss sends greetings and says guests of Counselor Salomon are honored guests of Agroproducts. No bribe. But he asked if the main gate guard had put the squeeze; I told him No. Correct?”