I WILL FEAR NO EVIL by Robert A. Heinlein

(Fred might be easiest if you can get him over seeing ghosts when he looks at you.) “I don’t mind another glass, Miss, but I mustn’t get tiddly, I’m on duty.”

“Pish and tush. Tom and Shorty will get us home even if they have to drag us. Right, Shorty?” (Shorty is your impossible case. I managed it only by being ‘little girl’ to him—which you can’t be, Boss.)

“We’ll certainly try, Miss Smith.”

“Do I have to be ‘Miss Smith’ on a picnic? You called Mrs. Branca ‘Eunice,’ did you not? Did she call you ‘Shorty?’

“Miss, she called me by my name. Hugo.”

“Do you prefer that to your nickname?”

“It’s the name my mother gave me, Miss.”

“That answers me, Hugo;-I will remember. But it brings to mind a problem. Anybody want to fight me for the ‘last black olive? Come on, put up your dukes. But that’s not the problem. I said I didn’t want to be called ‘Miss Smith’ under these circumstances. But I don’t want to be called

‘Johann’ either; that’s a man’s name. Hugo, you have christened babies?”

“Many times, Miss—uh, Miss—”

Joan cut in fast. “That’s right, you don’t know what to call me. Hugo, having named so many babies you must have opinions about names. Do you think ‘Joan’ pronounced as two syllables would be a good name for a girl who used to be a man named ‘Johann?’”

“Yes. I do.”

“Tom? What do you think?” (Tom would kiss you at the drop of a hint if you weren’t his employer. I don’t think he ever did give up hoping to catch me alone. . . so I was as careful not to let that chance come up as I was with Dabrowski. All it took with Tom was to say, ‘Tom, if you’re going to be stuffy about letting me pay for extra service’—it was an after-midnight run, Boss; a rare-blood call—’at least you can kiss me good-night.’ So he did, quite well. After which Hugo was too polite not to lean way down and give me a fatherly little peck. But what worked for Eunice can’t work for ‘Miss Smith.’) (So watch me switch decks on them, young ’un.)

“It sounds like a good name to me,” the driver-guard agreed.

“Fred? Do I look like ‘Joan’ to you?” She sat up straight and lifted her chest. (You look like you’re going to break that bandeau, if you aren’t careful.) (Pfui, little hussy; it can’t break. I want him to realize that I’m female.) (He realizes it. Winnie ought to be here to take his pulse.)

“I don’t see why anybody should get a vote but you. But, sure, I like it.”

“Good! I still have to sign papers with my former name—but I’m ‘Joan’ in my mind. But, friends, this country must have a thousand ‘Joan Smiths’ in it; I need a middle name. But I want one for a much better reason.” She looked with solemn seriousness at the giant black. “Hugo, you are a man of God. Would it be presumptuous of me to call myself . . . ‘Joan Eunice?’”

(Boss, if you make my friend Hugo cry, I’ll—I’ll—I won’t speak to you the rest of the day!) (Oh, quit nagging! Hugo won’t cry. He’s the only one of the three who believes you’re here. He has faith.)

“I think that would be beautiful,” the Reverend Hugo White answered solemnly and sniffed back tears.

“Hugo, Eunice would not want you to be sad about it.”

She looked away from him, her own eyes bright with unshed tears. “That settles it. My new name will be—is!—Joan Eunice. I don’t want anyone ever to forget Eunice. Most especially I want you, her friends, to know this. Now that I am a woman, Eunice is my model, the ideal I must live up to, every hour, every minute, of my new life. Will you help me? Will you treat me as Eunice?

Yes, yes, I’m your employer; somehow I must be both, and it’s not easy. But the most difficult part for me is to learn to behave and think and feel as Eunice…when I’ve had so many weary years as a cranky, self-centered old man. You are her friends.—will you help me?” (Boss, did you ever sell real estate in Florida?) (Damn it, if you can’t help, keep quiet!) (Sorry, Boss. That was applause. As Hugo would say, ‘You done perfect.’)

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