“Johann, before you talk secrets, let me ask one question. Does that bed have a mike on it? Your chair may be bugged, too.”
“Eh?” the old man looked thoughtful. “I used a call button. . . until they started standing a heel-and-toe watch on me.”
“Seven to two you’re bugged. Eunice my dear, can you trace the circuits and make sure?”
“Uh . . . I doubt it. The circuitry isn’t much like my stenodesk. But I’ll look.” Eunice left her desk, studied the console on the back of the wheelchair. “These two dials almost certainly have mikes hooked to them; they’re respiration and heart beat. But they don’t show voices as my voice does not make the needles jiggle. Filtered out, I suppose. “But”—she looked thoughtful—”voice could be pulled off either circuit ahead of a filter. I do something like that, in reverse, whenever I record with a high background db. I don’t know what these dials do. Darn it, I, might spot a voice circuit…but I could never be sure that there was not one. Or two. Or three. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, dear,” the lawyer said soothingly. “There hasn’t been real privacy in this country since the middle of the twentieth century—why, I could phone a man I know of and have you photographed in your bath I and you would never know it.”
“Really? What a dreadful idea. How much does this person charge for such a job?”
“Plenty. Depends on difficulty and how much chance he runs of being prosecuted. Never less than a couple of thousand and then up like a kite. But he can do it.”
“Well!” Eunice looked thoughtful, then smiled. “Mr. Salomon, if you ever decide that you must have such a picture of me, phone me for a competitive bid. My husband has an excellent Chinese camera and I would rather have him photograph me in my bath than some stranger.”
“Order, please,” Smith said mildly. “Eunice, if you want to sell skin pictures to that old lecher, do it on your own time. I don’t know anything about these gadgets but I know how to solve this. Eunice, go out to where they telemeter me—I think it’s next door in what used to be my upstairs lounge. You’ll find Miss MacIntosh there. Hang around three minutes. I’ll wait two minutes; then I’ll call out: Miss Macintosh! Is Mrs. Branca there?’ If you hear me, we’ll know she’s snooping. If you don’t, come back at the end of three minutes.”
“Yes, sir. Do I give Miss MacIntosh any reason for this?”
“Give the old battle-ax any stall you like. I simply want to know if she is eavesdropping.”
“Yes, sir.” Eunice started to leave the room. She pressed the door switch just as its buzzer sounded. The door snapped aside, revealing Miss MacIntosh, who jumped in surprise.
The nurse recovered and said bleakly, to Mr. Smith, “May 1 come in for a moment?”
“Certainly.”
“Thank you, sir.” The nurse went to the bed, pulled its screen aside, touched four switches on its console, replaced the screen. Then she planted herself in front of her patient and said, “Now you have complete privacy, so far as my equipment is concerned. Sir.”
“Thank you.”
“I am not supposed to cut the voice monitors except on Doctor’s orders. But you had privacy anyhow. I am as bound to respect a patient’s privacy as .a doctor is, I never listen to sickroom conversation. I don’t even hear it! Sir.”
“Get your feathers down. If you weren’t listening, how did you know we were discussing the matter?”
“Oh! Because my name was mentioned. Hearing my name triggers me to listen. It’s a conditioned reflex. Though I don’t suppose you believe me?”
“On the contrary, I do. Nurse—please switch on whatever you switched off. Then bear in mind that I must talk privately…and I’ll remember not to mention your name. But I’m glad to know that I can reach you so promptly. To a man in my condition that is a comfort.”
“Uh—very well, sir.”
“And I want to thank you for putting up with my quirks. And bad temper.”
She almost smiled. “Oh, you’re not so difficult, sir. I once put in two years in an N.P. hospital.”