"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....nd 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."
"You're threatening me!"
"No. Prophesying. Old Johann Sebastian Bach Smith was a seventh son of a seventh son, born under a caul; he had the gift of prophecy. No matter which way you bet, the endowment will be doubled. But only you and I will ever know what is done today."
"Mmnm... there are procedures to satisfy. I do have authority to permit any adult female to receive a sperm donation if I am satisfied that she qualifies—and let's say that I am. Nevertheless there are routines to go through, records that must be kept."
(He's ready to geek, Boss. So sing him a Money Hum, with a different tune.) (Eunice, a cash bribe is to push him over if he won't fall. Let's see if he'll sell it to himself.)
Joan shook her head. "No records. Just do it to me and I'll hook my veil over my face and leave."
"But, Miss—I don't do these things myself. A staff doctor carries out the donation procedure, assisted by a nurse. They would think it strange if no records were kept. Very."
"No nurses. No assistants. You alone, Doctor. You are an M.D. and a specialist in genetics and eugenics. Either you can do this...or you don't know enough to head this institution—which the trustees would regretfully notice. Besides that, I go with you and check the number on that donation... and stick at your elbow until you place it inside me. Do we understand each other?"
The Doctor sighed. "I once thought a general practice was hard work! We can't be sure that a placed donation will result in impregnation."
"If not, I'll be back in twenty-eight and a half days. Doctor, quit stalling. Or bet on the other horse and I'll leave. No harsh words, now or later. Just that prophecy." She stood up. (Well, Eunice? Will the frog hop?) (Can't guess, dear. He's seen so many female tails he's bored with them. I can't figure him.)
Olsen suddenly stood up. "You'll need a cold suit."
"All right."
"Plus the advantage that a cold suit covers so thoroughly that a man would not recognize his own wife in one. I have a spare here, for V.I.P.s"
"I think you could class me as a V.I.P." Joan said dryly. Forty minutes later Dr. Olsen said, "Hold still a moment longer. I am placing a Dutch cap, a latex occlusive cervical pessary, over the donation."
"Why, Doctor? I thought those things were for contraception."
"Usually. And it will serve that purpose, too—mean to say, some of our clients wish to be protected at once from any possibility of impregnation from any other source. But in your case my purpose in installing this temporary barrier is to make certain that the donation does impregnate you. To give those wigglers a chance to reach target and to keep them from swimming downstream instead—follow me? Leave it in place until sometime tomorrow—or later, it doesn't matter. Do you know how to remove it?"
"If I can't get it out, I'll call you."
"If you wish. If you fail to skip your next menses, we can try again in four weeks." Dr. Olsen lowered the knee supports, offered his hand. She stepped down and her skirt fell into place. She felt flushed and happy. (Eunice, it's done!) (Yes, Boss! Beloved Boss.)
Dr. Olsen picked up her cloak, held it ready to lay around her shoulders. She said, "Doctor—don't worry about the horse race."
He barely smiled. "I have not been worrying about it. May I say why?"
"Please."
"Urn. If you recall, I have met Johann Smith—Mister Johann Smith—on other occasions."
"Eleven occasions, I believe, sir, including a private interview when Dr. Andrews nominated you to succeed him."
"Yes, Miss Smith. I'll never forget that interview. Miss, there may be some legal point to clear up concerning your identity. But not in my mind! I do not think that any young woman of your present physiological age could simulate Mr. Johann Smith's top-sergeant manner—and make it stick."