(But it. took a triple dose of Narcotol to stop your shakes, didn't it, dearie—oh, shut up, that's not the pomt.)
"So you're a brave girl and can shoot if you have to. But you are a silly girl, too, and very lucky. Hmm. Johann has an armored car much like this and two shifts of guards to go with it."
"Of course he has guards, sir, but I know nothing about his cars."
"He has a Rolls-Skoda. Eunice, we are no longer going to depend on how fast you are with weapons. You can sell your Gadabout or plant flowers in it; from here on you'll have mobile guards and an armored car. Always."
Mrs. Branca looked startled. "But, Mr. Salomon! Even with my new salary I couldn't begin to—"
"Switch off, dear. You know that Johann will never again ride in a car. Chances are he will never leave that room. But he still owns his personal defense car; he still keeps a double crew, two drivers, two Shotguns—and maybe they run an errand once a week. Eating their heads off and playing pinochle the rest of the time. Tomorrow morning my car will pick you up; tomorrow afternoon your own car—Johann's—will take you home. And will be on call for you at all other times, too."
"I'm not sure Boss is going to like this."
"Forget it. I'm going to chew him out for letting you take I risks. If he gives me any back talk, he'll find I have enough chips to hire you away from him. Be sensible, Eunice; this doesn't cost him a dollar; it's a business expense that he is already incurring. Change of subject. What do you think of his plans for this soi-disant ‘warm body'?"
"Is a brain transplant possible? Or is he grabbing at a straw? I know he's not happy tied down to all that horrid machinery—goodness. I've been combing the shops for the naughtiest styles I can find but it gets harder and harder to get a smile out of him, is it practical, this scheme?"
"That's beside the point, dear; he's ordered it and we are going to deliver. This Rare Blood Club—does it have all the AB-Negatives?"
"Heavens, no. The last club report showed less than four thousand AB-Negs enrolled out of a nationwide probability of about million."
"Too bad. What do you think of his notion of page ads and prime time on video?"
"It would cost a dreadful lot of money. But l suppose he can afford it."
"Certainly. But it stinks."
"Sir?"
"Eunice, if this transplant is to take place, there must be no publicity. Do you remember the fuss when they started freezing people? No, you're too young. It touched a bare nerve which set off loud howls, and the practice was very nearly prohibited—on the theory that, since most people can't afford it, no one should be allowed to have it. The Peepul, bless ‘em—our country has at times been a democracy, an oligarchy, a dictatorship, a republic, a socialism, and mixtures of all of those, without changing its basic constitution, and now we are a dc-facto anarchy under an elected dictator even though we still have laws and legislatures and Congress. But through all of this that bare nerve has always been exposed: the idea that if everyone can't have something, then no one should have it.
So what will happen when one of the richest men in the country advertises that he wants to buy another man's living body—just to save his own stinking, selfish life?"
"I don't think Boss is all that bad. If you make allowances for his illness, he's rather sweet."
"Beside the point. That bare nerve will jump like an ulcerated tooth. Preachers will denounce him and bills will be submitte4 in legislatures and the A.M.A. will order its members to have nothing to with it and Congress might even pass a law against it. Oh, the Supreme Court would find such a law unconstitutional I think—but by then Johann would be long dead. So no publicity. Does the Rare Blood Club know who these other AB-Negatives are who are not members?"
"I don't know. I don't think so."
"We'll check. I would hazard that at least eighty percent of the people in this country have had their blood typed at some time. Does blood type ever change?"
"Oh, no, never. That's why we rares—that's what we call ourselves—are so in demand."
"Good. Almost all of the population who have been typed have the fact listed in computers somewhere, and with computers so interlinked today it is a matter of what questions to ask and how and where—and I don't know how, but I know the firm to hire for it. We progress, my dear. I'll get that started and off-load the details onto you, and then get other phases started and leave you to check on them while I go to South America and see this butcher Boyle. And—"
"Mr. Salomon! Bad turf coming up."
Salomon thumbed his intercom. "Roger." He added, "Damn them, those two beauties like to go through Abandoned Areas. They hope somebody will shoot so that they will have legal excuse to shoot back. I'm sorry, my dear. With you aboard I should have given orders to stay out of A.A.s no matter what."
"It's my fault," Mrs. Branca said meekly. "I should have told you that it is almost impossible to circle near Nineteen-B without crossing a bad zone. I have to detour way around to reach Boss's house. But we're safe inside, are we not?"
"Oh, yes. If we're hit, this old tank has to be prettied up, that's all. But I should not have to tell them. Rockford isn't so bad; he's just a Syndicate punk, an enforcer who took a fall. But Charlie—the one riding Shotgun—is mean. An XYZ. Committed his first murder at eleven. He—" Steel shutters slid up around them and covered the bulletproof glass. "We must be entering the A.A."
Inside lights came on as shutters darkened windows.
Mrs. Branca said, "You make it sound as if we were in more danger from your mobiles than we are from the bad zone."
He shook his head. "Not at all, my dear. Oh, I concede that any rational society would have liquidated them—but since we don't have capital punishment I make use of their flaws. Both are on probation paroled to me, and they like their jobs. Plus some other safe-" The rap-rap-rap! of an automatic weapon stitched the length of the car.
In that closed space the din was ear-splitting. Mrs. Branca gasped and clutched at her host. A single explosion, still louder, went POUNGK! She buried her face in his shoulder, clung harder. "Got ‘im!" a voice yelped. The lights went out.
"They got us?" she asked, her voice muffled by the ruffles of his shirt.
"No, no." He patted her and put his right arm firmly around her. "Charlie got them. Or thinks he did. That last was our turret gun. You're safe, dear."
"But the lights went out."
"Sometimes happens. The concussion. I'll find the switch for the emergency lights." He started to take his arms from around her.
"Oh, no! Just hold me, please—I don't mind the dark. Feel safer in it—if you hold me."
"As you wish, my dear." He settled himself more comfortably, and closer.
Presently he said softly, "My goodness, what a snuggly baby you are."
"You're pretty snuggly yourself... Mr. Salomon."
"Can't you say ‘Jake'? Try it."
"‘Jake.' Yes, Jake. Your arms are so strong. How old are you, Jake?"
"Seventy-one."
"I can't believe it. You seem ever so much younger."
"Old enough to be your grandfather, little snuggle puppy.
I simply look younger... in the dark. But one year into borrowed time according to the Bible."
"I won't let you talk that way; you're young! Let's not talk at all, Jake. Dear Jake."
"Sweet Eunice."
Some minutes later the driver's voice announced, "All clear, sir," as the shutters started sliding down—and Mrs. Branca hastily disentangled herself from her host.
She giggled nervously. "My goodness!"
"Don't fret. It's one-way glass."