"If not, Rocky and his partner will escort you up the passenger lift and to your door."

"That's nice. Joe doesn't want me to ride passenger lifts by myself."

"Joe is right. So we'll deliver you like a courier letter.

Eunice, are you in a hurry?"

"Me? Joe expects me when I get there, Mr. Smith's working hours being so irregular now. Today I'm quite early."

"Good." Mr. Salomon again touched the intercom switch. "Rockford, we're gong to kill some time. Uh, Mrs. Branca, what zone for those coordinates? Eighteen something?"

"Nineteen-B, sir."

"Find a cruising circle near nineteen-B; I'll give you coordinates later."

"Very good, sir."

Salomon went on to Eunice. "This compartment is soundproof unless I thumb this switch; they can talk to me but can't hear us. Which is good as I want to discuss things with you and make phone calls about that insurance policy."

"Oh! Surely that was a joke?"

"Joke, eh? Mrs. Branca, I have been working for Johann Smith for twenty-six years, the last fifteen with his affairs as my sole practice. Today he made me dc-facto chairman of his industrial empire. Yet if I failed to carry out his orders about that insurance policy—tomorrow I would be out of a job."

"Oh, surely not! He depends on you."

"He depends on me as long as he can depend on me and not one minute longer. That policy must be written tonight.

I thought you had quit fretting when you learned that you could step aside for the Rare Blood Club?"

"Well, yes. Except that I'm afraid I might get greedy and take it. When the time comes."

"And why not? The Rare Blood Club has done nothing for him; you have done much."

"I'm well paid."

"Listen, you silly child, don't be a silly child. He wanted you to have a million dollars in his will. And he wanted you to know it so that he could enjoy seeing your face. I pointed out that it is too late to change his will. Even this insurance gimmick is chancy if his natural heirs get a look at the books and discover it—which I shall try to prevent—as a judge might decide it was just a dodge—as it is—and require the insurance company to pay it to his estate. Which is where the Rare Blood Club comes in handy; they would probably fight it and win, if you cut them in for half.

"But there are other ways. Suppose you knew nothing about this and were invited to the reading of his will and discovered that your deceased employer had bequeathed you a lifetime income ‘in grateful appreciation of long and faithful service.' Would you turn it down?"

"Uh—" she said, and stopped.

"‘Uh,'" he repeated. "Exactly ‘uh.' Of course you wouldn't turn it down. He'd be gone and you'd be out of a job and there would be no reason to refuse it. So, instead of a lump sum so big it embarrasses you, I'm going to write a policy that sets up a trust to pay you an annuity." He paused to think. "A safe return, after taxes, on, a trust is about four percent. What would you say to around seven hundred and fifty a week? Would that upset you?"

"Well... no. I understand seven hundred and fifty dollars much better than I understand a million."

"The beauty of it is that we can use the principal to insure against inflation—and you can still leave that million, or more, to the Rare Blood Club when your own Black Camel kneels."

"Really? How wonderful! I never will understand high finance."

"That's because most people think of money as something to pay the rent. But a money man thinks of money in terms of what he can do with it. Never mind, I'll fix it so that all you need to do is spend it. I'll use a Canadian insurance company and a Canadian bank, as each will be stuffy about letting a U.S. court look at its records. In case his granddaughters find out what I've done, I mean."

"Oh. Mr. Salmon, shouldn't this money go to them?"

"Again, don't be silly. They are harpies. Snapping turtles. And had nothing to do with making this money. Do you know anything about Johann's family? Outlived three wives—and his fourth married him for his money and it cost him millions to get shut of her. His first wife gave him a son and died in doing so—then Johann's son was killed trying to capture a worthless hill. Two more wives, two divorces, a daughter by each of those two wives resulting in a total of four granddaughters—and those ex-wives and their daughters are au dead, and their four carnivorous descendants have been waiting for Johann to die and sore at him because he hasn't."

Salomon grinned. "They're in for a shock. I wrote his will so as to give them small lifetime incomes—and chop them off-with a minimal dollar if they contest. Now excuse rue; I must make phone calls, then take you home and run over to Canada and nail this down."

"Yes, sir. Do you mind if I take off my cloak? It's rather warm."

"Want the cooling turned up?"

"Only if you are too warm. But this cloak is heavier than it looks."

"I noticed it was heavy. Body armor?"

"Yes, sir. I'm out by myself quite a lot."

"No wonder you're too warm. Take it off. Take off anything you wish to."

She grinned at him. "I wonder if you are a dirty old man, too. For another million?"

"Not a durned dime! Shut up, child, and let me phone."

"Yes, sir." Mrs. Branca wiggled out of her cloak, then raised the leg rest on her side, stretched out, and relaxed.

Such a strange day! ...am I really going to be rich?...doesn't seem real...well, I'm not going to spend a dime

—or let Joe spend it—unless it's safe in the bank…learned that the hard way first year we were married...some men understand money—such as Mr. Salomon, or Boss—and some don't, such as Joe... but as sweet a husband as a girl could wish... as long as I never again let him share a joint account.

Dear Joe!... those are pretty ‘gams' if you do say so as shouldn't, you bitch....#8216;Bitch—'... how quaint Boss is with his old-fashioned taboos... always necessary not to shock him—not too much, that is; Boss enjoys a slight flavor of shock, like a whiff of garlic.... especially necessary not to annoy him with language everybody uses nowadays... Joe is good for a girl, never have to be careful around him... except about money— Wonder what Joe would think if he could see me locked in this luxurious vault with this old goat?... probably be amused but best not to tell him, dearie; men's minds don't work the way ours do, men are not logical...wrong to think of Mr. Salomon as an ‘old goat' though; he certainly has not acted like one... you had to reach for that provocative remark, didn't you, dear?... just to see what he would say...and found out! ...got squelched— Is he too old? ...hell, no, dear, the way they hike ‘em up with hormones a man is never ‘too old' until he's too feeble to move... the way Boss is...not that Boss ever made the faintest pass even years back when he was still in fair shape...

Did Boss really expect to regain his youth by transplanting his brain?... arms and legs and kidneys and even hearts, sure, sure—but a brain?...

Salomon switched off the telephone. "Done," he announced. "All but signing papers, which I'll do in Toronto this evening."

"I'm sorry to be so much trouble, sir."

"My pleasure."

"I do appreciate it. And I must think about how to thank Boss—didn't thank him today but didn't think he meant it."

"Don't thank him."

"Oh, but I must. But I don't know how. How does one thank a man for a million dollars? And not seem insincere?"

"Hmm! There are ways. But, in this case, don't. My dear, you delighted Johann when you showed no trace of gratitude; I know him. Too many people have thanked him in the past... then figured him as an easy mark and tried to bleed him again. Then tried to knife him when he turned out not to be. So don't thank him. Sweet talk he does not believe; he figures it's always aimed at his money. I notice you're spunky with him."