"Yes, Miss."

He conducted her to her car; both teams were lined up by it, they saluted in unison. She smiled at them. "Good morning, friends. I'm glad to see you all looking so well. It's been a long time."

Dabrowski answered for them, "It has indeed, Miss Smith—and we are glad to see you looking so well."

"Thank you." Her eyes traveled across them. "There is one thing no one has told me... about the tragedy that started this strange sequence of events. Which team was driving the night Mrs. Branca was killed?"

For a long moment no one spoke. Then O'Neil answered, "Finchley and Shorty had the duty that night, Miss Smith."

"Then I must thank them—for Mrs. Branca and for myself. Although I know that Dabrowski and Fred would have acted as bravely, as promptly." She looked at Finchley, then at Shorty, her face unsmiling but serene.

"Which one of you avenged Eunice? Or was it both of you?"

Finchley answered. "Shorty got him, Mrs.—Miss Smith. Bare hands, one chop. Broke his neck."

She turned to Shorty—six feet six of smooth-black soul, two hundred ninety pounds of sudden death—and a preacher in his time off. She looked up at him and said gently, "Shorty, from the bottom of my heart—for Eunice Branca—I thank you." (I do thank him, Boss! This is news to me. I was dead before that lift opened.) "If she were here, she would thank you—not just for herself but for other girls that killer will never kill. I'm glad you killed him in the act. If he had gone to trial, he might be out by now. Doing it again."

Shorty had said nothing up to then. "Miss—Finch got ‘im, too. Zapped him. Couldn't rightly say which one got him first."

"Nor does it matter. Any of you four would have protected Mrs. Branca with your life. She knew it—and knows it, wherever she is. I know it, and Chief O'Neil knows it." Joan felt tears start, let them flow. "I—all of us!—just wish to Heaven she had waited indoors until you two arrived. I know that each of you would rather see me dead than her. I ask you to do me the honor of believing that I feel the same way. Shorty, will you say a prayer for her tonight? For me? I don't know much about praying.". (Damn it, Boss, you've got me crying.) (Then say a Money Hum. For Shorty. He's still blaming himself for the unavoidable.)

"I will, Miss. I have every night. Although—Mrs. Branca—doesn't need it. She went straight to Heaven." (So I did, Boss. Though not the way Shorty thinks.) (And we shan't tell him. Have I said enough?) (I think so.)

Joan said, "Thank you, Shorty. For me, not for Eunice. As you say, Eunice doesn't really need prayers." She turned to O'Neil. "Chief, I want to go to Gimbel's Compound."

"Certainly, Miss. Uh, Finchley, man the car. Both Shotguns." O'Neil helped her in, locked her in; she locked herself in. The armor door lifted and the big car rolled out into the street. (Joan, what in the world are you going to buy at Gimbel's?) (A gag. For you. I'll change that order in a moment. Eunice, where did you buy clothes? You were the most smartly dressed gal in town—even when you were the nakedest.)

(Pooh, I was never naked; Joe's designs made all the difference. Joan, where I shopped you should never shop.)

(Can't see why not.) (Johann might but you can't; it wouldn't do. Mmm... while I could not afford the stylish places, I know of them. Come to think of it, two of them lease space inside Gimbel's Compound.) (So that's where we'll go—second. I'll tell Finchley the change... and tell him to have Fred escort me; I think Fred feels left out.)

(Wups! Fred can read.) (So? Oh! Well, Fred can guard me later.) She thumbed the order switch.

"Finchley."

"Yes, Miss?"

"I got so preoccupied that I forgot one other stop. Please drop Shorty and me at the unloading zone where State passes over Main."

"State and Main, Miss."

"Please have Shorty hang the radio link on his belt; there's no parking around there. Or was not the last time I was downtown. How long has that been? Over two years."

"Two years and seven months, Miss. Sure you don't want both Shotguns with you?"

"No, they can take turns staying with the car. If you have to get out, I want you covered."

"Oh, I'll be all right, Miss."

"Don't argue with me. You wouldn't have argued when I was old Johann Smith; I assure you that Miss Johann Smith still has his poison fangs. Pass the word along." She heard him chuckle. "I'll do that, Miss Smith." When the car stopped, Joan hooked up her yashmak, concealing her identity—either or both of them—from the curious, Shorty unlocked her and handed her out. On the crowded pedestrian walk of Main Street Joan felt suddenly vulnerable... except for the tower of strength beside her. "Shorty, the building I'm looking for is in the thirteen hundred block—thirteen-oh-seven. Can you find it?" The question was to make him feel useful; she knew where the Roberts Building was, she owned it.

"Oh, sure, Miss—I read numbers real good. Letters, too—just words bother me."

"Let's go then. Shorty, how do you manage in your real profession? Not being able to read the Bible, I mean."

"No trouble, I use talking books and as for the Book, I got every precious word memorized."

"A remarkable memory. I wish I could say the same."

"Just takes patience. I had the Book down pat while I was still in prison." He added thoughtfully, "Sometimes I think I ought to learn to read...but I can't seem to find time." (The poor dear probably never had a teacher who could teach, Boss.) (Never tamper with a successful organization, Eunice; he's found his niche.)

"This must be it, Miss. ‘One, three, oh, seven.'"

"Thank you, Shorty." She was not asked for her I.D. at the building entrance, nor did she offer it, for she had none, either as Johann Smith or Eunice Branca. The guard noted the "Licensed & Deputized" shield (which matched his own) on Shorty's uniform, released the cage turnstile, and waved them on through. Joan Eunice smiled at him with her eyes—and made note that security at the Roberts Building should be tightened; the guard should have photographed Shorty's I.D. and logged his shield number.

(Boss, he can't handle so many people that way; he has to use his judgment.) (Look who's talking! If that apartment house you used to live in had had fight security, you would never have been mugged. If we can't stop violence outdoors, we must try to keep it from coming indoors.) (I won't argue, Boss darling—I'm excited!) (Me too; this veil is a help.)

On the twelfth floor they went to the suite occupied by the Johanna Mueller Schmidt Memorial Eugenics Foundation, H. S. Olsen, M.D., Sc. D., Director, Please Ring and Wait. The guard let them in, went back to his picture magazine. Joan noted with approval that there was a goodly number of women and couples in the waiting room. She (Johann) had jacked up Olsen about the (public) purpose of the Foundation—to offer superior anonymous donors to licensed and qualified females—in her last letter accompanying a quarterly check; apparently it had had good effect.

"Wait here, Shorty; there's video over there."

She went to the barrier desk separating the waiting room from the outer clerical office, avoided the sign "Applications" and got the reluctant attention of the only male back of the barrier, motioned him to her. "What is it, Ma'am? If it's an application, go to the far end, present your I.D. and fill out the questionnaire, then wait. You'll be called."

"I want to see the Director. Dr. Olsen."

"Dr. Olsen never sees anyone without an appointment. Give me your name and state your business and possibly his secretary will see you."

She leaned closer, spoke softly. "I must see him. Tell him that my husband has found out."

The office manager looked startled. "Your name?"