"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."

"Oh, dear!"

"Pardon me?"

"Dr. Olsen. this sex change I've undergone is not easy to handle. It is fortunate—for both of us—that you were able to spot Johann Smith behind the face I now wear. But—darn it, sir!—I've got to acquire manners to match what I am now. Will you call on me—oh, say three weeks from now when I hope to have cheerful news—and let me show you that I can simulate a lady when I try? Come for tea. We can discuss how the Foundation's work can be expanded under a doubled endowment."

"Miss Smith, I will be honored to call on you whenever you wish. For any reason. Or none." (Wups! Hey, Eunice, I thought you said he was bored with female tails?) (So I did. But we have an unusually pretty one, Joan, even from that angle. Gonna kiss him?) (Eunice, can't you treat just one man impersonally?) (I don't know; I've never tried. Aw, don't be chinchy; he's been a perfect lamb.) (Now you be a lamb, too—let's get out of here.)

Joan let the doctor lay her cloak around her shoulders; it brought his head close to hers. She turned her face toward; that side, wet her lips and smiled at him.

She could see him decide to risk it. She did not dodge as his lips met hers—but did not put her arms around him and; let herself be slightly clumsy, stiffened a little before giving in to it. (Twin! Don't' let him put us back on that table—make him use the couch in his office.) (Neither one, Eunice. Pipe down!)

Joan broke from it, trembling. "Thank you, Doctor. And you see I can be a girl if I try. How do I get back to the waiting room without passing your Miss Perkins?" She hooked her yashmak.

A few minutes later Shorty handed her into her car, locked her in, and mounted into the forward compartment.

"Gimbel's Compound, Miss Smith?"

"Please, Finchley."

Once inside the compound Joan had Fred escort her to Madame Pompadour's. The fact that she had a private bodyguard got her immediate attention from the manager, who was not Madame Pompadour even though he wore his hair in the style made famous by the notorious Marquise and had manners and gestures to match. (Eunice, are you sure we are in the right place?) (Certainly, Boss—wait till you see their prices.) "How may I serve Madame?"

"Do you have a private viewing room?"

"But of course, Madame. Uh, there is a waiting room where—"

"My guard stays with me."

The manager looked hurt. "As Madame wishes. If you will walk this way—" (Eunice, shall we walk that way?)

(Don't try, twin—just follow him. Or her, as the case may be.)

Shortly Joan was seated facing a low model's walk; Fred stood at parade rest behind her. The room was warm; she unfrogged her cloak and pushed back its hood but left the yashmak over her features. Then she dug into her purse, got out a memorandum. "Do you have a model who comes close to these measurements?"

The manager studied the list—height, weight, shoulders, bust, waist, leg. "This is Madame?"

"Yes. But here is another specs list even if you can't match me. A friend for whom I wish to buy something pretty and exotic. She's a redhead with pale skin to match and green eyes." Joan had copied Winifred's measurements from the exercise records the two had been keeping.

"I see no problems, Madame, but in your own case permit me to suggest that our great creative artist, Chariot, will be happy to check these measurements or even to design directly on—"

"Never mind. I am buying items already made up. If I buy."

"Madame's pleasure. May I ask one question? Will Madame be wearing her own hair?"

"If I wear a wig, it will be the same color as my hair, so assume that." (Eunice, should I buy a wig?) (Be patient and let it grow out, dear. Wigs are hard to keep clean. And they never smell clean.) (Then we'll never wear one.) (Smart Boss. Soap and water is the world's greatest aphrodisiac.) (I've always thought so. Though a girl should smell like a girl.) (You do, dearie, you do—you can't help it.)

"Madame's hair is a beautiful shade. And now, since Madame indicated that her time is short, perhaps it would suit her convenience to let our accounting department record her credit card while I alert the two models?"

(Watch it, Boss!) (I wasn't a-hint the door, dearie.) "I use credit cards with several names. Such as McKinley, Franklin, and Grant. Or Cleveland." Joan reached into her purse, fanned a sheaf of bills. "The poor man's credit card."

The manager repressed a shudder. "Oh, goodness, we don't expect our clients to pay cash."

"I'm old-fashioned."

The manager looked pained. "Oh, but it's unnecessary. If Madame prefers not to use her general credit account—her privilege!—she can Set up a private account with Pompadour in only moments. If she will permit me to have her I.D.—"

"Just a moment. Can you read fine print?" Joan pointed at a notice near a portrait of President McKinley. "‘This note is legal tender for all debts, public and private.' I shan't get tangled up in a computer. I pay cash."

"But, Madame—we aren't set up for cash! I'm not certain we could make change."

"Well, I don't want to put you to any inconvenience. Fred."

"Yes, Miss?"

"Take me to La Boutique."

The manager looked horrified. "Please, Madame! I'm sure something can be arranged. One moment while I speak to our accountant." He hurried away without waiting for an answer.

(Why the fuss, Boss honey? I've bought endless things for you, against your personal expenditures account. Jake said we could use it.) (Eunice, I've despised those moronic machines since the first time I was trapped by a book club. But I'm not just being balky. Today is not a day to admit who we are. Later—after we're out of court—we'll set up a "Susan Jones" account for shopping in person. If we ever do again. I can see it's a bloody nuisance.) (Oh, no, it's fun! You'll see, twin. But, remember—I hold a veto until you learn something about clothes) (Sho', sho', little nag.) (Who are you calling a nag, you knocked-up bag?) (Happy about it, beloved?) (Wonderfully happy, Boss. Are you?) (Wonderfully. Even if it wasn't romantic.) (Oh, but it was! We're going to have your baby!) (Quit sniffling.) (I'm not sniffling; you are.) (Maybe we both are. Now shut up, here he comes.)

The manager beamed. "Madame! Our accountant says that it is perfectly all right to accept cash!"

"The Supreme Court will be pleased to hear it."

"What? Oh! Madame is jesting. Of course there is a service surcharge of ten percent for—"