She giggled nervously. "My goodness!"

"Don't fret. It's one-way glass."

"That's a comfort. Just the same, that light is like a dash of cold water."

"Um, yes. Breaks the mood. Just when I was feeling young."

"But you are young—Mr. Salomon."

"Jake."

"'Jake.' Years don't count, Jake. Goodness me, I got skin paint all over your shirt ruffles."

"Fair enough, I mussed your hair."

"My hair I can comb. But what will your wife say when she sees that shirt?"

"She'll ask why I didn't take it off. Eunice dear, I have no wife. Years ago she turned me in on a newer model."

"A woman of poor taste. You're a classic, Jake—and classics improve with age. Does my hair look better now?"

"Lovely. Perfect."

"I'm almost tempted to ask to have us driven back into that bad zone so you can muss it again."

"I'm more than ‘almost tempted.' But I had better take you home—unless you want to go with me over into Canada? Back by midnight, probably."

"I want to and I can't, really I can't. So take me home.

But let me sit close, and put your arm around me but don't muss my hair this time."

"I shall be careful." He gave his driver the coordinates of Mrs. Branca's flat, then added, "And get there without going through any more Abandoned Areas, you trigger-happy bandits!"

"Very good, Mr. Salomon."

They rode in silence; then Mrs. Branca said, "Jake, you were feeling quite young, just before we were interrupted."

"I'm sure you know it."

"Yes. I was ready to let you, and you know that, too. Jake? Would you like a skin pic of me? A good one, not one taken by that snoopy character who charges so much."

"Will your husband take one? Can you sneak me a copy?"

"No huhu, lake dear, I have dozens of skin pix—I was once a beauty contestant, remember? You are welcome to one...if you'll keep your mouth shut about it."

"Privileged communication. Your secrets are always safe with your attorney."

"What do you like? Artistic? Or sexy?"

"Uh...what a choice to have to make!"

"Mmm, a pic can be both. I'm thinking of one of me in a shower, hair soaked, wet all over, not a speck of body paint, not even face makeup, not even—well, you'll see. Is that on your wave length?"

"I'll howl like a wolf!"

"You shall have it. Quick change of subject; we're almost there. Jake? Does Boss stand any chance with this brain transplant thing?"

"I'm not a medical man. In my lay opinion—none."

"So I thought. Then he doesn't have long to live whether he has the operation or not, lake, I'm going to make still greater effort to dress even naughtier for him, as long as he lasts."

"Eunice, you are a sweet girl. There is nothing nicer you could do for him. Much better than saying thanks for this trust fund."

"I wasn't thinking about that ridiculous million dollars, lake; I was thinking about Boss. Feeling sorry for him. I'll go shopping tonight for something really exotic—or if I can't find a novel exotic, then a simple skintight see-through... passé but always effective with the right paint job underneath—Joe is good at that. And—well, if I'm going to have guards now, some days I may wear nothing but paint—stilt heels to make my legs look even better—yes, I know they're pretty!—heels, a minimum-gee, and paint."

"And perfume."

"Boss can't smell, Jake. All gone."

"I still have my sense of smell."

"Oh. All right. I'll wear perfume for you. And paint for Boss. I've never tried anything that extreme at work...but now that we no longer work at his offices—no longer see many people—and I can keep a semi-see-through smock around, just in case—I might as well see if Boss likes it. Joe will enjoy thinking up provocative designs, likes to paint me, and is not jealous of Boss, feels sorry for the poor old man just as I do. And it is so hard to find novelty in exotic clothes. Even though I shop at least one night a week."

"Eunice."

"Yes, sir. Yes, Jake."

"Don't shop tonight. That's an order—from your boss by virtue of the power of attorney I hold."

"Yes, Jake. May one ask why?"

"You can wear a paint-only job tomorrow if you wish—this car and my guards will deliver you like crown jewels. But I need the car tonight. Starting tomorrow you'll have Johann's car and guards, and you will always use them for shopping. And everything."

"Yes, sir," she said meekly.

"But you are mistaken about Johann not having long to live. His problem is that he has too long to live."

"I don't understand."

"He's trapped, dear. He's fallen into the clutches of the medical profession and they won't let him die. Once he allowed them to harness him into that life-support gear he lost his last chance. Have you noticed that his meals are served without a knife? Nor even a fork? Just a plastic spoon.,'

"But his hands tremble so. I sometimes feed him as he hates to have nurses ‘messing around' as he calls it."

"Think about it, dear. They have made it impossible for him to do anything but stay alive. A machine. A weary machine that hurts all the time. Eunice, this brain transplant is just a way for Johann to outsmart his doctors. A fancy way to commit suicide."

"No!"

"Yes. They've taken the simple ways away from him, so he's had to think up a fancy one. You and I are going to help him do it, exactly the way he wants it done. We seem to have arrived. Don't cry, damn it; your husband will want to know why and you must not tell him. Do you feel like kissing me good-bye?"

"Oh, please do!"

"Stop the tears and turn up your pretty face, they'll be unlocking us in a moment or two."

Presently she whispered, "That was as good a kiss as the very first one, Jake...and I no longer feel like crying.

But I heard them unlock us."

"They'll wait until I unlock from inside. May I go up the lift with you and see you to your door?"

"No... I can explain your guards but would have trouble explaining why the firm's chief counsel bothers to do so. Joe isn't jealous of Boss—but might be of you. I don't want him to be...especially when I came so close to giving him reason to be."

"We could correct that near miss."

"Could be, dear Jake. My Iowa-farm-girl morals don't seem very strong today—I think I've been corrupted by a million dollars and a Rolls-Royce... and a city slicker. Let me go, dear."

The guards escorted her up and to her door in respectful silence. Mrs. Branca looked with new interest at "Charlie," the Shotgun—wondered how a mousy, fatherly little man could be as vicious as Jake seemed to know that he was.

They "stood sideboy" as she spoke to her door's lock, then waited until her husband unbolted it. As the door opened Rockford saluted and said, "Oh-nine-forty, Miss—we'll be waiting right here."

"Thank you, Rockford. Good night. Good night, Charlie."

Joe Branca waited until he had thrown the bolts and reset the alarm before he spoke. "What t'hell happen? An' where you trap uniform apes?"

"Don't I get a kiss first? Surely I'm not all that late? It's not yet eighteen."

"Talk, woman. Other ape shows back two hours with your jitterbuggy—tha's okay; your boss's butler phoned." He took off her cloak and kissed her. "So where you been, dizzy baggage? Missed you."

"That's the nicest thing I've heard all day. That you've missed me."

"Walking the ceiling! What happen?"

"Were you worried? Oh, dear!"

"Not worried, Smith's door flunky said you been sent on errand an ‘ud come home in a Brink's. So knew you safe. Just torched it took so long when call made spec you'd short it. Rozzer?"