(Eunice, don't be silly. I wonder what's keeping Jake?)
(Probably cutting his toenails. Lesson number two in. how to be a woman: Men are almost always late but you never, never, never notice it—because they pride: themselves on promptness. Boss, you didn't quite promise Winnie to stay in this chair—when she gave you strict orders.) (Of course not. Because it might not suit me. And it doesn't; I want to try the eighty-eight. Eunice, two gets you seven it hasn't been kept in tune—and I gave Cunningham orders about both pianos, this baby and the concert grand downstairs, not five years ago. So let's see.)
She stood up, did not notice that high heels gave her no trouble, and glided gracefully over to the little piano, sat down and opened it—let the first bars of Dvorak's Slavonic Dance # 10 run through her mind, then started to play—
—and achieved a clash of noise.
"What the hell!" She looked at the keyboard, then hit middle C with her right forefinger. It sounded okay-and so did the C an octave below it. Several one- and two-finger experiments convinced her that the piano was not at fault. Yet to strike a single chord required studying the keyboard, then carefully positioning each finger by sight.
Presently she managed a slow, uneven, faulty version of "Chopsticks" by watching the keyboard and controlling her hands so hard they trembled. She quit before reaching its undistinguished coda and crashed the keys with both hands. (There go ten years of piano lessons!) (What did you expect, Boss? I was never much good even with a guitar.) (Well, I'm glad Mama didn't hear that—she always wanted me to be a concert pianist. Eunice, why the devil didn't you study piano as a kid?) (Because I was too busy studying boys! A much more rewarding subject. Joan, if you want to play the piano again, we can learn. But we'll have to start almost from scratch. It's in your head, I know; I could hear it. But to get from there down into our bands—my hands, dear—will probably take more patient work than slimming our hips.)
(Doesn't matter, not really.) She got up from the piano bench. (Boss. Just a sec. While we're here, let's warm up Betsy and give her a check run.) (Huh? I know nothing about a stenodesk. It'll be worse than the piano.) (We'll see.)
She moved over and sat down at the stenodesk. (Well, Eunice? Which way to the Egress?) (Relax, Boss. The body remembers. Just say ‘Dictation, Eunice,' then recite something you know. Think about what you're dictating.)
(Okay.) "Dictation, Eunice. ‘Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition...
Deftly her hands touched the switches, swiveled the microphone in time to catch the first word, required the machine to listen & hold while she inserted punctuation, used erase & correct when the machine spelled "fourth" rather than "forth"—all without hurrying. —She stopped and looked at the result. (Be durned! How,
Eunice?) (Don't ask, dear—or we might get fouled up in the dilemma of the centipede. But Betsy is purring like a kitten; she's glad I'm back.) (Well, so am I. Uh, Eunice, this machine—Betsy, I mean—has access to the Congressional Library St. Louis Annex, does it not? —she not?) (Certainly. Hooked into the Interlibrary Net, rather, though you can restrict a query to one library.)
(Better query just one. I want to find out what is known about memory and how it works.) (All right. I'm interested, too; I think my memory is spotty. Can't be sure. But on a search-of-literature it's best to let Betsy handle it through preprograms—ask for references, followed by abstracts, followed by items selected from abstracts...else, on a generalized question like that, thousands of books would be transmitted and poor Betsy would gulp them down until she was constipated, and stop and not do anything until her temporary memory was erased.)
(You know how, I don't. Uh, stick in a restriction not to bother with behaviorist theories. I know all about Pavlov and his robots I care to know, namely, that every time a dog salivates a behaviorist psychologist has to ring a bell.)
(All Eight. Boss? Can we spend a little more money?) (Go ahead, buy the Pyramids. What do you want, dearest?) (Let's have a Triple-A-One snoop search run on me. Eunice Branca, I mean—the ‘me' that used to be.) (Why, beloved? If you've been selling government secrets, they can't touch you now.) (Because. It might fill some of those holes I think I have in my memory... and it might turn up something you've heard from me since I came back but which was not in the security report you got on me originally. Then you would know, dear... and could stop worrying that I may be only a figment of your imagination.)
(Eunice, if I'm crazy, the only thing that worries me is that some damned shrink might cure me. Then you would go away.)
(That's sweet of you, Boss. But I won't go away; I promised.)
(And even if I am crazy, it just makes me fit that much better into the present world. Eunice, don't you remember anything between being killed and waking up here?)
The inner voice was silent a moment. (Not really. There were dreams and I think you were in them. But there was one that does not seem like a dream; it seems as real as this room. But if I tell you, you'll think 1 am crazy.) (If so, it doesn't detract from your charm, dear.) (AU right but don't laugh. Joan, while I was away, I was in this—place. There was an old, old Man with a long white beard. He had a great big book. He looked at it, then He looked at me and said, ‘Daughter, you've been a naughty girl. But not too naughty, so I'm going to give you a second chance.')
(A dream, Eunice. Anthropomorphism, straight out of your childhood Sunday School.) (Maybe, Boss. But here I am and I do have a second chance.)
(Yes, but God didn't give it to you. Eunice my own, I don't believe in God nor Devil.)
(Well... you haven't been dead—and 1 have. Truly I don't know what I believe; I guess I wasn't dead long enough to find out. But do you mind if we pray occasionally?")
(Jesus H. Christ!)
(Stop that, Joan! Or I'll use every one of those words you consider ‘unladylike.' It's not much to ask.)
(I'm henpecked. Okay. If it's a beautiful church, with good music, and the sermon isn't over ten minutes.) (Oh, I didn't mean in a church. Can't stand ‘em. Filled with bad vibrations. I mean pray by ourselves, Joan. I'll teach you.) (Oh. All right. Now?)
(No, I want to get these search orders in. You think about something else; I don't want centipede trouble—think about Winnie all slickery with soapsuds.) (A pious thought. Much better than prayer.) (Dirty old man. How do you know—I'll bet you've never prayed in your life.) (Oh, yes, I have, dearest—but God had gone fishing.) (So think about Winnie.)
She was busy for several minutes. Then she patted the machine affectionately and switched it off. (Well, did you?) (Did I what?) (Did you think about Winnie? Lecher.) (I took advantage of the unusual peace and quiet to contemplate the wonders of the universe.) (So?) (I thought about Winnie.) (I know you did; I was right with you. Joan, for a girl who is, in one sense at least, a virgin, you have an unusually low and vivid imagination.) (Aw, shucks, I'll bet you say that to all the girls.) (The stark truth, Joan sweet—with your imagination I can hardly wait for you you start us on that ‘actively female' career. In all the wrestling I've done I've never had a man—or a girl—grab me the way you were thinking about.) (Oh. Learned that one from a respectable housewife, clear back in my teens. A most charming lady.) (Hmm! Perhaps, I was born too late for the real action.) (So I've been trying to tell you. Did you get those orders in?) (Certainly, Boss, when did I ever miss? Let's get back to our chair; our back is tired.)