"Well, no. But he did ask me. He did." (Don't you see, Boss? This is that clincher. A fact you first learned from me and nowhere else... and then had confirmed to the hilt. Now you know I'm me.) (Oh, piffle, darling.) (But Boss—) (I've known you were you all along, beloved. But this isn't proof. Once I knew that Joe and Shorty had met, it was a logical necessity that Joe would want him to model—any artist would want to paint him.)

(Boss, you make sick! It's proof. I'm me.) (Beloved darling without whom life would not be worth living even in this beautiful body, I know you are you. But flatworms don't matter, coincidences don't matter, no mundane proof matters: There is no proof that some cocksure psychiatrist could not explain away as coincidence, or déjà vu, or self-­delusion. If we let them set the rules, we're lost. But we shan't. What does matter is that you have me, and I have you. Now shut up; I want to get them all so easy with me that they'll call me Eunice. You say they used to kiss you?)

(Oh, sure. Friendly kisses. Well, Dabrowski used to put zing in it but you know how Poles are.) (I'm afraid I don't.) (Put it this way, Boss. With a Pole don't advertise unless you mean to deliver—because his intentions are as honest as a loaded gun. With Dabrowski I was very careful not to let it go critical.)

(I'll remember. Just as well he isn't here. Because the situation is like that with Jake, only milder. Little baggage, you caused all my mobile guards to fall in love with you. So now I've got to get them to accept that you are dead while feeling that you are still alive, equally. If they call me ‘Eunice,' I'm halfway there. If they kiss me—) (What? Boss! Don't try it!)

(Now see here, Eunice! If you hadn't played ‘My Last Duchess' to half the county, I wouldn't be having to repair the damage.) (‘Damage,' huh? You're complaining?)

(No, no, my darling! Never. I was the prime beneficiary of your benevolence. But to lose something of value is a damage, and that is the damage I must repair.) (Well... I won't argue, dearest. But in this case you can let it be; I never let it warm up that much.) (And I say you don't know what you are talking about. Cool you may have meant to keep it. Unsexy—or as unsexy as you could manage which isn't very. But all four of my mobiles were willing to die for you—correct?) (Uh—) (Let's have no silly talk. Do you think the fact that I paid them had anything to do with their willingness? Careful how you answer.)

(Uh... I don't have to answer! Boss, what's the use of stirring them up over my death?) (Because, my darling, from now on they will be guarding me—as I now am, inside your lovely body—just as they guarded you. They've got to want to guard me, or they'll never be happy in this weird situation. It's either that, or fire them or retire them—) (Oh, no!) (Of course not. To paraphrase Sherlock Holmes; when you have eliminated what you can't do, what remains is what you must do. Besides, dearest and only, this is stern practice for the much harder case we still face.) (Jake? But Jake is—) (Little stupid! Jake has already accepted the impossible. I mean Joe.)

(But, Boss! You must never see Joe.)

(God knows I wish I could avoid it. Never mind, beloved; we won't see him until you know—as I do—that we must. Now either shut up, or coach me in how to handle these brave men.)

(Well... I'll help all I can. But you'll never get them as easy, as they were with me.—'kissing-friends' easy, I mean. 1 was an employee. You are the Boss.)

(If that argument were valid, queens would never get pregnant. Sure it makes it harder. But you've given me a lot to work with. Want to bet?)

(Oh, sure, I'll bet you a billion dollars you can't kiss even one of them. Don't be silly, Boss; we can never make a real bet, there is no way to pay off.) (You don't have much practice being an angel, do you. little imp? You still think in earthy terms. Certainly we can make a bet and pay off to the winner. This baby in us—) (Huh! Now wait a moment—) (You wait a moment, Eunice. If I win this bet, I name our baby. If I lose, you have, the privilege; Fair bet?)

(Oh. All right, it's a bet. But you'll lose.)

(We'll see.)

(Oh, yes, you will, Boss. You'll lose even if you win. Want to know why?) (Planning on cheating?) (Not necessary, Boss darling; you're going to find that you want to name the baby whatever name I want it to have. Because you're a sucker for a pretty girl, Boss, always have been and still are.) (Now wait a moment. I used to be, but now I am that ‘pretty girl' and—) (You'll find out. Do you want coaching? I'll help you win if it can be done. It can't.) (Yes, but tuck your advice in edgeways; I've been chewing this bone too long.) "Fred, I'll trade you one of these Danish sandwiches for more wine. Then keep our glasses filled; Shorty doesn't drink and Tom won't and I want company in getting tiddly, this is my freedom celebration."

(Fred might be easiest if you can get him over seeing ghosts when he looks at you.) "I don't mind another glass, Miss, but I mustn't get tiddly, I'm on duty."

"Pish and tush. Tom and Shorty will get us home even if they have to drag us. Right, Shorty?" (Shorty is your impossible case. I managed it only by being ‘little girl' to him—which you can't be, Boss.)

"We'll certainly try, Miss Smith."

"Do I have to be ‘Miss Smith' on a picnic? You called Mrs. Branca ‘Eunice,' did you not? Did she call you ‘Shorty?'

"Miss, she called me by my name. Hugo."

"Do you prefer that to your nickname?"

"It's the name my mother gave me, Miss."

"That answers me, Hugo;-I will remember. But it brings to mind a problem. Anybody want to fight me for the ‘last black olive? Come on, put up your dukes. But that's not the problem. I said I didn't want to be called ‘Miss Smith' under these circumstances. But I don't want to be called

‘Johann' either; that's a man's name. Hugo, you have christened babies?"

"Many times, Miss—uh, Miss—"

Joan cut in fast. "That's right, you don't know what to call me. Hugo, having named so many babies you must have opinions about names. Do you think ‘Joan' pronounced as two syllables would be a good name for a girl who used to be a man named ‘Johann?'"

"Yes. I do."

"Tom? What do you think?" (Tom would kiss you at the drop of a hint if you weren't his employer. I don't think he ever did give up hoping to catch me alone... so I was as careful not to let that chance come up as I was with Dabrowski. All it took with Tom was to say, ‘Tom, if you're going to be stuffy about letting me pay for extra service'—it was an after-midnight run, Boss; a rare-blood call—'at least you can kiss me good-night.' So he did, quite well. After which Hugo was too polite not to lean way down and give me a fatherly little peck. But what worked for Eunice can't work for ‘Miss Smith.') (So watch me switch decks on them, young 'un.)

"It sounds like a good name to me," the driver-guard agreed.

"Fred? Do I look like ‘Joan' to you?" She sat up straight and lifted her chest. (You look like you're going to break that bandeau, if you aren't careful.) (Pfui, little hussy; it can't break. I want him to realize that I'm female.) (He realizes it. Winnie ought to be here to take his pulse.)

"I don't see why anybody should get a vote but you. But, sure, I like it."

"Good! I still have to sign papers with my former name—but I'm ‘Joan' in my mind. But, friends, this country must have a thousand ‘Joan Smiths' in it; I need a middle name. But I want one for a much better reason." She looked with solemn seriousness at the giant black. "Hugo, you are a man of God. Would it be presumptuous of me to call myself... ‘Joan Eunice?'"