Robert Heinlein: I Will Fear No Evil

Salomon growled. "I don't have time to listen to amateur lexicologists. Is the conference over?"

"What? Not at all! Now comes the top-secret part, the reason I sent the nurse out. So gather ye round."

"Johann, before you talk secrets, let me ask one question. Does that bed have a mike on it? Your chair may be bugged, too."

"Eh?" the old man looked thoughtful. "I used a call button... until they started standing a heel-and-toe watch on me."

"Seven to two you're bugged. Eunice my dear, can you trace the circuits and make sure?"

"Uh... I doubt it. The circuitry isn't much like my stenodesk. But I'll look." Eunice left her desk, studied the console on the back of the wheelchair. "These two dials almost certainly have mikes hooked to them; they're respiration and heart beat. But they don't show voices as my voice does not make the needles jiggle. Filtered out, I suppose. "But"—she looked thoughtful—"voice could be pulled off either circuit ahead of a filter. I do something like that, in reverse, whenever I record with a high background db. I don't know what these dials do. Darn it, I, might spot a voice circuit...but I could never be sure that there was not one. Or two. Or three. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, dear," the lawyer said soothingly. "There hasn't been real privacy in this country since the middle of the twentieth century—why, I could phone a man I know of and have you photographed in your bath I and you would never know it."

"Really? What a dreadful idea. How much does this person charge for such a job?"

"Plenty. Depends on difficulty and how much chance he runs of being prosecuted. Never less than a couple of thousand and then up like a kite. But he can do it."

"Well!" Eunice looked thoughtful, then smiled. "Mr. Salomon, if you ever decide that you must have such a picture of me, phone me for a competitive bid. My husband has an excellent Chinese camera and I would rather have him photograph me in my bath than some stranger."

"Order, please," Smith said mildly. "Eunice, if you want to sell skin pictures to that old lecher, do it on your own time. I don't know anything about these gadgets but I know how to solve this. Eunice, go out to where they telemeter me—I think it's next door in what used to be my upstairs lounge. You'll find Miss MacIntosh there. Hang around three minutes. I'll wait two minutes; then I'll call out: Miss Macintosh! Is Mrs. Branca there?' If you hear me, we'll know she's snooping. If you don't, come back at the end of three minutes."

"Yes, sir. Do I give Miss MacIntosh any reason for this?"

"Give the old battle-ax any stall you like. I simply want to know if she is eavesdropping."

"Yes, sir." Eunice started to leave the room. She pressed the door switch just as its buzzer sounded. The door snapped aside, revealing Miss MacIntosh, who jumped in surprise.

The nurse recovered and said bleakly, to Mr. Smith, "May 1 come in for a moment?"

"Certainly."

"Thank you, sir." The nurse went to the bed, pulled its screen aside, touched four switches on its console, replaced the screen. Then she planted herself in front of her patient and said, "Now you have complete privacy, so far as my equipment is concerned. Sir."

"Thank you."

"I am not supposed to cut the voice monitors except on Doctor's orders. But you had privacy anyhow. I am as bound to respect a patient's privacy as .a doctor is, I never listen to sickroom conversation. I don't even hear it! Sir."

"Get your feathers down. If you weren't listening, how did you know we were discussing the matter?"

"Oh! Because my name was mentioned. Hearing my name triggers me to listen. It's a conditioned reflex. Though I don't suppose you believe me?"

"On the contrary, I do. Nurse—please switch on whatever you switched off. Then bear in mind that I must talk privately...and I'll remember not to mention your name. But I'm glad to know that I can reach you so promptly. To a man in my condition that is a comfort."

"Uh—very well, sir."

"And I want to thank you for putting up with my quirks. And bad temper."

She almost smiled. "Oh, you're not so difficult, sir. I once put in two years in an N.P. hospital."

Smith looked startled, then grinned. "Touché! Was that where you acquired your hatred for bedpans?"

"It was indeed! Now if you will excuse me, sir—"

When she was gone, Salomon said, "You really think she won't listen?"

"Of course she will, she can't help it, she's already triggered and will be trying too hard not to listen. But she's proud, Jake, and I would rather depend on pride than gadgetry. Okay, I'm getting tired, so here it is in a lump. I want to buy a body. A young one."

Eunice Branca barely showed reaction; Jake Salomon's features dropped into the mask he used for poker and district attorneys. Presently Eunice said, "Am I to record, sir?"

"No. Oh, hell, yes. Tell that sewing machine to make one copy for each of us and wipe the tape. File mine in my destruct file; file yours in your destruct file—and, Jake, hide your copy in the file you use to outwit the Infernal Revenue Service."

"I'll file it in the still safer place I use for guilty clients. Johann, anything you say to me is privileged but I am bound to point out that the Canons forbid me to advise a client in how to break the law, or to permit a client to discuss such intention. As for Eunice, anything you say to her or in her presence is not privileged."

"Oh, come off it, you old shyster; you've advised me in how to break the law twice a week for years. As for Eunice, nobody can get anything out of, her short of all-out brainwash."

"I didn't say I always followed the Canons; I merely told you what they called for. I won't deny that my professional ethics have a little stretch in them—but I won't be party to anything smelling of bodysnatching, kidnapping, or congress with slavery. Any self-respecting prosti­tute—meaning me—has limits."

"Spare me the sermon, Jake; what I want is both moral and ethical. I need your help to see that all of it is legal—utterly legal, can't cut corners on this!—and practical."

"I hope so."

"I know so. I said I wanted to buy a body—legally. That rules out bodysnatching, kidnapping, and slavery. I want to make a legal purchase."

"You can't."

"Why not? Take this body," Smith said, pointing to his chest, "it's not worth much even as manure; nevertheless I can will it to a medical school. You know I can, you okayed it."

"Oh. Let's get our terms straight. In. the United States there can be no chattel ownership of a human being. Thirteenth Amendment. Therefore your body is not your property because you can't sell it. But a cadaver is property—usually of the estate of the deceased although a cadaver is not often treated the way other chattels are treated. But it is indeed property. If you want to buy a cadaver, it can be arranged—but who were you calling a ghoul earlier?"

"What is a cadaver, Jake?"

"Eh? A dead body, usually of a human. So says Webster. The legal definition is more complicated but comes to the same thing."

"It's that ‘more complicated' aspect I'm getting at. Okay, once it is dead, it is property and maybe we can buy it. But what is ‘death,' Jake, and when does it take place? Never mind Webster; what is the law?"

"Oh. Law is what the Supreme Court says it is. Fortunately this point was nailed down in the seventies—'Estate of Henry M. Parsons v. Rhode Island.'

For years, many centuries, a man was dead when his heart quit beating. Then for about a century he was dead when a licensed M.D. examined him for heart condition action and respiration and certified that he was dead—and sometimes that turned out grisly, as doctors do make mistakes. And then along came the first heart transplant and oh, mother, what a legal snarl that stirred up!