Mike was as close to being nonplused as he cared to be. “Sure,” he said. “You mean you didn’t know?”
She shook her head. “No. I thought Mike the Angel was about sixty years old, a crotchety old genius behind a desk, as eccentric as a comet’s orbit, and wealthier than Croesus. You’re just not what I pictured, that’s all.”
“Just wait a few more decades,” Mike said, laughing. “I’ll try to live up to my reputation.”
“So you’re Serge’s boss. How is he? I haven’t seen him since I was sixteen.”
“He’s grown a beard,” said Mike.
“No!”
“Fact.”
“My God, how horrible!” She put her hand over her eyes in mock horror.
“Let’s talk about you,” said Mike. “You’re much prettier than Serge Paulvitch.”
“Well, I should hope so! But really, there’s nothing to tell. I went to school. B.S. at fourteen, M.S. at sixteen, Ph.D. at eighteen. Then I went to work for C.C. of E., and I’ve been there ever since. I’ve never been engaged, I’ve never been married, and I’m still a virgin. Anything else?”