“-sorry if I behaved improperly,” the boy was saying. Pause. Then, old Peter Herter:
“Never mind that, by God. Are there other people on this main station?”
The boy pursed his lips. “That,” he said philosophically, “would depend, would it not, on how one defines ‘person’? In the sense of a living organism of our species, no. The closest is the Dead Men.”
A woman’s voice-Dorema Herter-Hall. “Are you hungry? Do you need anything?”
“No, why should I?”
“Harriet? What’s that about behaving improperly?” I asked. Harriet’s voice came hesitantly. “He, uh, he brought himself to orgasm, Mr. Broadhead. Right in front of Janine Herter.”
I couldn’t help it, I broke out laughing. “Essie,” I said to my wife, “I think you made her a little too ladylike.” But that wasn’t what I was laughing at. It was the plain incongruity of the thing. I had guessed-anything. Anything but this: a Heechee, a space pirate, Martians-God knows what, but not a horny teen-aged boy.
There was a scrabble of steel claws from behind and something jumped on my shoulder. “Down, Squiffy,” I snapped.
Essie said, “Just let him nuzzle neck for a minute. He’ll go away.”
“He isn’t dainty in his personal habits,” I snarled. “Can’t we get rid of him?”
“Na, na, galubka,” she said soothingly, patting the top of my head as she got up. ‘Want Full Medical, don’t you? Squiffy comes along.” She kissed me and wandered out of the room, leaving me to think about the thing that, to my somewhat surprise, was making all sorts of tiny but discomforting stirrings inside me. To see a Heechee! Well, we hadn’t-but what if we did?
When the first Venus explorers discovered the traces the Heechee had left, glowing blue-lined empty tunnels, spindle-shaped caves, it was a shock. A few artifacts, another shock-what were they? There were the scrolls of metal somebody named “prayer fans” (but did the Heechee pray, and if so to whom?) There were the glowing little beads called “fire pearls”, but they weren’t pearls, and they weren’t burning. Then someone found the Gateway asteroid, and the biggest shock of all, because on it were a couple of hundred working spaceships. Only you couldn’t direct them. You could get in and go, and that was it. . . and what you found when you got there was shock, shock, shock, shock.
I knew. I had had the shocks, on my three silly missions-No. Two silly missions. And then one terribly unsilly one. It had made me rich and deprived me of somebody I loved, and what is silly about either of those things?
And ever since then the Heechee, dead half a million years, not even a written word left to tell what they were up to, had permeated every part of our world. It was all questions, and not very many answers. We didn’t even know what they called themselves, certainly not “Heechee”, because that was just a name the explorers made up for them. We had no idea what these remote and godlike creatures called themselves. But we didn’t know what God called Himself, either. Jehovah, Jupiter, Baal, Allah-those were names people made up. Who knew by what name He was known to His buddies?
I was trying to let myself feel what I might have felt if the stranger in the Food Factory had actually been Heechee when the toilet flushed, Essie came out and Squiffy made a dash for the bowl. There are indignities to having Full Medical coverage, and a mobile bio-assay unit is one of them.
“You are wasting my program time!” Essie scolded, and I realized that Harriet had been sitting patiently in the tank, waiting to be told to get on with her information about the other claims on my attention. The report from the Food Factory was all being taped and stored in any case, so Essie went to her own office to deal with her own priorities, I told Harriet to start the cook on lunch, and then I let her do her secretarial duties.
“You have an appointment to testify before the Senate Ways and Means Committee tomorrow morning, Mr. Broadhead.”
“I know. I’ll be there.”
“You’re due for your next checkup this weekend. Shall I confirm the appointment?”
That’s one of the penalties of Full Medical, and besides Essie insists-she’s twenty years younger than I, and reminds me of it. “All right, let’s get it over with.”
“You are being sued by one Hanson Bover, and Morton wants to talk to you about it. Your consolidated statement for the quarter came in and is on your desk file-except for the food mine holdings, which will not be complete until tomorrow. And there are a number of minor messages-most of which I have already dealt with-for your review at your convenience.”
“Thank you. That’s all for now.” The tank went transparent and I leaned back in my chair to think.
I didn’t need to see the consolidated statement-I already pretty well knew what it would say. The real estate investments were performing nicely; the little bit I had left in sea farming was moving toward a record profit year. Everything was solid, except for the food mines. The last 130-day fever had cost us. I couldn’t blame the guys in Cody, they weren’t any more responsible than I was when the fever bit. But they had somehow let the thermal drilling get out of control, and five thousand acres of our shale were burning away underground. It had taken three months to get the mine back in operation at all, and we still didn’t know what it was going to cost. No wonder their quarterly statement was late.
But that was only an annoyance, not a disaster. I was too well diversified to be killed by any one sector going bad. I wouldn’t have been in the food mines except for Morton’s advice; the extraction allowance made it a really good thing, tax-wise. (But I’d sold most of my sea-farming holdings to buy in.) Then Morton figured out that I still needed a tax shelter, so we started The Broadhead Institute for Extra-Solar Research. The Institute owns all my stock, but I vote it, and I vote it for what I want to do. I got us into the coownership with the Gateway Corporation that financed probes to four detected but unvisited Heechee-metal sources in or near the solar system, and one of them had been the Food Factory. As soon as they made contact we spun off a separate exploitation company to deal with it-and now it was looking really interesting.
“Harriet? Let me have the direct from the Food Factory again,” I said. The holo sprang up, the boy still talking excitedly in his shrill, squeaky voice. I tried to catch the thread of what he was saying-something about a Dead Man (only it wasn’t a man, because its name was Henrietta) speaking to him (so it wasn’t dead?) about a Gateway mission she had been on (when? why hadn’t I heard of her?). It was all perplexing, so I had a better idea. “Albert Einstein, please,” I said, and the holo swirled to show the sweet old lined face peering at me.
“Yes, Robin?” said my science program, reaching for his pipe and tobacco as he almost always does when we talk.
“I’d like some best-guess estimates from you on the Food Factory and the boy that turned up there.”
“Sure thing, Robin,” he said, tamping the tobacco with his thumb. “The boy’s name is Wan. He appears to be between fourteen and nineteen years of age, probably toward the young end of the spread, and I would guess that he is fully genetically human.”
“Where does he come from?”
“Ah, that is conjectural, Robin. He speaks of a ‘main station’, presumably another Heechee artifact in some ways resembling Gateway, Gateway Two and the Food Factory itself, but without any self-evident function. There do not appear to be any other living humans there. He speaks of ‘Dead Men’, who appear to be some sort of computer program like myself, although it is not clear whether they may not in fact be quite different in origin. He also mentions living creatures he calls ‘the Old Ones’ or ‘the frog-jaws’. He has little contact with them, in fact avoids it, and it is not clear where they come from.”