In the comics that had seemed to work pretty well. In this real world it didn't. The Heechee fell back in obvious panic. A low, hooting moan came from its queerly shaped mouth as it turned and ran away. "Shit," Stan said dismally, staring after it.
Estrella clutched his arm. "We frightened it," she said.
"I certainly hope so. It frightened the hell out of me!"
"Yes, but we have to show it we're friendly. Maybe we should start playing the Message for them?"
That sounded like a good idea. At least Stan didn't have a better one, but while they were trying to start the playback the Heechee came running back, and this time he brought all his friends with him. There were half a dozen of the creatures, dressed in smocks with curious pod-shaped objects hanging between their skinny legs— king-sized jockstraps? Heavy-duty condoms? Stan couldn't guess. The creatures were jabbering agitatedly among themselves as they hurried in. The tallest of them came barely up to Stan's chin. The short ones hardly reached his navel, and they wasted no time. One of them slapped Estrella's hand away from the playback machine while a couple of the others grabbed Stan. They were surprisingly strong. They were armed, too. More or less armed, or at least several of them were; they carried an assortment of knives, bright blue metal or gold, some curved like a scalpel, all of them looking dangerous. Especially when one of the Heechee held a knife with its extremely sharp point almost touching Stan's right eyeball and tugged him toward the exit. "Don't fight them!" Estrella cried, herself captive in the same way.
He didn't. He let himself be dragged unresisting into a larger chamber—red-veined blue metal walls, with unidentifiable machines and furnishings scattered around. The ceilings were very close. As they crossed the threshold Stan bumped his head on the doorway and stumbled, taken unaware by the sudden return of weight. They were in gravity again, not as strong as Earth's, maybe, but enough to make him totter against his captor. He jerked his head back from the blade just in time to avoid losing an eye. The Heechee with the knife screeched a warning, but Stan wasn't trying to give him any trouble. Not even when he and Estrella were dragged against a wall and chained, spread-eagled, to what might have been coat racks—or statuary—or anything at all, but were solid enough to hold them.
Things were coming to a boil. More Heechee were arriving on the run, all of them chattering agitatedly at the tops of their voices. As one batch of them disappeared into the Five, others began to use their assorted knives to cut away the captives' clothing. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Stan squawked, but as far as he could tell the Heechee weren't even trying to understand what he was saying. They didn't stop doing what they were doing, either. As each scrap of garment was cut away, underwear and all, all the way down to bare skin, it was searched and sniffed and carried away somewhere for further study.
Halfway through the process Estrella yelped in sudden shock as one of those knives nicked her thigh. The Heechee wielding it jumped back, startled. "Be careful with her!" Stan shouted, but they didn't even look at him. The one with the knife screeched an order; another produced a little metal cup and caught a drop of the blood that was oozing from Estrella's cut. "Are you all right?" Stan called, suddenly more angry and solicitous than afraid.
"It's only a scratch," she said, and then added uncomfortably, "but I have to pee.'
There didn't seem to be any way to communicate that urgency to their captors—assuming the Heechee would have cared if there had been. They didn't seem at all interested in any needs or desires of their prisoners. More and more of the Heechee were crowding into the room, yammering to each other without stop. When a Heechee appeared who wore a fancier tunic than the rest, gold-streaked and silky, there was a momentary hush, then they all began talking to him at once. The newcomer had a sort of frazzled look, the way a man might appear if he had just been wakened from sleep with very unwelcome news. He listened for just a moment before waving for silence. He snapped what sounded like a command, then raised one skeletal hand to his narrow lips and began to speak into what looked like a large finger ring.
Heechee were beginning to come out of the Five carrying things— spare clothes, packets of food and, very gingerly, Stan's trumpet. There was a babble over that as they presented it to the one with the ring microphone. He considered for a moment, then issued more orders. Another Heechee bustled forward with what looked like a stethoscope and touched it to the trumpet, here, there, all over, listening worriedly and reporting to the leader.
A moment later there was a sudden squawking from inside the Five, and Stan heard the familiar blare of the opening bars of Tschaikowsky's Sixth Symphony. "Listen, Stan, they've turned on the Message!" Estrella cried gladly. "Maybe it'll be all right now!"
It wasn't. It didn't get any better at all. If the Heechee made any sense of the Message, which did not seem likely, it did not seem to make them friendlier.
How long the two of them hung there, poked and palped and examined, Stan could not know. It seemed to be a very long time. The good thought, the only good thought, that Stan was able to summon up was that back on Gateway people would be beginning to worry about them. Might even be thinking about sending out a rescue party. If not that, at least they would definitely be having Stan Avery and Estrella Pancorbo in their minds.
For whatever good that might do them.
Stan worried about himself, but worried more about Estrella. Now and then he called empty reassurances to her. She spoke bravely back. "It'll work out, Stan," she said, and then, in a different tone, "Oh, damn it."
Stan saw the problem. Though she had been squeezing her knees together as hard as she could, her bladder would not be denied. Urine was running down her legs. Among the Heechee that produced a new flurry of excitement, as one of them ran for another cup to catch a few drops for study.
What Stan felt was shame—for his lover's embarrassment—and a sudden hot flash of rage at these coarse and uncaring Heechee who had caused it; and that was the end of the first hour of Stan's long, long day.
Then, for no reason that Stan could see, things did improve. Once begun they improved very rapidly.
The Heechee in the gold-embroidered robe had gone off to do whatever Heechee bosses had to do. Now he returned, puffing importantly as he issued orders in all directions. When he marched up close to Estrella, Stan strained against his chains, expecting some new deviltry. That didn't happen. The Heechee reached up with one wide, splay-fingered hand, stretching to do it, and patted her cheek.
Was that meant as reassurance? It evidently was, Stan saw, because other Heechee were hurrying toward them to remove their chains, the boss Heechee chattering at them all the while. Stan didn't listen. Staggering slightly—the chains had cut off circulation, and he weighed less than he had expected here—he reached out for Estrella. Naked as they were, they hugged each other while the Heechee stared at them in benign fascination.
"Now what?" Stan asked the air. He didn't expect an answer, and got none, unless there was an answer in what happened next. A couple of Heechee hustled toward them, one bearing a few scraps of their ruined clothes, as though to apologize or explain, the other with a couple of Heechee smocks as replacements, gesturing that they might put them on.
The garments didn't fit them all that well. Human beings were a lot thicker front to back than the squashed frames of the Heechee; what for a Heechee had been a loose smock for Stan was more like a corset. All the same, having their nakedness covered before these weird beings did make Stan feel a little less helpless.
What it didn't do for Stan was allow him to figure out just what was going on. The Heechee were doing their best to explain. They were chirping, gesturing, trying with all their hearts to make something understood. But in the absence of any language in common they weren't getting very far.