Then the cop manning the communicator listened to something, snarled something back and came toward us, looking shamefaced. "He won't be coming here," he told Bertie. "He didn't use the Loop coming down. He used his own lander, and it looks like he used it to get off, too, because it's gone."
And so he had.
By the time Bertie, fuming, was able to get in touch with any of the authorities in orbit, Wan had had plenty of time to dock with his spaceship and be on his way, wherever it was he was going, at FTL speeds. And I never saw him, or any of the three missing Old Ones, again.
Heard about him, though. You bet I heard about him. Everybody did, because everybody likes to read about nasty, spoiled rich kids, and this Wan sure filled the bill.
The whole thing made you wonder, though. They brought the Old Ones to Africa to make them safe, and that certainly hadn't worked out. So what were they going to do with them next?
6
The One Who Hated Humans
I
The private place that had been provided for Estrella and Stan on the ship was about the size of an elevator cage. Apparently it had been intended for occupancy by only one person. Only one Heechee person, that was to say, because it obviously was not meant for habitation by any number of humans at all. The furnishings made that clear. There was one of those bifurcated perches that the Heechee used to sit on, one sack of the weedy things they used for sleeping in and one shelf, like a child's desk built into the wall, with one of the flowerpot-shaped things Stan had seen before, for which he could see no use at all. There was also, conspicuously out in the open, one of those shining Heechee slit-trench receptacles for the disposal of bodily wastes. That was about it, not counting the collection of fifteen or twenty of the crystalline things the first Gateway prospectors called "prayer fans," which, Estrella then told him, fitted into the flowerpot. "They're like books," she said. "I saw Salt doing it. You put them in the reader." She pointed to the flowerpot-shaped thing. "That's the reader."
"Huh," he said, turning one of the fans over in his hand. He was less interested in it than in the passing time. He was wishing he had a watch so he could see how long they were being kept waiting; wishing the Heechee female would come and tell them that they could go out of this room, and wishing even more that someone would feed them pretty soon, because it was getting to be a long time between meals.
He tried sitting down at the desk, but didn't remain sitting there for long; unlike the ones in their old Five, this Heechee-designed perch had not been modified to the contours of the human butt. Finally he turned to Estrella, where she was sitting on the bundle of sleep-rushes. "Can I borrow those for a moment?" he said, and lugged the bundle over to the desk. When he jammed it between the prongs of the Heechee perch it made a seat that wasn't comfortable, no, but at least didn't feel like he was sliding, rump first, into some lethal vise.
When he went back to fiddling with the prayer fan and its holder, Estrella, now standing beside him and watching with interest, said, "Don't break it, Stan dear. I don't know how valuable those things are—" And then, in a quite different tone, "Oh."
That made Stan look around and discover they were no longer alone. A male Heechee stood in the opened doorway, watching them with clinical interest. "That is most excellently good advice," he said—in fair, if accented, English!—"You two had better not be messing around with things not understood."
To Stan, the Heechee in the doorway was undistinguishable from any other male Heechee in terms of color of pelt, shape of face or body silhouette, but there was one thing about him even Stan could not mistake. That was the clothes he had on. This visitor was wearing bright green sports shoes—human sports shoes—over his splayed Heechee feet, along with a kilt that covered him from waist to ankles—perhaps, Stan thought, to conceal that universal Heechee between-the-thighs pod. And on his Heechee head he wore a human sports cap, pulled down low over his eyes.
Stan had no doubt that this must be the male Heechee Salt had warned them against talking to, the one in "peculiar clothing." But the decision to stay away from him wasn't in their hands anymore, because he was already present and speaking to them. "Hello," he said. "Give to me that for a minute." He advanced on Stan and took the prayer fan out of Stan's hand without waiting for permission. "Two of you, now listen to that which you will hear!" he commanded.
He juggled the fan expertly and then pulled the thing open by one protruding edge. When he released it it made a thin, metallic, almost tuneful whispering sound as it slithered back into its ice-cream-cone shape. "What is that sound sounding like?" he asked.
Stan looked up at him, open-mouthed, then turned in puzzlement to Estrella. It was she who answered. "Some kind of machine?" she hazarded.
The stranger emitted what might have been a human chuckle, or an attempt to copy one. "Yes, a machine, I agree to that," he said. "It sounds like a machine because that is what it is. Agreed? Right? Now listen to this other sound." He fiddled with the base of the fan, then pulled out a pearly little globe which he held up. "This is called fuel button, what you of human extraction designate 'fire pearl.' Again listen." He rubbed it with his skinny thumb, producing a faint, sibilant whisper. "You have now heard. Therefore tell this to me. Do either of them sound like this human-speaking word 'Heechee'?"
Both shook their heads. The stranger said morosely, "Must have sounded so to some of your people, because it is that which they called us. Heechee. After what they considered those sounds sounded like. Do you know, I have even heard some of own people use that same to represent ourselves?"
Stan took another quick look at Estrella, then answered for both of them. "I'm sorry if that offends you. We aren't the ones who did it, though. We weren't even there."
"No," the male said. "Is correct you were not even there, you two." He looked them both up and down with an expression Stan couldn't read. Then he turned to leave. At the door he paused. "Is very interesting to me that of your people none accept to be responsible for that which others of your people have done." Another pause, and then he contemptuously blew air out through his nostrils and said, "You two are considered to be some kind of heroes on Gateway. Of course, do not have too many persons which actually be proud of, correct?"
II
Alone again, Stan and Estrella took sitting-down turns. First Stan sat on the bundle of reeds, now detached again from the Heechee perch, and Estrella did her best to be at ease in the forks of the perch. Then the other way around. Then one standing while the other was something approaching comfortable lying on the reeds. Then both of them standing, or, more accurately, roaming around, because they were getting hungrier, and more tired of being in this room, and considerably more irritable, not just at their Heechee hosts but at each other for asking, over and over, questions that they had no way to answer: Who had that weirdo in the funny clothes been? When was the ship going to take off? What did the weirdo Heechee mean about them being heroes on Gateway, and what the hell did he know about Gateway in the first place? Why didn't Salt come through that door and let them out of this place? Wasn't it, for God's sake, about time they got something to eat?
Stan also had to go to the bathroom. Despite the long intimacy that had existed between them on their Five, he was reluctant to make use of the bodily-waste receptacle while she was right there watching him. When the pressure in his bladder matched, without canceling out, the yearning void in his belly he gave up. "The hell with it," he said, and marched to the door, determined to find a way to get it open, no matter what weird Heechee locks held it shut, or at least to hammer on it until someone came to let them out.