"There," Salt said. "Near horizon over Shining Mica Mountains, observe three bright stars in straight-line asterism? Those three. They respectively are called Planetless Huge Blue-White, Planetless Almost As Huge Blue-White and Very Bright Eleven-Planet Yellow, do you see?"
They were easy enough to see, Stan thought, far brighter than anything of the kind in Earth's skies. "Yes, of course I see them," Estrella said, fairly politely. "But what has that to do with what we asked you?"
"Oh," Salt said, vaguely, almost humanly, "nothing at all, it is true. I thought simply they would interest you, those particular stars. Can be seen from almost all over Core. Not always as straight-line asterism, of course, depending on line of sight. Used by pilots learning skills as check on course settings sometimes. For self as child learned recognition of a very early age. Sky very familiar to us when children. We look on it with pleasure and reassurance." And then, without altering her tone, "I offer apology for perhaps-confusing quick change of subject. This had purpose. Purpose was needed considering time. Now, to explain place you ask of, I wish you to know thing I saw, and what then befell." And stopped there.
Stan had been listening with diminishing patience to this creature's endless digressions and evasions. "You saw what?" he demanded.
"I saw stars in galaxy outside, Stan person. So many, stars! Frightening. In Core we have only small number of stars—nine thousand seven hundred thirty and three in total, enumerating both with planets and without. Outside—Outside I do not know how many. Eight to the eighth at least, I think. Extremely frightening. All time I was without I did not sleep comfortably in burrow, when returned still had difficulties of kinds not appropriate to describe. So came to this place for rest and comfort, until could see Three-in-a-Line and other known, familiar stars once more with comfort."
She seemed quite disturbed, Stan thought, but it was Estrella who put her hand on Salt's skinny arm. "You were really frightened," she said.
"Yes," said Salt. "But no more. Due to use of device here am quite restored to normal state." Then she shook herself and cried, "But see what amount of time has passed! Have time now only to answer specific questions about residence, have you some?"
Stan frowned, a bit puzzled. Heechee never seemed to wear wrist-watches, nor were any timepieces visible anywhere in the apartment, so how did Salt know the time? From the look on Estrella's face she had questions of her own. She thought for a moment and then shrugged. "I do have some questions. For instance, I didn't see any kitchen."
"Kitchen?" Salt was looking blank.
"The place to prepare food," Estrella explained. "Where you cook and do the dishes and so on."
"Ah, I now understand," said Salt, flapping her wrists at them. "You speak of place for preparing food. But food is already prepared here, do you see?"
And she led them back to the dispenser and began removing varicolored packets. She stamped her foot to make one of those concealed tables arise from the floor, and loaded it with a dozen packets. "Go ahead," she invited them. "In case that you are hungry, open. These are mostly foods of kind you were observed to have eaten on spacecraft, for which I messaged ahead to place order. Along with furnishings suitable for your unusually proportioned bodies, as you have seen. Pay closest attention now as I show you operation of reading machines to display books, drenching body for cleanliness, et cetera, see here, see here!" She was demonstrating as she was talking, like a solicitous mother depositing her five-year-olds at their very first sleepover, and completed the lessons just at the door. "So eat if you wish," she finished, "and sleep comfortably when that is your desire, and good evening to you both."
And was gone.
Stan was a long way from satisfied about the true nature of the place where Salt had received her comfort and rest, but there didn't seem to be any help for that problem. Anyway, if Salt refused to give them straight answers, at least she provided compensations. Now they had a whole toy-box of gadgets to play with. Play with them they did. Their first choice was the lookplates, which provided them with news broadcasts they could not understand, since the broadcast were in the Heechee language, and an endless procession of what seemed to be Heechee cultural programs— concerts? dramas? maybe even sitcoms?—that they both detested. Estrella had more sticking power than Stan. She kept at it while he drifted aimlessly around the apartment, playing with the lights, excreting into the bodily-wastes slit for the pleasure of seeing the pooled urine at the bottom slowly and silently disappear.
Then he remembered something. He searched for and found the locker that held his trumpet, took it out and ran a scale or two. It worked fine. Emboldened, he ventured a solo version of "Minnie the Moocher," but had hardly completed a single chorus when he heard Estrella calling crossly, "Stan! For God's sake! Take it outside, will you? I can't hear a damn thing."
Only mildly miffed, he took himself and his music out onto the lanai, and regaled any possible listening audience with "Misty," "St. James Infirmary Blues," "Satin Doll" and as many others as he could remember from those old days with Stan, Tan and the Gang ... until a growing tenderness in his lower lip told him that he might be risking his embrouchure if he didn't slow down.
So, feeling pretty good about things in general, he went looking for Estrella.
He felt less good as soon as he found her. Although it was the middle of the day she was already in one of the litter boxes, eyes closed, hands folded on her chest.
Stan caught his breath. "Estrella?" he whispered. When she opened her eyes and looked at him he was almost angry. "I thought—" he said, and didn't finish the sentence because it would have been bad luck to admit that for one moment he had thought she was dead. Instead he said, "What are you doing, for God's sake?"
She sat up and dangled her legs over the side of the box. "I've been thinking about what Salt said. Mostly, what she didn't say. Do you know what I think? I think she works in some kind of mental institution."
Stan frowned. "You mean a nuthouse?"
"Oh, not that. Well, maybe sort of. I think some kind of psychoanalysis might be involved."
"Lying on the couch, like?" Stan said incredulously. "The 'you tell me your dreams and I'll tell you why you want to boff your mom' kind of thing? My God, I hope the Heechee aren't into that kind of stuff."
Which for some reason seemed to annoy Estrella. "Huh," she said, "that's the kind of reaction I would expect from someone who knows nothing about it."
Stan took a deep breath. He didn't like it when he and Estrella quarreled, and then scowled as a thought struck him. "Wait a minute. You mean you've done that stuff yourself?"
And—yes—she had. Back at the slaughterhouse. After the buffalo stepped on her face. To help her through the unending pain and also—she added without emotion—to help her get used to the fact that for the rest of her life her face would be pretty funny-looking.
At that point Stan lost all impulse to quarrel. He immediately reassured her that there was nothing in the least funny about the way her face or any other part of her looked.
She regarded him analytically for a moment, as though they had just met and she wasn't sure if he were friend or foe. Then she said, "You're sweet, Stan. Thank you for saying that. Now I really want to get to sleep." And she stretched out in the litter box again and closed her eyes.
Wondering, as he wondered so often, if he would ever understand the woman he probably loved, Stan again moved moodily around the apartment. Not for long, though; the sound of a voice—in English!—led him to the room with the lookplates. Apparently Estrella had found a channel in a language he could understand, and had left it on for his amusement.