Delete made an attempt at a sardonic human laugh very like Achiever's own. "It was not the mere wearing of garments in your personally individual case, is that not so?" she asked.
Achiever returned his glare to her. "Why ask this question? Have firm opinion of your Tightness already, is not this so?"
"Require you to confirm," Delete went on remorselessly. "Impropriety was not garment-linked. Linkage of impropriety was to living female of human species. Confirm or deny!"
Achiever was silent for a long moment before responding. "I do not do either," he declared, and turned back to Stan. "What is your thinking, Stan?" he demanded. "Do we then to share our deeply held secrets without further chattering?"
In truth, Stan hadn't quite made his mind up about that. He didn't answer. The Heechee gave a belly-shrug. "Then why should we not proceed with the project? These two are trained assistants, quite capable of substituting for nonexistent human, are they not? Therefore join me, then." And he got into the machine.
Stan stared at the other half of the device, then turned to Estrella, a wry smile on his face.
"Wish me luck," he said.
But then, as he lifted one foot to climb in, someone spoke in his ear. No one was in sight, but he recognized the voice of Sigfrid von Shrink.
"Not you, Stan. Estrella."
When Stan turned around, the psychiatrist was there—in animated simulation at least. "I do apologize for keeping you waiting," he said. "It was because of some troubling events that have to do with finances and construction of living space, and other matters. A number of persons in the Core are concerned over these matters and I was in conference with several of them—organics, you see. So of course that took a ridiculous quantity of time—no offense," he added hastily. Then he turned toward the dream machine, where Achiever was sullenly looking up at them. "Things appear in order, but we should get on with this. Estrella? If you will take your place again, please? And now I will just close the cover...."
III
Actually the two of them weren't in the shell that long, though Stan might not have agreed. For him, fretfully waiting, it was a whole lot longer than he wanted it to be.
Stan thought of eating, but not alone; he thought of sleeping, but it was impossible to go to sleep while Estrella was experiencing what he could only, but didn't want to, imagine. He settled for another session before the lookplate.
He was getting better at it. Quickly the screen began displaying scenes of Earthly events, with menus running down the side of the picture to suggest trails to follow. There were many trails. Too many trails, often keyed with the names of individuals Stan had never heard of—Elwon van Jasse, Marjorie Abbot, Rebecca Shapiro, a hundred others—or subject matters about which Stan knew little and cared less. What did stock price on the all-Europe exchange matter to him? Or the plan to dig an irrigation canal from the Mediterranean Sea to the Qattara Depression, thus turning part of the Sahara into beachfront property? He caught at a reference to his former hometown, but when he followed it up it had to do only with forthcoming elections to Istanbul's city council. Among the thousand names that offered themselves for his attention he spotted one he had heard of—Wan, a.k.a. a long string of names that Stan definitely had not previously heard of, but definitely the kid who had loosed the Wrath of God on the human race; but when he checked it out it was only a police report saying that the man, no longer a kid, was wanted for a variety of offenses.
He was desultorily checking the state of buffalo herds on the grazing areas of the American West, in case Estrella might be interested, when there was a sort of metallic scratching sound behind him. "Estrella?" he said, turning hopefully around.
It wasn't Estrella. It was the unpleasant Heechee male, Achiever. Evidently he had let himself out of the wicker-work coffin and broken off the—what would you call it? The electronic communion between Estrella and himself?
Achiever didn't look happy. The ropy muscles of his face were working like a nest of serpents. He gave one quick nod to Stan, spoke two words— "extremely horrible!"—and left the apartment, closing the door behind him.
Apparently the ordeal was over. A moment later Stan heard the twittering of the two Heechee females, and got to the doorway of the room in time to see them helping Estrella out of her side of the gadget.
She looked not only tired but worrisomely sad, Stan thought. Next to the dream machine Sigfrid von Shrink stood, gazing down at her with an expression of concern. No more concern than Stan felt, of course; he hurried toward them.
Von Shrink quickly interposed himself, intangible but forbidding. "Estrella is quite well, Stan," he said, "but you can't talk to her until I have interviewed her. Wait outside, please. And don't worry."
IV
Easy to say, impossible to do. Stan did go outside, all right, but to refrain from worrying was impossible.
What, he asked himself plaintively, if von Shrink were wrong? Or lying to him, and something really was the matter with Estrella? What if she died? He felt a chill in his heart as he contemplated the possibility of an ongoing life without Estrella ... without the companionship of another human in this world of alien freaks ... without the sex. He looked at the doorway he had just passed through, and couldn't resist approaching it, trying to listen to what was going on inside.
It didn't work. He could hear a faint, breathy sound that he thought might be whispering, but he couldn't make out the words.
Then the two Heechee females came out, looked at him curiously, bade him polite good-byes and left. That was it. Unsurprisingly—Stan had lost the capacity to be surprised at any new development, as long as it was unpleasant—he was kept waiting outside the dream-machine room longer than the whole time Estrella had been in the capsule. That was not a good thing. After trying the lookplate again, finding no more of interest than before, he had nothing to do.
That gave him plenty of time to build up anger against—well, against everybody concerned, but against von Shrink most of alclass="underline" von Shrink, the one who was keeping Estrella from him.
Then, when anger had worn itself out, it was time for worry about countless unpleasing what-ifs. What if this mind-machine thing had changed Estrella's feelings for him to something colder and worse? What if these sessions in the coffin had to happen again, and maybe more than just once again—wouldn't that inevitably change Estrella's feelings about the person who wasn't allowed to share them with her? What if—
Stan felt physically unwell then. That was the worst what-if of all, the sickening possibility that this foul Heechee invention, the one that, back in Stan's Istanbul days, had driven the whole human race crazy every few weeks, might have done some real damage to Estrella. Made her insane. Killed her, even. And then there he was again, repeating all those horrid thoughts about how he would be left alone, as alone as any person could ever be, the only real human being on this planet of alien creatures, inside this vast black hole, shut off by space and by what were rapidly becoming decades and centuries of time from every other person he had ever in his life known.
That was when Estrella showed up in the doorway.
She wasn't dead at all or even insane; maybe (he thought) a little more tired-looking than the last time he had seen her but apparently well enough.
"Stan?" she said. "I need something to eat. But first, could you hold me for a minute, please?"
She felt fine, she said, swallowing the last of a crunchy, pink-striped, lemon-yellow square of Heechee food. Well, yes, she was a little tired. That was all. No, the things the machine did to you didn't hurt. Exactly.