"Oh, hell," Stan said. "That poor woman."
"She is, isn't she?' Estrella said thoughtfully. "For all her money. Poor indeed, in the sense that you and I, Stan, are so very rich."
When they least expected it the door announced a visitor, and it was Achiever. "Have been away," he informed them. "Now am returned. Wish urgent talking with you."
Surprised but endeavoring to be hospitable, Stan showed him to a Heechee perch, offered him a coffee (refused) and asked after his new family. Unexpectedly, that seemed to upset Achiever. "I do not have 'family,' " he said frostily." 'Family' requires declaration of commonality. I have made no such declaration." Then he unbent a fraction. "Unborn child of my parentage in generative space of Salt, however, is excellently well. When birth occurs his-or-her name will be Boundary Condition. Gender? Unknown. Baby has not yet decided."
Doggedly polite, Estrella tried: "And yourself, Achiever? Are you well, too?"
Achiever mulled that over for a moment. "Well? Perhaps not. Not truly well, that is to say, but—" he flapped his long, skinny fingers at them "—what is one to do? One has been, as you say, scarred. By enforced and prolonged exposure to others of your race, that is. So would not say that word 'well' is appropriate. To be well would need—what is your word again?—more of concinnity than is possessed at this time. On the other hand"—he frowned reproof—"am not here for talk of this sort but to discuss coming with me of you two in accord with known wishes of human machine-intelligence person Sigfrid von Shrink."
Stan and Estrella exchanged looks. "What do you know about that?" Stan demanded.
"Not a large amount. Nearly everything, however. For example, is known to me that aforesaid artificial intelligence person wishes it quite much. Also that you two organic human persons feel obligation to same. Is any statement herein incorrect?"
"Not really," Stan admitted.
"Then is proper, is this not correct?, for you two to accede to said wishes and accompany me on spaceflight to permit mutual presence, as advocated by person hereinabove. Wait. Do not reply. Consider also fact that I fortunately now have excellent spacecraft at my disposal for said purpose."
"Hold it right there," Stan commanded, patience all expended. "Sigfrid didn't say a word about going on a spaceship. He just said he'd like us to spend time with you."
Achiever gave him an approximation of a supercilious smile. "And what better spending of joint time can be imagined than the becoming of shipmates? Especially utilizing spacecraft I have just returned from familiarizing self in? Now attend to proposal. If you join me in aforesaid craft, I will then transport you to splendid selection of interesting Core planets, each of which happens to contain specimens of your people. Are beyond numbering planets worthy of visit. Include Chilly Wet Planet of Blue-White Star Fifty-Four. To this place mother of self, who was Food Factory designer, brought me as young person. Extremely of interest."
"Extremely cold, too," Stan offered.
"Well then! Are many, many of others, some of quite high temperatures indeed. Do you understand what I speak of? Then I ask, considering all facts, notably those involving express desire of said Sigfrid von Shrink, will you accordingly agree to travel in my company for period of some days or weeks?"
He gave them one final penetrating look, and was gone.
Over the next day or two Stan and Estrella conversed on many subjects— their unborn child's development, Estrella's new traits of swollen feet and of a kind of snoring that no longer was really gentle, Salt's pregnancy, Socrates's lesson plans, Marc Antony's delicious food and (but not in that order) Achiever's invitation. That last subject would easily have made top billing, except that Stan was doing his best to avoid it. His preferred response was usually something along the lines of, "Come on, Strell, give it a rest. I need time to think about it." But however much time Estrella gave him for thinking he never seemed to have thought it through. Finally she gave up and, exasperated, sat Stan down at one end of the lanai, herself between him and the door to prevent escape, and said, "Hon, pee or get off the slot. Are we going or aren't we?" She didn't give him a chance to complain that he hadn't really had time to make up his mind. "It's not a hard question, Stan. You just say yes or no. Which?" And, when he still didn't answer, "Here's the thing. We really can't refuse Sigfrid a favor. And I'm feeling pretty good right now—good enough that I can stand the idea of being around Achiever for a while, and I'd kind of like to see those other planets—and feeling good isn't going to last. So the way I see it, either we do it now or we don't do it for a really long time. So what do you say?"
He looked doubtful. "If you're sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Well...." he said. And then, not just then, exactly, in fact not for another two days, he said, "All right. I guess we might as well."
16
Working for Wan
I
At one split second in time Orbis McClune, or whatever was left of Orbis McClune, discovered that he no longer belonged to himself. He had become the property of that unpleasant lunatic, Wan Santos-Smith. Then— not after a moment, not separated by any time at all but immediately, seamlessly at once—his whole environment had inexplicably changed.
Wan wasn't there anymore. Now Orbis was in a two-window office with paintings on the walls, deep-pile carpet underfoot and a highly improbable vista of giant redwood trees showing through those make-believe windows. Instead of Wan, Orbis was with a harried-seeming, but quite attractive, young woman. You might even have said she was beautiful, if you liked that sort of heavily made-up look. She sat behind an apparently mahogany desk that held a data screen, a nameplate that said "Roz Borraly" and a vase with a single red rose. She was frowning at Orbis.
"It says your name is Orbis McClune and you're a Rev," she said, glancing at something in the air above him. "What's this Rev shit?"
Reprimanding her didn't seem worthwhile. He said only, "It means I'm a minister of the gospel."
"Huh," she said, looking displeased. "Well, what you got to do now, Mister Minister of the Gospel, is learn some stuff so you'll be useful to Wan when he gets ready to take care of those guys. You ever run a spaceship?"
"What 'guys' are you talking about?" Orbis asked, and quickly regretted it. The woman named Roz Borraly sighed, and moved no more than a finger. In a moment Orbis McClune was writhing under the very worst pain he had ever known: heat like incandescent ice that was flogging across his back, face, eyes and testicles, striking him at every point on his body—on his purely simulated but evidently quite hurtable body—where there was a pain nerve to feel it. Then it was over.
"See," she said conversationally, "the way it works around here, I do the asking, you do the answering. Did you?"
It took a moment for Orbis to collect himself enough to remember what she had asked. "Run a spaceship?" he managed to say, still gasping. "No. Never."
"At least you played spacewar games when you were a kid, though? Right?" When he shook his head she gave another sigh. "So tell me what it is that you can do—like, where'd you go to school?"
He answered her question, warily leaving nothing out. As he got from high school (no, he hadn't played any sports) through his two years in the community college (liberal arts, with a little history and one semester of introductory psychology) her face grew grimmer and grimmer. By the time he was describing his four years in the seminary she waved him to silence. "Christ," she said dismally, "what are we supposed to do with geeks like you?" She studied the notes on her screen without hope for a moment, then asked, "But you're from Illinois. What were you doing in California?"