“Well,” Hypatia began, and then stood glassy-eyed for a couple of moments, letting the rest of the sentence hang there, until she finished. “Yes, that would be fine.” Then she turned to Dr. Kusmeroglu, who was looking as though she wanted to say something. “Yes?”
“I’ve never actually met Dr. Moynlin,” the doctor said, sounding wistful. “I don’t suppose—I guess it wouldn’t be a good idea at this time—”
“You are quite right,” Hypatia told her. “It wouldn’t.” Then she dismissed the doctor from her attention. “I’ve ordered a car. Shall we go?”
II
This time it was a Heechee car, driver and all, open to the world. As soon as she saw it, Estrella insisted they go straight across the valley instead of on the usual underground roadways.
Stan had to agree that she’d made a good decision. After their captivity on Arabella, their valley was like a brief cruise through Heaven. The whitenut trees smelled as sweet as ever, the flying tree snakes were as hungry, the open air was filled with a cinnamonly tang. “You know,” he told Estrella when they were not much more than halfway across, “this isn’t such a bad place.”
She didn’t answer him directly, just sat up straighter and tried to see something that was going on at the entrance to the institute. “What in the world is that?” she asked.
Stan couldn’t answer. Their Heechee driver did. “Persons there are recent fellow shipmates of both you, names of those being Salt and Achiever, plus certain others desirous to make welcoming home for you. You wish to stop for conversing? No? All right, those two to join you later and anyway are almost at destination. Are already here,” she corrected herself as the little car reached Klara’s entry porte.
Klara herself opened the door. Herself. Manually. “Come on in,” she said. Stan half expected that she would say something about that baffling mothers-in-law thing. She didn’t. She gave them each a hug. “We’re ready for you,” she said fondly. “My dears.” They were clearly still getting the return-of-the-heroes treatment. Not only from Klara, either. The second thing Stan noticed—the first having been the beaming, welcoming presence of Sigfrid von Shrink, who obviously was failing to hug them both only because he physically couldn’t—was the trays, bowls and platters of good things to eat that filled every flat surface in the room. “From Marc,” Klara explained. “You know, the chef? Or general, or whatever he is right now. I think it’s his way of saying thanks. Maybe he’ll do it in person—I expect he’ll drop in a little later—but don’t count on it.”
“Oh,” Sigfrid put in, “I think you can count on it, Stan. Marc doesn’t make friends easily, but he thinks quite highly of you.” Stan started to assume his aw-shucks look, but Sigfrid paid no attention. “I believe Hypatia told you that Klara was expecting some guests, but I don’t think she told you who they were. One of them’s a woman you may have heard of. She’s stored, and—what? Oh, of course,” he said remorsefully. “Estrella, Klara would like you to go with her into another room. Bring your Stork thing. I suppose she wants some of what is called ‘girl talk.’ Go ahead, dear. Dears. Stan and I will be fine out here.” He smiled benevolently at the sight of Estrella giving Stan a kiss on the cheek before letting Klara lead her away.
Stan was already returning to Marc Antony’s spread. Chewing, he said, “You were talking about some woman.”
“Yes. She’s quite an unusual person. Her name is Rowena McClune.” He paused long enough for Stan to make the connection, then nodded. “Yes. Orbis McClune’s—well—is ‘widow’ the right term? At any rate, they were once married. She’s been in machine storage since McClune himself was organic—quite a bit longer than he, in fact. She hasn’t wasted her time, either. Unlike those organics who seem to think that machine storage is just a license to do nothing but play and have fun for eternity. I’m sure you know what I mean.”
Stan, who didn’t, said absently, “Of course,” while prospecting among some tiny meat tarts.
Sigfrid went on, sounding oddly proud. “Marc had located her out of his client list here in the Core—she’s been here for a couple weeks, it seems—and, actually, it turned out I’d known her long ago, because she was one of my students.”
That explained the pride, Stan decided. Making conversation while sampling some of Marc’s exotic dips, he asked, “And she’s coming here?”
“Indeed she is. In fact, I expect she’s here already. Just a minute—yes. Stan, this is Reverend Doctor Rowena McClune.”
Stan looked up. Sigfrid was now accompanied by an attractive woman. Though no longer young, she was quite beautiful, with her blonde hair done up in a swirl that Estrella later identified as a French twist. (“A real old lady hairdo,” she called it, but added, “All the same, she looked pretty good.”)
“I’ve been hoping to meet you and your wife,” the woman said. “I don’t know whether you know it or not, but she’s even more famous than you are in some ways. Because of the baby.”
“That’s nice,” Stan said, wondering whether it was worth it to correct that word “wife.” He didn’t get the chance. On his right side Yellow Jade appeared, with only one of his senile sons. (“Warm now with Stored Minds,” he reported. “I and Ionic Solvent very happy.”) And at his left Sigfrid showed up, shepherding a couple of other Heechee. “This is my dear Stored Mind friend, Twin Hearts—I don’t think you’ve met him before—” And when Stan looked around Rowena McClune was heading toward a quite different group at the far end of the room.
A party it was, too. Twin Hearts was described as one who had special knowledge of such non-Heechee matters as “currency” and “debt” and even “profit,” and, not only that, had somewhere acquired a very considerable repertory of human round-the-campfire songs (though not really the right voice to sing them with). Stan and Estrella weren’t the only organic guests, either. Achiever, turning his nose up at most of the food, looked puzzled when Estrella asked a question. “Salt? Consult memory, please. Have not just in short recency joined Salt in welcoming you and inseminator. For what other purpose would I have felt need to invite companionship of Salt? Already have established fetus is doing quite healthily, have no other concerns with same. This statement represents actuality of fact, unregarding any other statement perhaps emanating from Salt.” Then, with a firm head-bob, a different tone: “Ah, apples! Can forgive human nastiness of diet for many things for having provided apples!”
A moment later Marc Antony appeared. He wasn’t wearing his chef’s hat. He wore what Stan was pretty sure was an army uniform from some war or other—white pants, flashes of scarlet on the blouse, cocked hat—but from what war it was Stan couldn’t say.
“Sorry if I am late,” Marc said. “The specialists needed to talk to Wan. I had to wait until they were finished, to make sure he was properly deactivated again before I left.” He paused to look around at the tables of food. “Is everything all right? Is there anything anyone would like?”
Stan had his hand up. “What specialists are you talking about?”
“I believe most of the party was lawyers and accountants,” he said, with approximately the same intonation he would have used if he had been saying “whores” and “lepers.”
“Indeed they would have been,” Sigfrid explained, taking over. “It isn’t just Wan himself that we wanted, you know. It’s his money. We’re going to fine him for all the trouble he caused. That’ll probably come to just about everything he owns, and naturally, after all these years Outside, it isn’t going to be easy to identify all of Wan’s assets.” The smile broadened. “But then, taking it along with Klara’s earlier generous contribution, that should be quite enough to pay for all the monetary expenses of immigrating, housing, feeding and settling in all our new citizens from Outside.” He paused and changed the subject. “We’ll talk about all that at another time. Marc? Can’t you provide us with some wine?”
Marc could and did, both material and simulated kinds. He hadn’t stopped with wine, either; he had provided little glassy
bowls of the fungus that Stan recognized as the Heechee social drug of choice. Klara herself gave Estrella a glass of physically real wine, Sigfrid hovering at her shoulder to assure Stan that one glass would do her no harm at all. Apparently it didn’t. Didn’t harm Stan, either, so he had a second, and then a third.
He wasn’t the only one. When he wasn’t looking a dozen or so other guests had appeared, a couple organics of both species but a number of Heechee, mostly Stored Minds. The fact that both they themselves and the fungus they were helping themselves to were simulations didn’t seem to hamper their pleasure. Didn’t seem to diminish their animated conversations, either, most of them being with at least one organic person included and thus conducted in organic time. Stan had no idea what the conversations were about, though, and he was beginning to feel a bit warm. It occurred to him that it would be a good idea to sit down. There was a vacant space on one of Klara’s couches. He collected some more wine and, as he was sitting down, saw that the other side of the couch was occupied by Rowena McClune, sitting by herself. Although she was holding a glass, three-quarters of the wine was still in it. When she saw that Stan had drifted toward her she gave him a polite smile. “I’ve just been sitting here envying you and your wife,” she said, glancing in Estrella’s direction. “To have a child! I don’t think there’s a more joyous occasion in the universe.”
“Thanks,” Stan, who wouldn’t have put it that way but was willing to go along, said. He noted that Achiever, munching a large clump of the party fungus, was standing behind them, listening attentively. Ignoring him, he addressed the McClune woman. “That word ‘wife’ wasn’t quite right. We’ve never married.” And then, to keep her from pursuing the subject, “I see you aren’t a big drinker.”
“Well,” she said, “it wouldn’t make any difference if I were, would it? Simulated alcohol doesn’t make you drunk. Unless you want it to, that is, and it’s been a long time since I wanted anything like that.” His expression, balancing curiosity against manners, made her smile again. “When I was first machine-stored, I confess I tried that sort of thing. Many different sorts of things, really. You wouldn’t believe some of the surrounds I made for myself, and I’m definitely not going to tell you about them. But I got tired of that. I began looking for something useful to do with my new life.”
“That’s very interesting,” Stan said, glancing at Achiever, who at least didn’t seem eager to tell his life story.
Rowena McClune wasn’t finished. “Why not?” she asked.
He blinked at her more seriously. “Why not what?”
“Why aren’t you and Ms. Pancorbo married?”
It was one of the harder questions Stan had been asked. He considered several different answers: It wasn’t a custom here in Heechee land. They didn’t have anyone to perform the ceremony. They never thought of it. They hadn’t, after all, known each other very long. None of those seemed good enough, so he settled for, “We’re all right the way we are.”
Achiever gave his braying laugh. “Good response just said by you, Stan,” he told them both. “Above-mentioned marrying custom is foolish ancient tribal affair of your tribe, unnecessary in civilized world. My people have done such thing never.”
Surprisingly, there was a rumble from behind Stan. When he turned, it was Thermocline. Stan considered asking him why everybody was sneaking up on him, but Thermocline was speaking. “That is not entirely correct, Achiever,” he said, polite but positive. “Many of our people on the Wheel found the human custom of ‘family’ attractive, and formed such groups: mother, father and one or more offspring all living together and forming a family unit.”
“Huh,” Achiever said, temporarily derailed. He recovered himself well enough to produce a sneer. “Such persons were living among human persons much too length of time, Thermocline. Such situation can cause serious problems of decreased concinnity, as has been demonstrated in unfortunate case of myself.”
He turned a challenging look at Stan. Since he had supported Stan’s position, clearly he now felt it was Stan’s turn to support his. Stan might have done so. What prevented him was that he was having a hard time following the discussion. “I guess,” he said vaguely, and then, “Excuse me.”
It occurred to him that another glass of wine might clear his head. But as he turned to go in search of one he almost tripped over a short, dark organic human woman standing just behind him. He stared at her with astonishment. “You look just like that baby doctor, Kusmeroglu. Can’t be, though. Hypatia told you not to come.”
The woman looked pleased with herself. “Hypatia changed her mind. She caught me at the spacecraft terminal, told me Klara wanted me to stay so I could keep an eye on Estrella. And here I am. So you see, I did get to meet Klara after all.”
“But—” Stan said reasonably. “But—” He stopped there. He was clear in his mind that the woman must have made some egregious mistake, but he was having difficulty in framing the sentences that would straighten her out. “I think I need to sit down,” he said, and looked around for the nearest chair, and did.
Dr. Kusmeroglu bent swiftly to sniff his lips. “Oh, I see,” she sighed. “Listen, Stan. Let me collect Estrella. I think we need to get you home.”
III
When Stan woke up, he immediately wished he hadn’t. He had little previous experience of hangovers, but he recognized the symptoms at once. When his eyes were open enough, he identified Estrella standing over him, but much too close, and holding something out to him, but he could not tell what. He checked his memory, found it empty and muttered weakly, “Hon, I’m sorry.”
Or thought he had. Estrella didn’t seem to have heard. She not only was not appropriately sympathetic, she seemed somehow pleased about something. “Come on,” she said, hardly comfortingly at all, “drink this. I want to tell you something.”
The sense of what she was saying penetrated to Stan’s brain. It didn’t elevate his mood. In Stan’s experience, when someone said she wanted to tell him something it was unlikely to be something he wanted to hear. Puzzlingly, though, Estrella didn’t seem to be angry or offended or any of the other things Stan associated with that sort of remark. She was grinning. Her eyes were—yes—dancing. “Oh, for God’s sake,” she was saying. “Are you going to drink this or not?”
It appeared to be a cup of coffee. Not the good, thick Turkish kind, but the only marginally less good kind that Americans liked to drink at breakfast. He swallowed it as rapidly as he could, but Estrella was already tapping her fingers before he got it all down. “Well?” she demanded. “Sigfrid said he’d get Marc to put something in it.”
Stan moved his head experimentally. Apparently the chef had. The blinding pain was gone without a trace. The inside of his mouth still tasted of ancient cigar ends, and he had a sudden overpowering thirst—
For which Estrella was ready. She was handing him a cup of something that fizzed. “Sigfrid said this would help, okay?” Sipping, he nodded. “So guess what? I had a long talk with Hypatia while Klara was busy with her guests. Did you know Klara had practically a nervous breakdown after the tsunami ruined her island?” Stan shook his head, which happily did not fall off. “That’s why she’s on this planet. Sigfrid suggested she come here. At first he thought she might want to set up something like her island—for orphans, you know?”
Stan experimentally stretched his muscles. Everything seemed to be working all right. He said, “Strell, hon, is this going to be a long story? Because I’m kind of hungry.”
“Almost done. Klara said no. Said she couldn’t face being a mommy.
“Then she met us.”
Stan hadn’t exactly stopped paying attention, but it was true that his mind was filling with visions of ham with red eye gravy and stacks of fries. When he realized Estrella had stopped talking and was regarding him he blinked. “Oh. Right. She took an interest in you.”
“In the baby, mostly. So do you know what the mother-in-law stuff was about?”
“The baby?” h
e hazarded.
“Sort of. If Klara was your mother-in-law or my mother-in-law—or both our mothers-in-law—what would that make her to the baby?”
The scales fell from his eyes. “Oh, my God,” he said wonderingly. “She wants to be the baby’s grandma.”
Estrella was nodding vigorously. “Exactly. What do you think about that?”
Stan didn’t hesitate. “Oh, absolutely sure,” he said. “She’ll be good at it. Now can we get some breakfast?”
IV
Estrella and Stan no longer lacked for company. People kept calling and dropping in. Stan didn’t care for it, but Estrella seemed pleased. She told Stan, “You know, this is kind of nice. Back home people were visiting all the time—for a cup of mate, or to bring back something they borrowed, or just to sit and gossip for a few minutes. I miss that. Don’t you?” Since Stan had never had any experience of that sort of neighborliness he had no good answer except to smile, and pat her on the shoulder, and ask brightly if it wasn’t getting close to time for lunch.
Then, when Stan was in the drencher, he came out and Estrella was waiting. “Hon? Rowena McClune called.”
He stopped drying himself. “What about?”
“Well, she was real interested in the baby, and I invited her to come over. So she wants to do it now.”
Stan groaned. “Strell, don’t we have enough—”
“So I told her to come away. I liked her, Stan. You’d better put some clothes on.”
While he was doing it he heard the door. When he came out, there she was, sitting in the overstuffed chair (but, he noticed, revealing her immaterial status because she put no dent in it). When they turned Stork on she seemed really fascinated, not only by the chubby little image with the Buddha smile that floated before, but in Stan’s account of all the changes it had gone through. She was a good listener. Good talker, too; she was perfectly willing to answer every one of Estrella’s questions about her other life. “Well,” she said, “the first part, right after I died, wasn’t too interesting. I just fooled around, like everybody else. Then I got tired of just having fun, the way most of the other machine-stored were doing, and I found out there weren’t too many other kinds of things for a woman without much education to do. That could be dealt with, though. There were enough people in storage by then, some of them serious-minded, to have started some kind of correspondence-school things. I took courses. I don’t know if organic Harvard would have let me into graduate school, with what I had in the way of a baccalaureate, but the machine-stored Harvard did, and before you knew it I had a Ph.D. Three of them, in fact, because I kept getting interested in different things.”
The Boy Who Would Live Forever Page 46