Stan cut in. “That’s all you did? Study?”
“I thought it was quite a lot, Stan. Wouldn’t hurt you to try it, either.”
Caught by surprise, Stan could only think of saying, “But, Rowena, I’m just about going to be a father.”
“And you’re barely eighteen years old,” she reminded him. Then smiled. “We can talk about that another time. And, yes, I did do some other things. I simulated myself, and went back to see how Orbis was doing, with a face that wasn’t my own. He was in mourning. Real mourning. I could see that my organic death had hit him hard. And he wasn’t doing very well. His congregation was drifting away.
“But he was doing his best, because he thought they needed him.
“So my conscience began to hurt a little and I went back to school. Divinity school, this time. I became a fully credentialed minister of God. Did that for a while, then I realized I wasn’t making much progress converting the unsaved—even tried it with Heechee, you know. With no luck at all.
“So I got Sigfrid to teach me something about psychology. To help me reason with the doubters, you know. And to help me with a few other things.” She gazed benignly at Estrella and Stan. They were sitting together, rapt, holding hands. “Like, for instance, I can perform weddings. I can conduct a burial service if anybody wants one—in fact, I was doing it while we were talking at the party. It was for a man from old Earth who didn’t like the Heechee way of disposing of the dead.”
Stan looked doubtful. “I guess I don’t know what that is.”
She gave him a wry look. “Maybe you don’t want to know. Actually, they put the body in one of those fish ponds—you’ve seen them? With those toothy fish? So the fish eat the corpse, and then—this is the sticky part—after a while the mourners eat one of the fish.”
She sat silent for a moment while Stan and Estrella digested that news. It didn’t seem to agree with them. Then she flashed them another smile. “Did I mention that I can also perform weddings?”
Stan swallowed. “Dr. McClune, neither of us is very religious,” he offered.
“I didn’t think you were, Stan. I just thought that the two of you really loved each other, and that you might want to make it on the record.”
“Well,” Stan said, looking at Estrella, “when you put it like that, I guess—”
“No,” Estrella said firmly. “We don’t guess. We definitely know that, yes, we positively do want to get married. So will you do it for us, please? And as soon as possible?”
V
Well, it wasn’t quite that quick. Wasn’t really simple, either, because Gelle-Klara Moynlin wouldn’t allow that. (“Being mother-in-law of the groom makes me mother of the bride, hon. Just put yourself in my hands and let me do my job.”) She did it, too. She told them they had to have, at least, music. And flowers. And a nice dress for Estrella to wear; and a few friends to wish them well; and when you put them all together not only was their own apartment too small but so was Klara’s. The only suitably large space anywhere nearby was the institute’s main hall, and the institute was glad enough, indeed delighted, to grant any request at all from the person who had, more or less, helped save the Core.
When Stan and Estrella arrived for the ceremony, they were delighted too. “Roses!” Estrella exclaimed, wonderingly. “And, look, calla lilies too! I wonder where they got them. Do you suppose Marc Antony could’ve made them out of a Food Factory?”
Stan would have agreed, because he was pretty sure there was no limit to what Marc Antony could make out of CHON and a sprinkling of other elements, but he had a wonder of his own. “And where the hell did they get that band?” Half a dozen Heechee were established on a platform at one end of the room, tootling away on a variety of instruments—not only drums, a piano and a pair of banjos but a horn and a clarinet, just as though those were anatomically feasible for them. He even recognized the tune they were playing. It was “Embraceable You,” played just as it had been on the vid disks Klara had imported for him—
“Oh, hell,” he said, surprised into a grin. It wasn’t like Dizzy Gillespie doing the set. It really was Dizzy Gillespie. The Heechee were only miming the instruments in their hands; the actual music was coming from speakers all around the room.
And when he looked around, Estrella was gone.
He peered around the room, and was just in time to see Estrella, tugged along by Klara, Salt and a couple of female Heechee he didn’t recognize, disappearing down one of the institute’s interior hallways. He didn’t have time to look after her very long, because he was immediately surrounded by well-wishers, Sigfrid and Achiever, Dr. Kusmeroglu, Klara’s shipmind, Hypatia, a dozen or more persons whom he recognized only with difficulty or didn’t recognize at all. They all seemed glad to see him. When organic, they slapped him on the back (if male) or gave him warm hugs and chaste kisses (if female). The simulated ones had their own modes of expression, from blown kisses to casual waves, but, however expressed, they were uniformly affectionate. In the middle of having not only his back slapped but his hand wrung simultaneously by two of the Old Ones’ keepers from One Moon Planet of Pale Yellow Star Fourteen Stan was struck by a belated thought. “Damn it,” he said to the room in general, and looked wildly around until he caught sight of Sigfrid von Shrink. Who came over in response to Stan’s wave, politely asking, “Yes, Stan?”
“I didn’t think! I need a best man. Will you—?”
Sigfrid would. Was honored to be asked, he said, and went away for a moment. When he returned he had changed his clothing entirely. He now wore striped trousers, a morning coat, a handsome cravat and an expression of dignified delight.
Not that Stan had much time to admire his new best man. Everyone in the room was surrounding him at once, most of the organic ones trying to press glasses of wine on him (uniformly refused; Stan was capable of learning from experience). Most of the males had little jokes to whisper in his ear—seldom understood by Stan—and most of the females were telling him how lucky he was to be about to have a child.
And, having said it all, they generally went on to say it all over again.
Before Stan could get really annoyed with all the attention, though not much before, he became aware that the press of well-wishers was thinning. One by one, they were leaving his side to seat themselves in decorous rows of chairs and perches, opening up an aisle that led to where, he discovered, Rowena McClune stood waiting, sumptuously robed in what looked like pure white silk. If Marc Antony had made that, too, out of the ingredients for CHON-food, Stan was willing to consider him a master couturier.
And Rowena gave Stan a small beckoning wave and a smile.
Stan took the hint. By the time she had positioned him next to her side the band stopped in the middle of a Fats Waller “Tea for Two” and all of the Heechee mimes stood silent and unmoving. A different kind of music began from the speakers. It was Mendelssohn’s wedding march, played by some unidentified symphony orchestra. And out of the corridor Gelle-Klara Moynlin appeared, bearing a bouquet of lilies as she decorously walked in slow time up the aisle. A moment later Estrella followed. She wore a gown of whitest silk and most delicate lace, acquired from where Stan could not imagine. Her belly was big enough to hold a watermelon. Her eyes were still misaligned. The rest of her features had never been particularly remarkable…but as far as Stan was concerned, he realized, why, yes, she really was one beautiful woman.
He held her hand tightly as they turned to face Rowena McClune. Who gave them a fond smile as she began, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here this day…”
There was food for everyone, also drink, also another set of Stan’s favorite old jazz numbers, “Paper Doll” and “St. Louis Blues” and “St. James Infirmary Blues” and half a dozen other blues numbers, again simulated by the Heechee sextet. There was even dancing. First there was the one obligatory turn around the cramped floor by the newlyweds, then some odd impressions of ballroom steps by humans and Heechee alike.
Back in their s
eats of honor, neither Stan nor Estrella had much use for the drink, but they couldn’t escape the food. Didn’t want to, when you came right down to it. Marc Antony had outdone himself. Fresh, chilled raw oysters. Delicate little sausages in the lightest of tiny rolls. Bowls of fresh pineapple and blueberries, cherries and kiwis, suitably chilled and still bearing their fresh (however manufactured by Marc) drops of dew. Stan ate a great deal. Probably to be polite Estrella did too, and Stan was not surprised when she excused herself to visit the sanitary slot. He did notice that when she came back she seemed a bit subdued. He was considering following her example when Hypatia of Alexandria popped into existence between them. “Estrella! Stork indicates that something’s going on with the baby! How do you feel?”
Estrella gave her a game smile. “Oh, I guess I’ve had too much rich food, too fast—”
Hypatia was wagging her bejeweled head. “That’s not what Stork’s indicating. I think we’d better get you to the birthing room. I’ll call Dr. Kusmeroglu. Let’s get moving. I mean now!”
VI
Once again Stan had crash-dived from being the center of attention, or at least 50 percent of the center, to the status of largely overlooked onlooker. It didn’t take long, either. At one moment he and Estrella were receiving congratulations and badinage. At the next Estrella was gone, escorted by about a dozen of the female guests, Dr. Kusmeroglu in the lead. Oh, there were plenty of people left in the room. But they were all in small knots, animatedly talking over this new development, and Stan was left, almost alone, to gaze after his departing bride.
Achiever was the one who took pity on him. “One exhibits feelings of sympathy,” he announced, taking Stan’s hand in his own skeletal one. “Come.”
He didn’t say where. Didn’t need to, really. He was pretty strong, and Stan didn’t resist.
It was the first time Stan had been in a nonpublic part of the institute. It was interesting, too, or at least tantalizing. Through doorways they passed Stan caught glimpses of odd-looking machines (?), or furniture (?), or, perhaps, art objects (???). In spite of the circumstances, and of the fact that he kept bumping his head on the low Heechee ceilings, he thought wistfully that it would have been nice to have had a better look at them. He had no such look. Achiever had a goal in mind. It wasn’t until they had almost reached it that he stopped and stood for a moment gazing at Stan. “Have a thing to mention, in some degree not unrelevant to variety of custom you with Estrella have just observed,” he announced.
Stan had too much on his mind to be tolerant of Heechee ditherings. “So mention the hell away,” he snapped.
The Heechee’s belly muscles were rippling wildly under his tunic. “Is not really a matter of any large significance entirely,” he said. “Happens self with female Salt recently did significant discussing of future planning. That is, joint future is meant here.”
That got Stan’s attention. “What do you mean, ‘joint’? I thought you said marriage was a—”
“Was foolish ancient custom your people, yes. What is purpose to mention this word ‘marriage.’ You have not heard me say word ‘marriage.’ Is quite not in contemplation at all.”
“What then?” Stan demanded.
Achiever spread his bony fingers. “Other thing entirely. Propose repeated alternation of dwellings occupied by I and she, this time both in one, that time both in other. Will now be one-on-one cohabitation.”
“And the difference is?”
“Very large difference indeed! Joint habitation purely as temporary convenience. To continue no longer than, let us say, time necessary for child to grow and become adult. You have understanding of aforesaid statements?”
“I guess so. It’ll be temporary, just for twenty years or so.”
“Exactly correct. Now here is place for you.”
The place was quite nice—lush balcony with its scented ferns and flowering mosses—and someone was waiting for him at one of the little tables. “I thought I’d keep you company, Stan,” Sigfrid von Shrink said. “I know what it’s like.”
Stan forebore to ask the AI how he would know that, his mind still trying to get used to the fact that Salt and Achiever were actually setting up housekeeping. He abandoned both questions and said just, “Thanks,” as he sank into one of the physically real chairs.
Sigfrid said, “You’re welcome,” and stopped himself there, regarding Stan.
That was new. It was not possible that Sigfrid was having trouble, in real time, in deciding what to do, so, Stan decided, it had to be something he was waiting for Stan to do. He took a stab at, “Was there something you wanted to talk to me about?”
Sigfrid still seemed hesitant. “I understand Rowena McClune spoke to you,” he offered.
Stan was tempted to grin. “You bet she did. Look what came of it.”
“Anything else?”
“Oh,” Stan said, relieved. “Sure. She thinks I ought to go back to school.”
Sigfrid nodded. “And what do you think about that, Stan?”
That had not been one of the questions uppermost in Stan’s mind. He shrugged without much interest. “I guess, maybe. I mean sure I should sometime or other. But right now I’ve got other things on my mind, and anyway I wouldn’t know what to study.”
“I see,” Sigfrid said, stroking his chin as though considering the matter—more of his theatrics, Stan knew. “Well, you might just study everything, Stan. Everything you need to be a well-informed human being. History. Political science—well, that’s kind of a misnomer, because there isn’t much that’s scientific about it. Like economics and social studies and all those, it’s basically about how human beings behave, so, really, they’re all branches of psychology… Oh, sorry,” he said, noting Stan’s expression. “I didn’t mean to make it so, well, forbidding. You look like you have a question.”
“I certainly do. The question is, ‘why?’”
Sigfrid looked pained. “I’m not sure which ‘why’ you’re asking about, Stan. If it’s why learn, the answer is because you can. You’ve got a good mind, but there’s not a whole lot of knowledge in it to prepare you for the kind of life you should think of living. If the question is why I mention these particular subjects”—the look on his face had suddenly become grave—“it’s because they all bear on the art, I won’t say the science, of governance.”
Stan was beginning to feel alarmed. “You mean so I’ll know, like, how to vote? If we ever have anything like elections, I mean?”
“Or be voted for, Stan,” Sigfrid said gently. He raised a hand to forestall Stan’s objections. “If not you, who else? It has to be somebody. The millions of human beings in the Core need some kind of government.”
Stan looked dubious, and was. “Isn’t that what the Stored Minds do?”
“They do that for the Heechee, yes. They are of course wise and just and all those things. They aren’t human, though. They don’t think the same way we do. The Stored Minds are well aware of that; I’m confident that they would refuse to govern humans, even if asked.”
Stan thought it over for a moment, then brightened. “But we already have a government we can get to help us, don’t we? All those other planets in the outside galaxy have to have some sort of governing body—”
Sigfrid was shaking his head. “They don’t, Stan. They never did, really; there were always disputes that no one could settle and, anyway, what little they did have has long since vanished. Do you know that there are more organic human beings in the Core than in the whole outside galaxy?”
Stan didn’t answer. Didn’t have to; the expression on his face was answer enough. “It’s because of machine storage, Stan,” Sigfrid told him. “It began with the Here After facilities. First people were stored when they died. Then, when people began to realize what machine-stored existence could be like, they stopped waiting for death. They got stored whenever they chose to do it, and then they could have anything they wanted. Could create any surround. Could invent other people for themselves, or interac
t with those other stored ones. And then—”
He paused, shaking his head. “You remember all those discoveries and inventions that were coming from Outside? Have you noticed that they’ve pretty much dried up? Machine-stored people don’t do much inventing. They don’t do research, either. Why would they, when there isn’t any need for them to do anything that requires work, or anything at all but enjoy all the pleasures they can imagine? They’re the lotus-eaters, Stan. The people who need nothing, and thus do nothing useful at all!”
He gazed for a long moment at Stan, who had no idea what lotus-eaters were. He decided to nod wisely. Sigfrid returned the nod. “So we can’t rely on anybody else, you see. There has to be something to deal with problems—call it a government—something like a Core-wide congress. The members will be elected, as soon as somebody can figure out how to go about it. I think you should run.”
It took Stan a moment to get his breath. “Wha—What about my getting an education?”
“The two things aren’t mutually exclusive, Stan. Anyway, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. You don’t have to say anything now. Think it over. Talk to Estrella.” And then, smiling, “Whom I’m told you can see now, along with your new daughter.”
The Boy Who Would Live Forever Page 47