The Annals of the Heechee

13 KIDS IN CAPTIVITY

The school’s principal was not only human, she was good at dealing with children. She had four degrees and nineteen years of experience. In that time she had encountered nearly every problem kids could provide, which was roughly one problem per child per semester for all the thousands of children she had supervised over the years.

None of that helped now. She was out of her depth.

When she arrived in the waiting room of the counseling section she was breathless and unbelieving. “But that is fantastic, my dear,” she told the sobbing Oniko. “How could they possibly—To be able to read your diary—But why in the world—” She flung herself into a chair, scowling at the incredibility of it all.

“Ma’am?” said Sneezy, and when he got a glance from the principal went on, “It’s not just Oniko. I kept a diary, too, and that’s part of the transmission.”

The principal shook her head helplessly. She waved at the wall screen, which promptly displayed the school’s private beach; work-things were tending barbecue fires, and students were beginning to assemble. She looked from the children to the screen and back again. “I should be there,” she said fretfully. “It’s luau night tonight, you know.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Sneezy, and Harold nodded vigorously beside him.

“Roast pig,” said Harold. “Dancing!”

The principal looked glum. She thought for a moment, then made her decision. “You’ll have to tell the whole thing to the counselors,” she said. “All three of you.”

“I didn’t keep any diary!” Harold wailed.

“But, you see, we can’t be sure of that. No,” the principal said firmly, “that’s the way it will have to be. You’ll all have to tell your stories. The machines will have questions, I’m sure. Just tell the truth, don’t leave anything out-I’m afraid you’ll miss the luau, but I’ll instruct the cook-things to save you something.” And she rose, waved the door open, and was gone.

Harold gazed stonily at his friends. “You two!” he snarled in condemnation.

“I’m sorry,” Sneezy said politely.

“Sorry! Making me miss the luau! Listen,” said Harold, thinking fast, “I’ll tell you what. I’ll go first. Then maybe I can get through and down to the beach before the dancing starts, anyway. I mean, that’s the least you two can do, isn’t it, after all this trouble?”

Of course, at this point none of the kids knew just how much trouble all this trouble was. They were kids. They were not used to being at the center of events that shook the entire universe.

There was, Sneezy supposed, a certain amount of justice in what Harold said, though there was a second level of unfairness that was not dealt with at all. Neither he nor Oniko had done anything! No one had told them they shouldn’t spend their time investigating Earth conditions in every way possible. No one had even hinted that there was anything wrong with synopsizing and organizing the data in their diaries-which, to be sure, were not really “diaries” at all, in the sense of little gilt-edged books that you wrote your latest crushes and enmities in. They had simply played all the information they could gather into their pods, as any right-thinking Heechee (or Heechee-influenced human) would have done.

They had done nothing at all that was in any way reprehensible-but, oh, how terrifying it was that their innocent activities had somehow been converted into that most forbidden of all possible actions, a transmission to the Foe! It was too scary a thought for Sneezy to deal with.

Oniko was nearer. Her fears were easier to handle. He said, “There’s another booth, Oniko. Would you like to go in now?”

She shook her head. Her dark eyes were darker still with recent tears, but she had stopped sobbing. “You go, Sternutator.”

He hesitated, then said, “All right, but I’ll wait until you’re through. We can go down to the beach together.”

“No, please, Sternutator. You go ahead when you’re done. I’m not hungry, anyway.”

Sneezy hissed in thought. He did not like the idea of Oniko missing the beach party, and liked even less the thought of her trying to hobble her way, walker and all, down the sands by herself. It was difficult enough for Oniko to get around on a level surface, with her muscles still unhardened to the full crush of Earth.

Then it occurred to him that he need promise nothing; he could wait for her whether she asked him to or not. “Very well, Oniko,” he started to say.

And then the whole question became moot.

The lights went out.

The lounge was in twilight, the only illumination coming from the picture window that looked out on the mountain; but the mountain was already hiding the setting sun.

From the counseling booth Harold’s enraged roar came: “Now what the devil!” The door to the cubicle shook, then gradually slid wide enough for a boy to squeeze through as Harold shoved it open manually. “What’s going on?” he demanded, glaring at Sneezy and Oniko. “The stupid program just cut off in the middle of asking me a question!”

Sneezy said helpfully, “I would guess that the power has gone off.”

“Oh, Dopey, what a fool you are! The power never goes off”

Sneezy looked around at the wall screen, now blank; at the lounge lighting fixtures, all dark; at the door that would no longer open at anyone’s approach.

“But it has, Harold,” he said reasonably. “So what are we going to do now?”

When the power was off the lights were off, and the corridors of the school buildings were now dark and disturbing. When the lights were off the elevators were off, and so their only way down to the main buildings and thence to the beach was to climb down the never-used stairs.

That was not a practical choice for Oniko and her rubbery legs.

“We’ll have to walk,” said Harold accusingly, and Sneezy agreed.

“But it will be better to go outside and use the road,” he pointed out.

Harold scowled out the mountainside window, then at the smaller one that let them see down onto the beach. Although the school was dead, the students were not. Nearly all of them were there, tiny in the distance, milling about the beach. The scene on the beach didn’t look frightening. It looked rather like fun, and Harold sighed.

“Oh, good lord, I suppose we have to go by the road to take care of Oniko. Well, let’s get on with it.” He didn’t mention that with the school out of service, the alternative was to slip and slide down the hillside, which wouldn’t be much easier for him than for the girl. He walked toward the door. Having had little experience with doors that did not open when desired, he nearly bumped his nose before he stopped short and angrily wrestled it open.

It was nearly full dark now, and of course even the streetlights were out. That didn’t matter much. There would be a quarter of a moon before long, and even the Pacific starlight would be nearly enough to see by. What worried Sneezy more than the power blackout was Oniko. She had rarely cried on the Wheel, even when bigger children had teased her. Now she seemed unable to stop for long. The tears had begun again, slow drops forming in the corners of her eyes; as one rolled down her chin, another was ready to take its place. “Please, Oniko,” Sneezy begged. “It is only a problem with the electricity. Nothing is serious.”

“It’s not the electricity,” she sobbed. “It’s my diary.”

“How silly you are,” said Sneezy dismally, wishing he could at least convince himself, if not Oniko. “That must be a coincidence. Do you think the Foe would bother with a child’s compositions?”

She shifted on her crutches to gaze at him. “But they did!” she wailed. “My exact words, and yours, too.”

“Yes, Dopey,” Harold cut in roughly. “Don’t try to get out of it! It’s all your fault-and hers, I mean.”

“Including the power failure?” Sneezy inquired. But he got no satisfaction from the retort. In some sense, he acknowledged to himself, it was their fault. The odds against coincidence were frightful. The Heechee had no analogy of forty million monkeys typing out the complete works of William Shakespeare, but that wasn’t necessary to convince Sneezy. Coincidence was, to all intents and purposes, impossible . . .

Just about as impossible as the only alternative he could see, namely that somehow the Foe had been watching over their shoulders as they completed their notes.

Confronted with two equally preposterous alternatives, Sneezy did what any sensible child, Heechee or human, would have done. He put it out of his mind.

He pointed along the road to the winding driveway used by the hovertrucks. “Let’s go down to the beach that way,” he suggested.

“But it’s kilometers,” Harold groaned.

“Very well,” said Sneezy, “you take a shortcut if you like. Oniko and I will use the road.”

“Oh, lord,” sighed Harold, adding one more charge to the indictment against Sneezy and Oniko, “I guess we might as well all stick together. But it’s going to take all night.”

He turned and led the way, Sneezy and Oniko following. The girl was tragic-faced and silent, limping along and refusing Sneezy’s help. After a dozen meters Harold looked around and scowled. He was already far ahead. “Can’t you go any faster?” he called.

“You may go without us,” said Sneezy, wishing he would not. For reasons he could not identify, Sneezy was ill at ease. When Harold irritably came back to walk with exaggerated patience next to them, he was glad of the company.

Was there, really, anything to be afraid of?

Sneezy could think of nothing real. It was true that it was dark and that they could easily be run over by some speeding vehicle-but it was also true that there weren’t any vehicles on the road; their power, too, was off.

All the same, he was very nearly afraid.

Sneezy had never felt fear of the island before. Of course it was human and remote and therefore wholly strange to a Heechee boy, but it had not occurred to him that there was anything to be afraid of. Certainly not of the few Polynesian natives who remained. They were almost all old people who kept to their homes and ways while most of the young ones had gone off to more exciting places than Moorea. He had not even been afraid of the prison buildings, because it had been explained to the children that there were almost no living convicts still there. In any case, although the couple who remained had done terrible things, they were not only securely confined but very old. There was, Sneezy assured himself, absolutely nothing to be afraid of beyond the chance that they might be late for the luau.

As a rational Heechee, he allowed the logic to convince him.

And thus he was only startled, but not really afraid, when he heard a sudden squawk from Harold and saw two old men step out of the uphill path to confront the children.

“You’re a Heechee,” said the smaller of the two men, with a pleased smile of recognition.

“Of course he’s a Heechee,” Harold blustered. “Who the dickens are you?’ The old man beamed at him and reached out a hand to his arm. It looked like a pat of reassurance, but the man didn’t let go.

He said, “I am General Beaupre Heimat, and this is my colleague, Cyril Basingstoke. What a pleasant surprise to meet you here. I suppose you are students at the school?”

“Yes,” said Sneezy. “My name is Sternutator, but I’m generally called Sneezy.” As he introduced his companions according to diligently mastered Earth protocol, he tried to make out the expressions on the men’s faces. The general was a tall man, though not as tall as his companion, and he had a broad face that wore a not very reassuring grin. Sneezy was not particularly attuned to the subtle ethnic differences that distinguished one sort of human from another, but it was apparent that the second old man was noticeably dark-skinned. They did not seem especially threatening, although the expression on the black man’s face was concerned. As the general moved toward Oniko, Basingstoke said worriedly, “Man, we are so lucky to be out, please don’t do anything to start trouble.”

Heimat shrugged. “What sort of trouble? I just wanted to tell this pretty young lady how glad I am to see her.”

“Sooner or later they’ll get the power on again!”

“Cyril,” said Heimat mildly, “flick off.” There was no palpable threat in the look he gave his companion, but the black man’s eyes narrowed.

Then he turned toward Sneezy and took him by the arm. Basing-stoke’s grip was strong; under those layers of human blubber and the dried, tough skin of age there was a good deal of strength. “You are also the first Heechee I have seen in person,” he announced, the subject changed. “Are your parents here?”

Harold chose that moment to cut in. “His parents are important Watchers on the Wheel,” he boasted. “So are mine and Oniko’s, and besides hers are very wealthy. You better not try anything with any of us.

“Certainly not,” said Heimat virtuously, but he didn’t let go of Harold’s arm. He looked thoughtful for a moment. “You do not need wealthy parents to make you attractive, my dear,” he said to Oniko, “but I won’t deny that that is a big plus. I am delighted to know you. We are going down to the beach. Why don’t we all walk down together?”

“No chance!” snapped Harold. “We don’t need-ouch!” Without releasing his grip, the old man had backhanded him across the side of the face.

“It’s what we need that matters,” he said conversationally, and that seemed to settle that. Heimat looked about, getting his bearings. “Over toward the point, don’t you think, Cyril?” he asked. “I remember there was a road there, toward the breadfruit plantation. Let’s go-and while we’re walking, my dear Oniko, why don’t you tell us all about how rich your parents are?”

It seemed to Sneezy that, strong as the old man was, it might not be impossible to jerk free and run away.

Sneezy weighed the prospect carefully while Oniko answered leadenly to the probing, jovial questions of the old general. He decided against it. Although Basingstoke was old, he seemed quite quick, and Sneezy thought it likely he would react unpleasantly to an attempt at escape.

And anyway, even assuming that he himself might break away, how could he get Oniko free?

Although the party was walking slowly on the dark roads, the girl was having trouble keeping up. For her to run away was simply impossible. Nor was it likely that Harold could make it, either, because the human boy seemed crushed by the weight of the slap across his face. He moped forward, never turning his face, but from the way his shoulders moved, Sneezy suspected he was crying.

As they turned off the perimeter road to the downward trail, Sneezy could see the luau on the beach. The students had improvised torches stuck in the sand and, although they were now nearly a kilometer away, Sneezy could hear the sounds of singing. He envied them considerably. He wished they would stop singing, so that if he or one of the others had to scream for help they might be heard, but realistically he did not think any of them should dare that anyway.

Behind them the island’s great central mountain blocked out the stars, though overhead the constellations were bright. Even so, walking was difficult. Without warning Oniko stumbled on the path, tripped over her walker, and almost fell headlong. What saved her was Cyril Basingstoke’s hand, thrust out as quickly as a striking snake. He set her on her feet again, and General Heimat turned around to look.

“Ah, the young lady is having trouble,” he said sympathetically. “Do you know, Cyril, I think that if you would take charge of Harold, I could carry Oniko down.”

Basingstoke didn’t answer directly. With a quick motion he hefted Oniko to set her on his shoulder, never releasing Sneezy in the process. “You take her crutches, boy,” he ordered.

The general turned and regarded him without speaking. Sneezy hissed softly to himself in foreboding. There was something humanly nasty hovering around them in the warm tropic air. Evidently Oniko perceived it too, because she said, in a shaky attempt to make neutral conversation, “Oh, look across the water! Papeete’s lights are on!”

It was true: On the other side of the strait the sprawling lights of Tahiti’s principal city were bright gold. Moreover, whatever had been about to happen between the two men was at least postponed.

“Their power is on,” said Basingstoke thoughtfully, and Heimat chimed in, “We could go there!”

“Yes, we could, if we had a plane or a boat. But what would we do then?”

“There’s an airport, Cyril. Planes go to Auckland, Honolulu, Los Angeles—”

“Indeed they do, man,” said Basingstoke, “for people who have money to pay for the tickets. Are you carrying a credit card?”

“Why, Cyril,” Heimat said reprovingly, “you haven’t been listening. These children have credits. Especially”—he smiled-“young Oniko here is very rich. I am sure she will do something nice for an old man, one way or another.”

Basingstoke stood silent for a moment. Sneezy could feel the tension in the man’s grip and wondered just what peculiar Earth-human nuances he was missing. Then the man said, “Beaupre, what you do for your own pleasure is no business of mine. But if it interferes with getting off these islands for me, then it becomes a personal matter. Then, man, I will kill you.” He paused, letting the words hang there. Then he said, “Now, let us see if there is a boat.”

There were boats, all right. There were at least a dozen drawn up along the beach, where the school kept its small fleet, but four of them were kayaks and six were windsurfing boards, and the only big one nearby was the sailing yawl, which none of them were skilled enough to operate. “You can’t do it,” Harold said, boldness returning. “So just let us go! We won’t say anything—”

Heimat looked at him without speaking. Then he turned to Cyril Basingstoke. “They must have something we can use,” he said. Each of the children looked as blank and ignorant as possible, because of course the school did.

“There is a pier,” said Basingstoke softly, pointing down toward the point of land, and all three children sighed at once in resignation. As they crunched over the shelly sand toward the school’s dock, Sneezy hoped against hope that the entire little flotilla had been taken in for repairs, or drifted out to sea, or sunk. And then when they reached the dock and Heimat uttered a roar of rage, his hopes rose. “No power!” he snarled. “They’re all dead!”

But Basingstoke raised his chin as though sniffing the wind. “Listen, man,” he commanded. Over the sound of the breeze that came down from the mountain, there was a mild, insistent hum. He leaped to the end of the dock, where the school’s glass-bottomed boat lay moored to the power takeoff. “Flywheel drive,” he crowed. “They must’ve been revving it up overnight. Get in!”

There wasn’t any help for it. The old terrorists shepherded the boys in first, then Basingstoke handed Oniko in to Heimat, who stroked her head promissorily before setting her down. With Basingstoke at the tiller, Heimat cast off the lines, and the little boat purred out into the mirror-calm lagoon.

Sneezy and Oniko, holding hands on the bench over the dark glass, gazed sadly back at the looming mountain and the dark buildings of the school. No, not entirely dark, Sneezy saw with a quick flicker of hope; but it died as quickly, as he saw that only a few windows had faint glows behind them. Someone had rediscovered candles. Most of the students were still on the beach; Sneezy could see the shapes moving around in the torchlight. But as the glass-bottomed boat angled out toward the passage through the reef, they maintained their distance from the beach.

Then, just at a time when he needed all the alertness and strength he could find, Sneezy felt his eyes growing heavy. How odd, he thought, shaking himself awake. It was no time to be falling asleep-and no reason for it, either! He made a great effort to wake up and put his thoughts in order.

The first question was, What were his options?

To begin with, he calculated, the boat was still only a few hundred meters from the beach. To swim that distance, in the warm, shallow lagoon, would have been child’s play for almost any child-almost any other child, he thought regretfully, than either Oniko or himself. She lacked the strength, he the buoyancy. A pity. Probably if they had been able to swim for it, the old men wouldn’t even follow, Sneezy thought wistfully, since all they really wanted was escape .

He hissed softly to himself as he confronted the fact that one of them seemed to want something more, at least from Oniko.

It was not a thought Sneezy could easily come to terms with. The concept of rape was strange to any Heechee, especially rape of an immature female. Ancestors, it was all but impossible! Not to mention thoroughly repugnant. He had heard theoretical discussions of such things—as related to human conduct, to be sure. He hadn’t believed any of them. Even among humans, such queer perversities were surely unreal.

But then, he had never before been in a situation like this.

No, he told himself, the risk was too great. Such things might after all be true! They would have to escape. Was it possible that Harold could get away and somehow summon help? He, at least, would have no difficulty swimming to shore—But Harold was wedged firmly beside the huge old black man at the tiller. Sneezy did not think it likely that Basingstoke would ever let himself be taken off guard. Weariness and depression settled in again, and once more Sneezy’s eyes began to droop.

The old black man was humming to himself as he skillfully guided the boat toward the exit channel. “Do you know, Beaupre,” he called to the other man, “I think we almost can succeed in this venture! Unfortunately I have no way of telling how much energy is stored in the flywheel of this contraption. It is possible we will run out of power before we reach Tahiti.”

“In that case,” said Heimat, “we’ll just hang these kids over the stern to be outboard motors and kick us in-two of them, anyway,” he added, patting Oniko’s bowed head.

Basingstoke chuckled. The possibility of running out of power didn’t seem to worry him, nor, Sneezy perceived, did he seem as concerned about Heimat’s plans for Oniko as he had been before. Sneezy felt his abdominal muscles writhe in apprehension. If only he weren’t so inexplicably fatigued! It was almost as though he were breathing oxygen-depleted air or had swallowed some enervating drug. In fact, it was almost like that deprivaton that no Heechee ever voluntarily permitted, as though he had stupidly left his pod somewhere and was lacking the life-giving radiation it provided—Sneezy hissed loudly in alarm.

Heimat turned from gazing fondly at Omko and snapped, “What’s the matter with you?”

But Sneezy could not answer. It was too frightening to talk about.

His pod was emitting nothing.

Heechee could survive for days, even for weeks, without the constant flow of microwave radiation from their pods. It was never a problem on their home worlds, for of course there was always a steady microwave flux in the environment they had evolved in: That was how they had come to evolve to need it, as humans needed sunlight and fish needed water. But survival was not all there was to life. After an hour or two without the microwave the lack began to be felt. It had now been more than that since the power went off and the pod stopped radiating. Sneezy was feeling the effects. It was a sensation like-what could you compare it to in human terms? Thirst? Exhaustion? A sensation of need, at least, as a human being on a desert might feel unmet needs after the same length of time. He could go on for quite a while without a drink of water .

But he could not go on forever.

As the shallow-draft boat passed through the gap in the reef, they struck the waves of the strait.

They were not huge waves, but the boat was now in the Pacific Ocean. Although it was not stormy, the swells that lifted the boat and set it down again had started as ripples five thousand kilometers away, and they had been growing as they traveled.

Oniko gasped and struggled to the gunwale, where she began to retch violently into the sea. After a short, hard struggle inside himseli Sneezy joined her. He was not subject to seasickness in the same way as a human boy would have been-the architecture of the Heechee inner ear was vastly different in design-but the motion, the stress, above all the draining of all energy with the loss of his pod’s radiation combined to make him physically ill.

From forward in the rocking boat Heimat laughed tolerantly. “You poor kids! I promise when we get to shore I’ll give you something to take your minds off it.”

“She is only frightened, Beau,” rumbled Basingstoke. “Throw it all up, Oniko; it will do you no harm.” The old black man seemed positively jubilant as he steered the boat into the waves. “When I was a boy,” he said, settling himself for a traveler’s tale to make the time pass, “we had storms around the island that you would not believe, children. Yet we must go out in them for the fish, because we were very poor. My father was an old man-not in years, but from breathing the hydrocarbons in the air. Petrochemicals. They made us all sick, and then when we went out in the fishing boats . . .”

Sneezy, having exhausted everything in his digestive system that could exit by mouth, lowered himself to the bottom of the boat, hardly listening. He pressed his face against the glass bottom, cooled by the water just on the other side, and felt Oniko slump beside him. He took her hand apathetically. He knew he must think and plan, but it was so hard!

“—and in the water,” Basingstoke rolled on, “there were great sharks—almost as huge and ferocious, yes, as the ones in the Pacific here-“Even in his fatigue, Sneezy’s hand tightened convulsively on Oniko’s.

Sharks? They were another nasty phenomenon of the human planet that he had heard of only in theory. He strained his huge eyes to peer into the black water, but of course there was nothing to see. Many times he had looked through that glass at glittering schools of tiny fish, wheel—lug in unison, and at creepy-crawly crustaceans on the shallow sand. Those things had been scary, too, but pleasingly scary, like one child jumping out of concealment to startle another.

But sharks!

Sneezy firmly stopped thinking about sharks. Instead he listened to the old black man going on with his interminable reminiscences: “—for fifty years they pumped the oil wells dry, stinking up the fresh, sweet air of our island. They said they needed it to grow protein so that no one would starve. But we did starve, you know. And it was that that made me turn to the struggle, for there was no other way to justice—”

Justice, Sneezy thought fuzzily. How strange for this terrorist, murderer, kidnaper, to speak of justice. How human.

As they neared the Tahiti side of the strait, Sneezy forced himself to sit up and look around.

There was a great black shape in the water ahead of them, moored and lighted, the size of a football field. Although Sneezy had known it was there, it took him a moment to recognize it as the floating CHONfood factory. Day and night it sucked oxygen and nitrogen from the air, hydrogen from the seawater of the strait, and carbon from the strait’s luckless inhabitants to feed the people of Tahiti and the neighbor islands. He wondered that old Basingstoke had dared pass so near it, and then realized that of course it was fully automated; no human being would be on it, and the workthings would be unlikely to pay attention to a small boat passing nearby.

And then Sneezy realized two other things.

The first was that the lighted Food Factory was lighted. There was power there! And the second was that spreading up from his loins was a warm, gentle wash of good feeling.

They were out of the power blackout zone, and his pod was operating once more.

As they skirted the shore the waves were choppier. There was no lagoon here, no reef to shelter them from the Pacific, and the glass-bottomed boat rolled worrisomely.

“Don’t drown us now, you old fool,” Heimat snarled at his partner, and Harold squawked in fear as water came in over the side. Sneezy understood the humans’ fear. As his head cleared, he began to share it. The little boat was broadside to the waves, and the risk of capsizing it was real. But their concern did not dampen his mood. The pod radiation was as refreshing as a cold drink on a hot day-no, better than that! As refreshing as a rum toddy after being out in a blizzard; warmth and pleasing numbness stole volition from him. The dreamy lassitude would last only a short time, until his body had soaked up enough microwave to be content again. But while it lasted he was simply too relaxed to worry.

So he sat docilely while Cyril Basingstoke searched the shore for a refuge. He listened uncaring while the two old men argued over what to choose. He obediently tried to help scoop water out of the bottom of the boat with his skinny, bare Heechee hands-so ill adapted to such a task—as they settled on a beach house with its own floating dock, and Basingstoke ran the craft to a mooring next to it.

Out of the boat, up the beach to the dwelling, gathering before the screened porch of the beach house-there were a dozen times when Sneezy might have broken free and run. The old men were tiring now, because the night was well advanced and they had been taxing themselves a great deal. But Sneezy didn’t take the chance. Neither did Harold, though perhaps the human boy’s chances were worse; General Heimat never once let go of his arm. And of course Omko had never had a chance to escape on her own, and so Sneezy docilely helped Oniko and waited patiently as the old men argued.

“There will be a watch system, man,” Basingstoke warned.

Heimat smiled. All he said was, “Take this boy’s arm,” and turned to his work. The skills that a dozen times had been pitted against the prison’s multiply redundant guard programs were not to be defeated by some householder’s burglar alarm.

In two minutes they were inside the house. The door was locked behind them. The chances of escape were gone; and, tardily, Sneezy realized what opportunities he had let slip away.

“On your bellies, my dears,” Heimat ordered cheerfully, “and put your hands behind your necks. If you move you are dead-except you, of course, sweet Oniko.”

Obediently the children lowered themselves to the floor, and Sneezy heard the sounds of the old men ransacking the house, muttering to each other. The lassitude was wearing off, now that it was too late, but he was beginning to be aware of something else. He hardly heard what the kidnapers were saying or doing. He wanted something . . . He had a need to do something . . .

Without intending it in the least, he got up and moved toward the bungalow’s PV communications set.

It happened to be Basingstoke who saw him first, which perhaps saved Sneezy’s life. The old man was beside him in a second, swatting him away. Sneezy landed halfway across the room, blinking at him.

“Boy, boy,” rumbled the old man chidingly. “What in the world do you think you’re doing?”

“I have to make a call,” Sneezy explained, standing up again. Nothing was broken. He started toward the set once more.

Basingstoke grabbed him. The old man was stronger than Sneezy had thought; the boy struggled for a moment, then let himself go limp. “What you have to do,” Basingstoke scolded, “is exactly what we tell you to do, boy, and nothing more. You will sit quietly, or—Heimat! Watch the girl!”

For Oniko, too, had struggled to her feet and was advancing doggedly toward the set, the expression on her face determined.

Heimat had an arm around her in the first step. “What’s the matter with you two?” he snarled. “Didn’t you think we were serious? Perhaps we should kill the Heechee brat to convince you?”

“We will just tie them up, Beaupre,” Basingstoke corrected. Then, observing the look on Heimat’s face and the way he was holding the girl, he sighed, “Oh, give it a rest, man! There is plenty of time for what you want later!”

The beach house was a treasure trove for the old terrorists. There was food, there was power, they even found weapons of a sort-a spring-wound shark gun for scuba-diving, and a flat, mean-looking stun gun apparently designed for the times when a sportflsher had brought aboard a large game fish that still had enough life left to thrash dangerously around in the boat. Sneezy’s lassitude wore off, and he looked at the guns with astonishment and more than a little horror. They were weapons! They could kill someone! What typically human devices they were!

When they had located food, the two men ate first, muttering to each other over the table, but when they were finished they untied Oniko and allowed her to feed the others. She had to spoon soup into the boys’ mouths as though they were babies. Once she rose awkwardly and started once more toward the PV commset, but Heimat was ahead of her. She didn’t try it again. Sneezy’s own uncontrollable urge to do the same thing departed, leaving him puzzling over just what it was he was so anxious to do. Call someone, of course. But whom? The police? Yes, certainly, that would have been logical; but he did not think that was what had been in his mind.

When everyone was fed and the children had even been allowed, one by one, to make escorted visits to the toilet, Heimat came over and draped his arm fondly over Oniko’s shoulders. The girl shuddered without looking at him.

“Heimat, man,” said Cyril Basingstoke warningly.

The general looked surprised. “What have I done?” he asked, carelessly toying with the girl’s bobbed black hair. “We’ve eaten. We’re in a nice, safe place. We’ve earned the right, surely, to rest for a moment and enjoy ourselves.”

Basingstoke said patiently, “We are still on an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, man. We are not safe until we are off it. Sooner or later the people who own this house will come back, or some neighbor will see the lights and come to call, and what will we do then?”

Heimat sighed tolerantly and stood up, wandering about the room. “But we’ve got a long night ahead of us, and there won’t be any flights until morning,” he pointed out.

“Morning is not very far,” Basingstoke countered. “And there is also the flywheel boat. If we leave it where it is, it will lead people to us. I think you and I, Beau, should go down and send it off to sea before it gets light.”

“Oh?” said Heimat. “But why two of us, Cyril?” He sat down at a desk in the corner, watching the other man, and though no one’s expression changed, Sneezy was suddenly aware of a new tension in the room.

Heimat went on thoughtfully, “Let me see if I can read your mind, old comrade. You are thinking that it will be harder for two to book passage than one. You are also thinking that if I, and these nice young people, were dead, our bodies could be left here in this house for maybe quite a long time.”

“Oh, Beaupre, what an imagination you have,” Basingstoke said tolerantly.

“Yes,” Heimat agreed. “I imagine you are making a calculation, Cyril, of whether my help or my dead body would be of more use to you. I even think you are considering some plan in which all four of our bodies could be found in some way that would be helpful to you. Perhaps in the boat set adrift, so that people would think you had most likely drowned while crossing the strait. Am I very close to what you were thinking?”

Basingstoke gave his partner a tolerant smile. “Oh, perhaps in general terms,” he conceded. “One has such idle thoughts now and then. But it was only a thought, man.”

“Then think of this.” Heimat smiled, raising his hand from the desk to reveal the flat, mean fish-killing gun.

Oniko shrieked and collapsed against Sneezy. He wished he could pat her shoulder reassuringly, but the ropes did not allow that; he compromised by rubbing his leathery cheek against the top of her head. Basingstoke gazed at the children for a moment, then turned earnestly back to Heimat.

“Beaupre,” he said, “what I think is only what you yourself have surely been thinking, too; it is only sensible for each of us to consider alternatives. But I do not want your body found off the island. As far as anyone knows, we are still on Moorea. I hope no one will think otherwise until it is too late. So do not be a great fool, man. Let us get rid of the boat. Then let us arrange transportation away from here.”

Heimat studied him, scratching his chin with his thumbnail. He didn’t speak.

“Also,” said Basingstoke, “there is something else to think of. No sensible person leaves a loaded gun in a drawer when he goes away. Do you think the owner of this house was so careless? How sure are you? You haven’t checked to see if it was empty, or I would have seen you do it.”

Heimat gave him a respectful nod. He put his hands in his lap for a moment, looking down at the gun. What he saw was concealed from the others by the desk; there was a snick of metal opening and a snap as it closed. Heimat’s expression didn’t change as he looked up. “Now I know whether it is loaded or not,” he observed. “But you don’t.”

“Is it, then?” Basingstoke inquired politely. He didn’t wait for an answer. “In any case, let us stop this nonsensical debate. We will both go and get rid of the boat; the children will be safe enough here. Then we will come back and see about finding a way off this island. Then, Beaupre, while we wait until it is time for our plane, you may entertain yourself in any fashion you like.”

It had been General Beaupre Heimat who tied them up, and Sneezy acknowledged that the old man knew what he was doing. In the few minutes they were out of the house he strained against the ropes uselessly. He was not helped by Harold’s complaining whine: “What the dickens is the matter with you, Dopey? You’re so skinny, you should be able to slide right out of those things! Then you could untie us and then—”

Harold stopped there, because not even he could visualize a good “and then.” In any case, the old men were back almost at once, hovering over the PV commset.

They accessed the reservations clerk at Faa-Faa-Faa Airport at once. It was-or looked to be-a pretty Polynesian girl in a sarong, with flowers in her hair. She appeared both friendly and real as she gazed out of the PV tank. For a moment Sneezy thought of crying out for help, but the hope did not justify the risk. She was undoubtedly only a simulation, and probably a very rudimentary one.

“Display all flights nonstop for more than two thousand kilometers departing between now and noon,” Heimat ordered.

“Oui, m’sieur.” The girl smiled and disappeared. The PV showed a list:

UA495Honolulu06:40

JA350Tokyo08:00

AF781Los Angeles09:30

NZ263Auckland11:10

QU819Sydney11:40

UT311San Francisco12:00

Heimat said at once, “I want the Los Angeles flight.” Basingstoke sighed. “Yes, Beaupre, I suppose you do. So do I.”

Heimat looked displeased. “You could take San Francisco,” he argued. “It’s only a couple hours later, and it’s better if we’re not on the same flight, isn’t it? Or you could go to Honolulu, or Tokyo—”

“I do not want to be on another island, or in a place where I will not speak the language, and I don’t want to wait a couple of hours. I will be on that plane to Los Angeles.”

Heimat sighed and gave in. “Very well. We can be quit of each other there. Reservations!”

The girl reappeared, politely inquiring. ‘M’sieur?”

“We want space for two on Air France 781 this morning. Mr. J. Smith and Mr. R. Jones,” Heimat improvised.

“First class or coach, sir?”

“Oh, by all means first class.” Heimat smiled. “Our dear little niece has been good enough to fly us here for a little vacation and she is very generous. One moment,” he said, signaling to Basingstoke to bring the little girl forward. Out of range of the PV pickup the old black man swiftly untied the girl’s hands. Then he nodded to Heimat and lifted her to the commset. “Oniko, my dear,” Heimat went on, “kindly give this nice young computer program your credit ID.”

Sneezy held his breath. Would Oniko try to call for help? She did not. In a clear voice she gave the program her credit data and submitted her thumb to the pickup for verification. Sneezy felt a moment’s disappointment. Where was this vaunted human courage when it was needed? And then he was ashamed of himself; certainly if Oniko had said the wrong word, it would have been very unpleasant for her as soon as the old terrorist could get her out of range of the PV.

That was all there was to it. There were no questions. The Polynesian-looking program verified the account in a second and announced, “You have confirmed space for two, Mr. J. Smith and Mr. R. Jones, nonstop from Faa-Faa-Faa Airport, departing at nine-thirty for Los Angeles Intercontinental. Will there be any continuing or return flights from there?”

“Not just now,” Basingstoke said, and snapped off the commset.

“Wait a minute,” Heimat protested. “What’s the hurry? We will want to move on from Los Angeles, you know!”

“But not on her credit, man, It’s too risky. You’ll have to find your own way from there.”

Heimat’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You take a lot on yourself, Cyril,” he said softly. “Have you forgotten that I still have the gun?” And then, suddenly, he yelped, “What is she doing? Stop her, Cyril!” For Oniko, with Basingstoke’s hand still on her, had reached out doggedly to the cominset once more.

Basingstoke jerked her away. “Now, now,” he chided. “This can get quite tiresome, child!” Oniko didn’t respond. She only gazed at the commset, now out of reach.

“Tie her,” Heimat ordered. Sneezy watched anxiously as Basingstoke did, setting her down again in the row of captives along the wall. As soon as Oniko was bound, she relaxed again, her body leaning against Sneezy’s for comfort.

“I had to,” she whispered to him, and he hissed agreement. She had to, just as he, too, had had to try to reach the commset as soon as they got into the house. Sneezy puzzled over that compulsive attempt; he could not remember just why it had seemed to be so important, only that it had. In the same way, he thought, he had wanted to find and record every bit of data he could get on Heechee history and activities for his diary. It seemed likely to him that the urges were related, but he could not understand them.

“They will be gone soon,” he whispered to Oniko, offering the only reassurance he could find.

She looked at him without speaking. She didn’t have to speak; what she would have said would have been only, “Not soon enough.”

The old men were doing what they were always doing. They were arguing.

How strange humans were, to decide even the simplest questions only by fierce dispute. This time the argument was over whether or not they should sleep, and which should do it first. Heimat was saying, “We might as well rest, Cyril. An hour or two each, so we’ll be alert when we go to the airport. Why don’t you go first? I’ll stay awake to entertain our young guests.”

“If you entertain that little one the way you want,” snapped Basing-stoke, “she will probably die of it.”

Heimat shook his head sadly. “Old age has weakened you. What do you care what happens to the little charmer?”

“Old age has made you a fool! There is a whole world of little girls out there. Once we are off this island, you can do what you like with all of them, for all I care, but this one has credit we can use. Can she pay our bills dead?”

“What bills? We’ve already got plane tickets.”

“And how do we get to the airport?” Basingstoke inquired. “Shall we walk?”

Heimat looked thoughtful, then glum. “Perhaps you are right this time,” he conceded grudgingly. Then he brightened. “So let us order a limousine now, and there will be time for other things while we are waiting for it to come!”

How much of this Oniko was following Sneezy couldn’t tell. Her body was limp as she slumped against him. She lay with her eyes closed, but those slow tears were still trickling down her cheeks, one after another, from her apparently inexhaustible supply.

Sneezy closed his own eyes. It wasn’t so much weariness, although there was plenty of weariness, too, as an effort at concentration. Was there any possibility at all of escape? Suppose he told the old men that he had to go to the toilet again. Suppose they untied him for that; could he then break free, catch Oniko up in his arms, and run out of the building with her? Could Harold help? Was there any chance that such a plan, or any other plan, could succeed?

Or would they simply solve the problem of Sneezy and Harold, who had neither credit nor sexual victimization to offer, by terminating their lives at the first inconvenience?

For the first time in his young life, Sneezy contemplated the real possibility that it would end within the next few hours at most. It was quite frightening to a young Heechee. It was not merely a question of death-death came to everyone sooner or later. But death under these circumstances could well be total death, since there was no one nearby to do what was necessary to take the dead brain of Sneezy and empty it into storage; it was not death he feared so much as the prospect of his brain irretrievably decaying before he could be transformed into an Ancestor . . .

He became aware that the old men were quarreling again, this time more violently. “What is the matter with the damned thing!” cried Basingstoke in exasperation, and Heimat chimed in:

“You’ve done something wrong, you old fool. Here! Let me try!”

“Try as much as you like,” growled Basingstoke. “It simply will not go on.” He stood back, glowering as the paler old man bent to the commset. Then Heimat sat back, his expression bleak.

“What did you do?” he demanded.

“I did nothing! I simply turned it off. Then I tried to turn it on again, and it will not work!”

For a quick moment Sneezy felt a rush of hope. If the communications set had really been somehow broken, then perhaps the old men’s plans would have to change. Perhaps they must walk to the airport! Sneezy had no idea how far it was, or even in what direction, but probably the men didn’t either. They would not dare waste time, perhaps. They would need to start immediately, for the sun was almost rising outside, the sky in the windows brightening.

And if they left at once-and if, for some reason, they failed to kill the possible witnesses they would leave behind-and if they did not decide to take the children somehow with them-and if—There were too many ifs.

But then none of the ifs mattered. Sneezy saw the beginning glow in the PV tank. So did Basingstoke, and he cried, “We need not accuse each other any longer, Beau! Look, it is coming on at last.”

So it was.

So it did; but the face that looked out of the PV at them was not the smiling Polynesian girl with the hibiscus in her hair. It was a man’s face. A man of indeterminate age, rather handsome (or so I would like to think), smiling out at them in a friendly way. Sneezy didn’t recognize it. One human looked much like another to any Heechee, except for the few they happened to have spent a fair amount of time with.

Cyril Basingstoke and Beaupre Heimat, however, knew the face at once. “Robinette Broadhead!” Basingstoke cried, and Heimat snarled, “What the hell is that son of a bitch doing here?”

Watching it all in gigabit space, Essie chuckled nervously. “Are quite famous, Robin,” she said. “Even wicked old terrorists recognize you at once.”

Albert said, “That is not astonishing, Mrs. Broadhead. General Heimat on at least two occasions tried to assassinate Robinette. And probably every terrorist on Earth would have done the same if they had the chance.”

“Do not give them chance at anything bad now, Robin,” Essie begged. “Go on. Do thing. And, dear Robin, be very careful! Wicked old terrorists are nothing compared to other dangers you insist on encountering now!”