The Boy Who Would Live Forever

I

For Stan, one pregnant woman had been interesting, even (since it was his own baby she was pregnant with) absorbing. Two weren't twice as good. They weren't even half as good. Suddenly it was Salt, not Stan, that Estrella reported every twinge or queasiness to. Not only that; one day Salt spoke a few sentences in her own languages to Stork, and from then on, on demand, it displayed the contents of either's womb.

To a degree that was interesting enough to Stan. Heechee biology was not the same as human. Heechee owned a pair of hearts apiece, Stan knew, as well as heaven knew what other bizarre kinds of internal plumbing. All the same, there were basic architectural plans in common. For both species, a single egg, once fertilized, multiplied to become many, and then the baby was born. For Stan, observing how Salt's early cells divided and took new shapes sort of filled in what his own daughter must have looked like before Stork came along. Salt's embryo, of course, was tiny— indeed nearly invisible, until Stork was ordered to magnify it for them. And it wasn't much to look at even then, either, especially when compared with the far more advanced little being in Estrella's belly.

All the same, Stan had more time to himself these days. So when Yellow Jade showed up, a tottering son on either side, Stan was glad to accept his offer to help them know their neighbors. The son named Warm spoke Mandarin and Vietnamese, the one named Ionic Solvent Korean and Japanese, but neither English. So when they did visit the newcomers conversation was a challenging task.

The new neighbors were housed well. The room they were received in was larger than any in Stan and Estrella's flat, and it was pretty full— eighteen or twenty of the neighbors, mostly elderly, separated into half a dozen clutches of the various ethnicities. When, say, the plump little woman who spoke for the Koreans wanted to wish Estrella a healthy, happy and an easy birth, the appropriate brother translated it into Heechee. Then the other made it into his own languages, one after another, while Yellow Jade was rendering it into English for Stan and Estrella and, simultaneously, the first brother was translating it into his second language, so there was a constant buzz of multilingual translation going on all the time.

It was not an efficient way of communicating. All the same, Stan enjoyed it tolerably well, and even more enjoyed the food. A two-meter lazy Susan rotated before them, constantly replenished from the dispenser with new dishes, hot and cold, sour and sweet. They were almost as puzzling to Stan and Estrella as their former Heechee CHON-food rations. But human. And, often enough, delicious.

It made the sorry messes the dispenser had been giving them even more repellent. Later on, when Salt dropped in, they were mournfully forcing down another helping of the current muck.

Salt was apologetic about intruding. "Did not perceive you both feeding before entering in your house. Please continue to feed. Will absent self in other regions of this home." And then, when they had swallowed as much as they could, she returned. "Have observed tooth-cleaning growth in washing place," she told them. "Is better thing now. Growth no longer in use. Have imported formula for, plus directions for preparation of, new preparation of, how would one call it, soup of edible microorganisms. Very latest thing from Outside. Does cleaning, oiling, desmelling teeth all at one time, very efficient." Then, as she came close enough to get a good look at the remains of their meal, she stopped short. She hesitated a moment, then said politely, "Have question, not intending make criticism. Question is: is possible these foodstuffs enjoyable to you?"

Stan gave her an unamused grunt. "No. It isn't possible. It's just all we have."

"What, have not possessed even appropriate communicating with chef service? But explain this," Salt demanded. And when they did explain she sniffed. "I deal with for you," she said, stood up and addressed the air with a few emphatic Heechee sentences.

Her explanation of what she had done took longer. When they closed their home off to the rest of the world, it had meant that no one could call and, among other things, that the food service couldn't learn their desires. They had marooned themselves.

But now, she said, they could have their privacy when they wanted it—"Simply to saying when desired 'Privacy now!' and, when not, 'No longer requiring privacy' and such will be accomplished." But actually Stan and Estrella hardly heard the explanations, because they had already told the air they wanted lunch, and were listening eagerly for a response.

And the very next day Hypatia of Alexandria popped crossly into their flat. "You two," she said frostily. "Klara's been trying to call you, but you'd cut yourself off. Anyway, she would like you to come and visit her. There are some people she'd like you to meet."

"People?" Stan asked, but Estrella only asked, "When?" It was Estrella she chose to answer. "Now. Whenever you want to get over there."

When they arrived it was Hypatia again who let them in. Without preamble she ordered, "Stand still for one moment, please, Estrella." For that moment she seemed to be looking at nothing at all, then nodded toward Klara's abdomen. "I took the liberty of an internal examination. It is a beautiful fetus. Now please sit down. Klara is dressing for her company."

Estrella picked up on that. "Will Salt be here?"

"I doubt that a lot," Hypatia said, her tone even frostier than her look.

Estrella was puzzled. "What's the matter, Hypatia? Don't you approve of Salt getting pregnant?"

Hypatia, on the point of leaving the room, turned with a flounce of her colorful robes. "I don't disapprove of pregnancy. It's the original, and at one time it was the only, way of bringing more female children into the world. So it's an acceptable evil. What's disgusting is the way Salt chose to do it. She had physical sexual intercourse with a male! At this time in the history of scientific progress! In my original time women accepted that because, although very distasteful, it was also unavoidable. But now there are plenty of parthenogenetic ways to get pregnant. She chose that one!" She made the kind of grunt usually written as "ugh," and then said, "Here's Klara."

Whoever the people were that Klara was expecting, they had to be important. Stan had not expected to see her looking so—well—dressed up. Her hair was perfectly coiffed. Her gown was low-cut, gold-colored silk. Even those eyebrows seemed somehow tamed. Her elegance, however, didn't prevent her from giving Stan a pat on the head in passing and Estrella a full-fledged hug. Then she held Estrella at arm's length for a critical inspection. "All right," she said, "you're looking healthy enough, but what about the baby? Can I see her?"

Of course she could; Stork summoned the image up at once. Of course she got a commentary from the proud parents, too, mostly the prospective father. "If she looks like she needs a shave," he told her, "that's what they call lanugo hair. It falls off. And—can you see?—she's getting nails on her fingers and toes."

When every viewable organ had been discussed, Klara sighed and sank back into a chair. "You're very lucky people," she informed them. "Salt, too. I've told her so. Hypatia has some criticisms"—she threw a glance at her shipmind, now dispassionately lounging on a chaise across the room—"but I'm just thrilled. I hope she and Achiever had a good time making it. Poor bastards, it doesn't happen all that often for them. You noticed Salt turning purple? That's the signal she's coming into heat. Either the sight of the color change, or maybe some kind of pheromones, turns every nearby male into a lovesick suitor. Some ways it's great to be a girl among the Heechee. They always have a bunch of males hanging around when they make their choice."

"So then," Estrella asked, "why in the world did she pick Achiever?"

"Who knows? Sigfrid thinks the Stored Minds might have suggested it, to help Achiever in his cure." She glanced at the clock. "The others'll be here in a moment, but they won't stay long. Dealing with us organics is a real strain for them—oh, didn't I tell you? They're all machine-stored. Anyway, have a drink while we wait. Hypatia will get whatever you like."

And then, while Hypatia's servers were bringing an iced tea for Estrella and a dark German beer for Stan, the doorbell rang.

A doorbell it really was not—it was a quick carillon peal of chimes, custom-installed for Klara—but it was a long way from the usual Heechee growl. Hypatia was already at the door. She didn't touch it, of course; but it opened and Sigrid von Shrink came in. "Am I the first?" he asked— unconvincingly, Stan thought, because von Shrink certainly knew that already. "Well, they'll be here in a moment—ah, here they come now!"

One after another, pop, pop—but the pops were quite soundless— three persons appeared in Klara's drawing room. Two were elderly Heechee, both curiously seated on chairs rather than Heechee perch because they lacked the usual between-the-legs Heechee pod. The remaining one was a tall, powerful-looking human male in a floppy white hat. "Glad you could make it," Sigfrid said affably to the new arrivals, and then, to Klara, "These are the people I wanted you to meet. Thermocline, he sort of represents the Stored Minds for us. Burnish; he was the one who aban—who, I mean, was required to leave Achiever on Gateway. Now as a Stored Mind in the Core he has become an expert in stellar dynamics. And this is Marc Antony, who does all the cooking." Then, gesturing to complete the introductions, "And this is Gelle-Klara Moynlin, and these our young friends Stan Avery and Estrella Pancorbo. Now, if Hypatia will just bring in her servers, Marc has been kind enough to prepare a light collation for us as we talk."

Stan had never doubted that Klara was an extremely high-ranked person, but until now he hadn't known just how high-ranked she was. High-ranked enough that stored persons who, presumably, were not impressed by the wealth or fame of organics would take time to come to her home for a chat. But there they were.

Stan was almost equally impressed by the fact that the food was good. The "light collation" was not only tasty but not all that light. There was a pot of delicately tender meatballs, little crackers that held a slice each of duck liver and of a crunchy vegetable that Klara kindly identified as Chinese water chestnuts, nutlike things in a sort of fruity sauce that even Klara couldn't put a name to, but ate as fast as she could. Which is what pretty much everybody was doing with pretty much everything that they were served. Stan was puzzled to note that the electronic persons were apparently eating the same sorts of foods as themselves until, unthinking, he reached for one of Burnish's hors d'oeuvres. His fingers passed clear through it, and the man in the floppy white hat turned away from a conversation to give him a small smile. "Simulations eat simulated food, of course," he said, and then the smile dwindled. "Oh," he said. "You're the person who turned off access to his home, I believe."

Stan could not see why that concerned the man, but he said, "I guess," his mouth full of barbecued morsels of what might have been chicken. Then he remembered the man's name. "You're, uh, Marc Antony, right? So I guess you made all this stuff?" And, when the man nodded, couldn't help saying with enthusiasm, "It's the best food I ever had in my life!"

"I see," said the chef. Then, a moment later, "Try the candied peacock's tongues. They're a specialty."

Stan did try them, though he regretted it pretty fast. Once, in Istanbul long ago, one of Mr. Ozden's girls had given him a sugar-coated caterpillar as a joke. This was very like it, and had very nearly the same effect. Only two things kept Stan from instantly throwing it up. One was the reflection that the "peacock" whose tongue he had swallowed had never lived, since that dish was constructed out of the same CHON-food as everything else in his diet. The other was the distraction of the animated conversations going on around him.

The main thing that was on the mind of the old Heechee, Thermocline, was the growing immigration problem. Humans were flooding into the Core by the hundreds of thousands, and where were the Heechee supposed to put them all? Marc Antony's burning question was security— individual human security. "Human beings aren't like Heechee. Some of them fight. Some of them steal, and kill, and rape. We're going to need police, and courts, and laws, and some kind of legislatures to pass those laws." Sigfrid von Shrink's main concern was how to supply all those immigrants with the kind of human-oriented things that were only obtainable Outside—and how to pay for them.

At which point everyone paused and looked expectantly at Klara.

She grinned, a little ruefully, as though she had been expecting no less. "Well, why not?" she said. "Sigfrid has been hinting around, and he's right. Hypatia?"

The shipmind made herself visible at once. She seemed to have redressed herself for the company. The robes were even more ornate, the finger rings of huge, uncut rubies and sapphires. She looked toward Klara. "Boss, you called me?"

Klara sighed but forbore to mention that there was no doubt in her mind that Hypatia had been present, if not visible, all along. "I'm thinking that we haven't talked much about my money lately. Do I still have any?"

"Oh, quite a lot, actually. You know most of the things you were invested in while we were still Outside have kind of evaporated—it's been a long time there. But you got in on a lot of good ones. Like all those Here Afters that are still really pulling in the bucks, and your fleets of spaceships, with all the factories and landing places that go with them; they're doing well, too."

"Fine," Klara said, and dismissed her. "That's all right, then. I'd like to keep a few million for myself, just in case something comes up, but I don't really have much use for all that much money. After all, I don't think I'd be likely to going Outside again."

"Great," said Sigfrid, beaming. "We'll do that. And if Klara's money isn't enough to do the job, why, we can start thinking about something like taxes."

That was nearly the end of the party, as far as decision making was concerned. A moment later Burnish and Thermocline made their excuses and popped out of sight, "to conform these proposals with the will of the Stored Minds," they said—followed by Marc Antony. Sigfrid, however, made no move to leave. He turned toward Stan and Estrella. "Let's talk," he said. "What did you think?"

Stan frowned. "About what just happened? What I think is that we pretty much didn't belong here. What do I know about economics and legislation and all that?"

Sigfrid took the question at face value. "About, I would say, as much as most organic humans do when they're seventeen."

"Almost eighteen," Stan pointed out immediately, but Estrella overrode him.

"I'm twenty-four, Sigfrid," she said, "and I don't know that much, either. Slaughterhouse people didn't go to college."

"True," Sigfrid acknowledged. "You're not in the slaughterhouse anymore, though, are you?"

"I don't see any college campuses around here."

"You don't need a campus, Estrella. All you need is teaching. That can be arranged."

"You mean there are teachers in the Core?"

"Quite a few. More important there are teaching programs on basically every subject you can imagine. Are you interested?"

"I guess so," Stan said, not sounding entirely convinced.

"I'll see you get information," Sigfrid promised. He stood up. "Oh," he added, looking mildly embarrassed. "There's one other thing. I'd like to ask you for a favor."

Stan's guard didn't go up at once. Then he remembered the strange conversation with Achiever and, suddenly suspicious, asked, "Does it have anything to do with that crazy Heechee?"

"It does," von Shrink admitted. "You know, you two have really been a great help with him already. Now I'd like to ask you to do something more." He raised his hand to ward off refusal. "I know how you feel, especially you, Estrella. But you're the only human being he really knows, through the dream machine."

Estrella was already violently shaking her head. "He hates me, Doctor!"

"He did, yes. To a degree he still does. But we want to get him over that, and you can help."

Stan frowned. "What do you want us to do, exactly?"

"Just spend some time with him. Well, quite a lot of time, actually, it would mean seeing him every day for a few weeks—"

"Weeks!" Estrella's voice was shaking. "You don't know what it's like. Remember, I know what rotten feelings he has. I know what he thinks. And I hate it!"

"Yes," von Shrink conceded. "Still—well, I won't press it now. But will you think it over, please?"

They did think it over, quite a lot, and even talked it over, even more. Estrella said the idea just made her whole body quiver.

"Of course," Stan said thoughtfully, "it wouldn't hurt for us to do Sigfrid a favor when he asks for it."

"Please, not that favor. Maybe some other time, but not now, not when I'm just getting used to being happy!"

Which effectively terminated that conversation for Stan. And in bed that night, holding with his hand the hand Estrella had thrown across his chest, Stan was thinking thoughts that seventeen-year-olds seldom think.

They had to do with happiness.

He was thinking about his own situation. Most seventeen-year-olds, he told himself, would not really be very pleased about being lumbered with the care of a child.

But was he?

Surprisingly, the answer seemed to be that he was. In fact, he was, as far as he could tell, quite—well—yes, actually quite frequently and reliably happy.

That was a wholly new feeling for Stan. He could not remember a time since his mother's death when he had felt happiness for more than a few minutes at a time.

But there it was.

II

The sessions with Stork were as fascinating as ever, the glimpses the lookplates gave them of the galaxy Outside were as titillating—though less and less understandable. Even, for both of them, the pleasure of schooling as great.

If Sigfrid von Shrink wanted them educated, Estrella and Stan agreed, they weren't going to say no, even though school wasn't exactly what they had expected. No classroom. No fellow students. No teacher, exactly—not what either of them had meant by the word teacher, anyway. What they got was a cheerful, elderly man—a simulation, of course—who wore a toga and began their first session by saying matter-of-factly, "We're going to talk about economics. What do you think about money? What's the point of having it in the first place?" And when Estrella guessed, "to buy things," and Stan ventured, "so we can get paid for our work," the old fellow smiled and nodded, and asked them why that was better than barter, say, or, come to that, just letting everybody produce what they wanted to produce and take what they wanted to take from the world's general store.

By the time the session was over they had got to the Dutch tulip craze of the seventeenth century, the Great Depressions of the twentieth and twenty-first and half a dozen other financial disasters. Then the teacher pretended to yawn. He glanced at the imaginary watch on his imaginary wrist and said, "That should do it for now. I've tinkered a bit with your lookplates. They'll display more on any subject you like; just say the name of it, and keep going until you've got what you want. Next time, let's talk about history. Till then—" And, nodding a courteous good-bye, he disappeared. His name, he said, was Socrates.

Sure enough, the lookplates did as he promised. When they said "gold standard," the lookplates displayed all kinds of things, from Roman coins clipped to the size of pharmacy pills to bearded, weary men doggedly sluicing wet sand in the Gold Rush of 1849.

When they told Klara about it, she demanded to see some of those things for herself. Hypatia made it happen. They watched empires rise and fall, wars depopulate whole nations. Klara began looking less and less pleased with the plate, as the wars began to multiply. Then, without saying a word, she abruptly left the room and did not return.

Hypatia remained, watching them silently as she lounged on a couch. Stan turned to her. "What's the matter?" he asked.

The shipmind gave a sinuous shrug. "Klara doesn't like wars." She seemed about to leave it at that, then reconsidered. "Have you ever heard of the Crabbers? I suppose not. They were a nonhuman race from the old times that were wiping themselves out with wars when their star went nova and finished the job for them. They were horrid people, a lot like those old monks that murdered the original me. And then, just as she was showing signs of handling that, along came that big tsunami."

"Right," Stan said, pleased to remember. "The one that messed California up."

Hypatia set him straight. "The one that destroyed a lot of places. One of those was Klara's private island."

It was Estrella's turn to remember. "She had some orphans living there, right?"

"She provided a home for a number of children who didn't have one, yes. But that isn't all. Maybe you don't know that Klara really wanted to have a child of her own body. She had ova stored on her island, hoping to find the right man to fertilize them. She didn't. The ova were destroyed with the island." She paused, looking at Estrella. "I think that's why she's so thrilled about your child."

"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."