The Boy Who Would Live Forever

I

Stan and Estrella's trip back to Forested Planet of Warm Old Star Fourteen took them no longer than the trip out. When the ship's port began to open they heard a puzzling noise, something like the patter of a drenching rain, something like the buzzing of many bees, that came from outside the ship. Then they saw what was making it. At least a thousand Heechee, maybe more than that, filled every open space around the landing area to welcome them back, doing their best to applaud them with stringy Heechee hands that had never been designed for such work.

The crowd wasn't entirely Heechee. In the forefront of the crowd were the twenty or thirty human beings that were Forested Planet's human population, and in the forefront of the forefront was Gelle-Klara Moynlin, actually having come out of her home for the purpose of greeting them, arms already outspread to hug Estrella.

The crowd was not unruly—unsurprising, since they were mainly Heechee. They didn't press around the returning heroes for pats or handshakes or to snatch the odd button off their clothing. They contented themselves with continuing to clap. That is, everyone but Klara did. She would not be denied. She swept past everyone else to give Estrella that hug—as copiously as she could, considering that Estrella's belly was the size it had become—and even took time for a briefer hug for Stan. Then she was tugging them to a waiting car, the crowd parting decorously to let them through.

The car wasn't the usual Heechee tricycle. It wasn't Heechee at all. It was four-wheeled and human-made—imported-from-Earth human-made—though not very like the vehicles Stan used to dodge on the streets of Istanbul. It was more comfortable than those and a lot quieter and, Stan was certain, a very great deal more expensive than any vehicle he had ever been in before, even if you didn't count what Klara had to have paid to bring it in from Outside.

There wasn't anybody at the steering wheel until Klara saw Stan staring at the empty seat. She called to the air, "Quit clowning around, Hypatia. Let Stan get a look at you." And, when her shipmind instantly appeared, "Thanks. Was that so hard?"

Hypatia's simulation didn't turn around. "I just thought you might like a little privacy."

Klara gave her a grunt. "As if you were going to give us any. Now shut up so Estrella and Stan can tell us about their adventures."

Stan was willing. He began at the beginning and, by the time they were climbing the spiral way to their apartment, had reached the point where Marc and the female pilot had brought them to the point in space where the anonymous but definitely bomb-bearing ship was slowly circling Planetless Very Large Very Hot White Star. "And then," he told her, "the two of them sort of projected themselves onto the bomb ship. That was all we could see. Anyway until it turned around. Broke out of orbit and began to nosedive, picking up speed all the way, right down into the big old star's something-or-other sphere. The star didn't even hiccough. Marc said the little ship was vaporized right away, the bomb thing and all, so that not only isn't it dangerous anymore, it doesn't even exist. I don't know. Marc sees the inputs directly, doesn't have to display them on a lookplate, so he can see better than I. All I saw was bright light."

"And that's the only one they had?"

"I don't know. Maybe not. He had to have had some others to blow up those other things, but if he did they're still somewhere on Arabella and Marc'll find them."

There was a moment of silence, and then Hypatia piped up from the front seat: "His name was Orbis McClune."

Stan looked puzzled. "Whose name?"

"The one who dove the ship into the star. Some of Marc's people located a woman who used to be married to him. He was a minister, before he got killed."

"Huh," Stan said, faintly disgruntled. "Marc didn't tell me."

"He didn't know until he got back here, Stan," Klara said as the car stopped before a familiar door. "Anyway here's where you get off."

Stan jumped out, tenderly helping Estrella get out of her seat. Puffing, she turned and asked politely, "Do you want to come in for a minute?"

Klara shook her head. "Hell, no. I mean, my God, the last thing you need right now is company. Only...."

Halfway out of the car, Estrella turned to look at her. "Only what?"

"Well," Klara said, "while you kids were gone, I did a lot of thinking about you. About babies. About your baby in particular."

Stan was holding Estella's hand and beginning to get a bit impatient. "So did we. Is that what you wanted to tell us?"

"Well, no." She took a deep breath. "What I wanted was to ask you if I could be your mother-in-law."

That came from about as far out of left field as anything in Stan's experience. He almost let go of Estrella's hand, caught it just in time and asked, "Whose? Mine? Or Estrella's?"

"Actually," Klara said, "both of yours." She looked suddenly in a way Klara never looked, which was embarrassed. She shook her head. "Hey, this is the wrong time to be talking about this kind of thing. You kids go on in, I'll talk to you later." And, as the car door began to close, "And, listen, it's good to have you back."

It was good to be home, too. They jumped in the drencher, thrilled to be bathing in hot water again. But while they were still in the chamber, Estrella paused in the middle of drying herself. "Hon?" she said. "Do you know what that was all about?"

He didn't, though, and he gave it no more than a few moments' thought. "Who knows?" he said. "Listen, let's take a look at Stork."

And they did, hungry for the sight of what the baby was doing. (Which turned out to be pretty much what it had been doing all along, namely getting bigger. In fact now quite a lot bigger.) And then, while they, rather inadequately dressed, were ordering a decent meal—actually two decent meals, one right after the other, to make up for all those months of unimproved CHON-food—the door let them know that someone was there.

It was Dr. Kusmeroglu. "How'd you get here so fast?" Estrella asked, half dressed and still chewing, as she let the doctor in.

"It was that Marc person," said Dr. Kusmeroglu, bright and eager. "You know, the cook? Is he here?" She looked around and found the answer to her own question. "Well. Anyway, he signaled Dr. von Shrink and Dr. von Shrink signaled me, so I came right over. First time I was ever in one of those new ultrafast ships. Were either of you ever—Oh, sure, of course you were. I just can't wait to hear about all you've gone through!" And then, when Stan opened his mouth to begin to tell her, she gave him a shake of her head. "But that'll have to wait, because right now Estrella and I have work to do. If you'll just go sit on the balcony for a little while, Stan...."

What she was there for was a childbirth thing, at which, Stan understood, male persons were unwelcome. Stan grabbed some clean clothes of his own and followed orders.

He wasn't cut totally out of the loop. As he dressed, he could see through the balcony door that the first thing the two women were doing was just what he had immediately done, namely to study Stork's display of the fetus. Then they disappeared from his sight, leaving him to, alternately, take in the warm breezes from the Mica Mountain and bite his lip in worriment over what the doctor might find. For months now Estrella hadn't had a proper diet, hadn't had a real doctor to look at her, hadn't had a decent bath or a haircut or a toothbrush or, for God's sake, toilet paper or—well, or anything at all that civilized people always had. And if that had had any bad effect on the baby—had, for instance, brought about any of those terrifying conditions that that damned book had told him about—

He tried to put that thought out of his head.

Fortunately none of it had. When they came out of the bedroom Estrella, too, was now fully dressed and the doctor began to talk. What Dr. Kusmeroglu had to say amounted to a lot of information about the baby's having nearly completed brain growth and why the baby had stopped kicking. (It had no choice. It had grown so large that there no longer was enough room in the uterus to kick.) "But she's all right?" Stan demanded after the first five minutes of increasingly obscure medical details.

Cut off in midstream, the doctor blinked at him. "Well, sure she's all right. Barring that she needs more rest and better food, anyway—and, if you can possibly arrange it, Stan, as little aggravation as possible. Those contractions she's been having—"

Stan instantly turned his attention to Estrella. "What contractions?"

She shrugged. "Well, they weren't very strong and I didn't want to worry you."

"But—" he began, but the doctor overrode him.

"She was fine, Stan. They were just the Braxton-Hicks contractions that are perfectly normal at this time. Think of it as the uterus practicing up for when the labor starts, all right?" She glanced at her wrist screen, moving her lips silently as she checked over her notes and finally said, "I guess that's about it. I'm going to make some dietary recommendations, but outside of that—What?"

Stan was demanding attention. "The baby. When is it going to get born, can you say?"

The doctor pursed her lips. "Ah. Good question. It's a little tricky to calculate, because I don't know exactly how long you were Outside," she said, "but probably somewhere around two to four weeks from now. Maybe six. Stork will keep an eye on things and let us know how they're progressing."

She looked up as the door announced another visitor. "I'll get it," Estrella said, rising with some difficulty from the deep armchair she had been sitting in. With mixed emotions Stan watched her—what was the word?—yes, waddle toward the door. Pregnancy was not just a dangerous event that at some point involved a lot of misery, it was an event which, every day, was a stiff pain in—well, in everything there was to have a pain in.

The person standing outside was again Klara's shipmind, Hypatia of Alexandria. She acknowledged Estrella's introduction to Dr. Kusmeroglu civilly enough, but then turned her back on the doctor to address Stan and Estrella.

"Klara has a suggestion. Everyone you ever met has been calling her, wondering when they can see you. She thought you might like to do them all at once and get it over with. A little gathering at her home, for instance."

Stan was suspicious, but Estrella wasn't. "That's a wonderful idea," she said. "Stan? When would you like to do it?"

"Well," he began, "I'm kind of tired—"

She made a face. "Let's not put it off. Hypatia, we could do it right now, if that's all right."

"Well," Hypatia began, and then stood glassy-eyed for a couple of moments, letting the rest of the sentence hang there, until she finished. "Yes, that would be fine." Then she turned to Dr. Kusmeroglu, who was looking as though she wanted to say something. "Yes?"

"I've never actually met Dr. Moynlin," the doctor said, sounding wistful. "I don't suppose—I guess it wouldn't be a good idea at this time—"

"You are quite right," Hypatia told her. "It wouldn't." Then she dismissed the doctor from her attention. "I've ordered a car. Shall we go?"

II

This time it was a Heechee car, driver and all, open to the world. As soon as she saw it, Estrella insisted they go straight across the valley instead of on the usual underground roadways.

Stan had to agree that she'd made a good decision. After their captivity on Arabella, their valley was like a brief cruise through Heaven. The whitenut trees smelled as sweet as ever, the flying tree snakes were as hungry, the open air was filled with a cinnamonly tang. "You know," he told Estrella when they were not much more than halfway across, "this isn't such a bad place."

She didn't answer him directly, just sat up straighter and tried to see something that was going on at the entrance to the institute. "What in the world is that?" she asked.

Stan couldn't answer. Their Heechee driver did. "Persons there are recent fellow shipmates of both you, names of those being Salt and Achiever, plus certain others desirous to make welcoming home for you. You wish to stop for conversing? No? All right, those two to join you later and anyway are almost at destination. Are already here," she corrected herself as the little car reached Klara's entry porte.

Klara herself opened the door. Herself. Manually. "Come on in," she said. Stan half expected that she would say something about that baffling mothers-in-law thing. She didn't. She gave them each a hug. "We're ready for you," she said fondly. "My dears." They were clearly still getting the return-of-the-heroes treatment. Not only from Klara, either. The second thing Stan noticed—the first having been the beaming, welcoming presence of Sigfrid von Shrink, who obviously was failing to hug them both only because he physically couldn't—was the trays, bowls and platters of good things to eat that filled every flat surface in the room. "From Marc," Klara explained. "You know, the chef? Or general, or whatever he is right now. I think it's his way of saying thanks. Maybe he'll do it in person—I expect he'll drop in a little later—but don't count on it."

"Oh," Sigfrid put in, "I think you can count on it, Stan. Marc doesn't make friends easily, but he thinks quite highly of you." Stan started to assume his aw-shucks look, but Sigfrid paid no attention. "I believe Hypatia told you that Klara was expecting some guests, but I don't think she told you who they were. One of them's a woman you may have heard of. She's stored, and—what? Oh, of course," he said remorsefully. "Estrella, Klara would like you to go with her into another room. Bring your Stork thing. I suppose she wants some of what is called 'girl talk.' Go ahead, dear. Dears. Stan and I will be fine out here." He smiled benevolently at the sight of Estrella giving Stan a kiss on the cheek before letting Klara lead her away.

Stan was already returning to Marc Antony's spread. Chewing, he said, "You were talking about some woman."

"Yes. She's quite an unusual person. Her name is Rowena McClune." He paused long enough for Stan to make the connection, then nodded. "Yes. Orbis McClune's—well—is 'widow' the right term? At any rate, they were once married. She's been in machine storage since McClune himself was organic—quite a bit longer than he, in fact. She hasn't wasted her time, either. Unlike those organics who seem to think that machine storage is just a license to do nothing but play and have fun for eternity. I'm sure you know what I mean."

Stan, who didn't, said absently, "Of course," while prospecting among some tiny meat tarts.

Sigfrid went on, sounding oddly proud. "Marc had located her out of his client list here in the Core—she's been here for a couple weeks, it seems—and, actually, it turned out I'd known her long ago, because she was one of my students."

That explained the pride, Stan decided. Making conversation while sampling some of Marc's exotic dips, he asked, "And she's coming here?"

"Indeed she is. In fact, I expect she's here already. Just a minute—yes. Stan, this is Reverend Doctor Rowena McClune."

Stan looked up. Sigfrid was now accompanied by an attractive woman. Though no longer young, she was quite beautiful, with her blonde hair done up in a swirl that Estrella later identified as a French twist. ("A real old lady hairdo," she called it, but added, "All the same, she looked pretty good.")

"I've been hoping to meet you and your wife," the woman said. "I don't know whether you know it or not, but she's even more famous than you are in some ways. Because of the baby."

"That's nice," Stan said, wondering whether it was worth it to correct that word "wife." He didn't get the chance. On his right side Yellow Jade appeared, with only one of his senile sons. ("Warm now with Stored Minds," he reported. "I and Ionic Solvent very happy.") And at his left Sigfrid showed up, shepherding a couple of other Heechee. "This is my dear Stored Mind friend, Twin Hearts—I don't think you've met him before—" And when Stan looked around Rowena McClune was heading toward a quite different group at the far end of the room.

A party it was, too. Twin Hearts was described as one who had special knowledge of such non-Heechee matters as "currency" and "debt" and even "profit," and, not only that, had somewhere acquired a very considerable repertory of human round-the-campfire songs (though not really the right voice to sing them with). Stan and Estrella weren't the only organic guests, either. Achiever, turning his nose up at most of the food, looked puzzled when Estrella asked a question. "Salt? Consult memory, please. Have not just in short recency joined Salt in welcoming you and inseminator. For what other purpose would I have felt need to invite companionship of Salt? Already have established fetus is doing quite healthily, have no other concerns with same. This statement represents actuality of fact, unregarding any other statement perhaps emanating from Salt." Then, with a firm head-bob, a different tone: "Ah, apples! Can forgive human nastiness of diet for many things for having provided apples!"

A moment later Marc Antony appeared. He wasn't wearing his chef's hat. He wore what Stan was pretty sure was an army uniform from some war or other—white pants, flashes of scarlet on the blouse, cocked hat— but from what war it was Stan couldn't say.

"Sorry if I am late," Marc said. "The specialists needed to talk to Wan. I had to wait until they were finished, to make sure he was properly deactivated again before I left." He paused to look around at the tables of food. "Is everything all right? Is there anything anyone would like?"

Stan had his hand up. "What specialists are you talking about?"

"I believe most of the party was lawyers and accountants," he said, with approximately the same intonation he would have used if he had been saying "whores" and "lepers."

"Indeed they would have been," Sigfrid explained, taking over. "It isn't just Wan himself that we wanted, you know. It's his money. We're going to fine him for all the trouble he caused. That'll probably come to just about everything he owns, and naturally, after all these years Outside, it isn't going to be easy to identify all of Wan's assets." The smile broadened. "But then, taking it along with Klara's earlier generous contribution, that should be quite enough to pay for all the monetary expenses of immigrating, housing, feeding and settling in all our new citizens from Outside." He paused and changed the subject. "We'll talk about all that at another time. Marc? Can't you provide us with some wine?"

Marc could and did, both material and simulated kinds. He hadn't stopped with wine, either; he had provided little glassy bowls of the fungus that Stan recognized as the Heechee social drug of choice. Klara herself gave Estrella a glass of physically real wine, Sigfrid hovering at her shoulder to assure Stan that one glass would do her no harm at all. Apparently it didn't. Didn't harm Stan, either, so he had a second, and then a third.

He wasn't the only one. When he wasn't looking a dozen or so other guests had appeared, a couple organics of both species but a number of Heechee, mostly Stored Minds. The fact that both they themselves and the fungus they were helping themselves to were simulations didn't seem to hamper their pleasure. Didn't seem to diminish their animated conversations, either, most of them being with at least one organic person included and thus conducted in organic time. Stan had no idea what the conversations were about, though, and he was beginning to feel a bit warm. It occurred to him that it would be a good idea to sit down. There was a vacant space on one of Klara's couches. He collected some more wine and, as he was sitting down, saw that the other side of the couch was occupied by Rowena McClune, sitting by herself. Although she was holding a glass, three-quarters of the wine was still in it. When she saw that Stan had drifted toward her she gave him a polite smile. "I've just been sitting here envying you and your wife," she said, glancing in Estrella's direction. "To have a child! I don't think there's a more joyous occasion in the universe."

"Thanks," Stan, who wouldn't have put it that way but was willing to go along, said. He noted that Achiever, munching a large clump of the party fungus, was standing behind them, listening attentively. Ignoring him, he addressed the McClune woman. "That word 'wife' wasn't quite right. We've never married." And then, to keep her from pursuing the subject, "I see you aren't a big drinker."

"Well," she said, "it wouldn't make any difference if I were, would it? Simulated alcohol doesn't make you drunk. Unless you want it to, that is, and it's been a long time since I wanted anything like that." His expression, balancing curiosity against manners, made her smile again. "When I was first machine-stored, I confess I tried that sort of thing. Many different sorts of things, really. You wouldn't believe some of the surrounds I made for myself, and I'm definitely not going to tell you about them. But I got tired of that. I began looking for something useful to do with my new life."

"That's very interesting," Stan said, glancing at Achiever, who at least didn't seem eager to tell his life story.

Rowena McClune wasn't finished. "Why not?" she asked.

He blinked at her more seriously. "Why not what?"

"Why aren't you and Ms. Pancorbo married?"

It was one of the harder questions Stan had been asked. He considered several different answers: It wasn't a custom here in Heechee land. They didn't have anyone to perform the ceremony. They never thought of it. They hadn't, after all, known each other very long. None of those seemed good enough, so he settled for, "We're all right the way we are."

Achiever gave his braying laugh. "Good response just said by you, Stan," he told them both. "Above-mentioned marrying custom is foolish ancient tribal affair of your tribe, unnecessary in civilized world. My people have done such thing never."

Surprisingly, there was a rumble from behind Stan. When he turned, it was Thermocline. Stan considered asking him why everybody was sneaking up on him, but Thermocline was speaking. "That is not entirely correct, Achiever," he said, polite but positive. "Many of our people on the Wheel found the human custom of 'family' attractive, and formed such groups: mother, father and one or more offspring all living together and forming a family unit."

"Huh," Achiever said, temporarily derailed. He recovered himself well enough to produce a sneer. "Such persons were living among human persons much too length of time, Thermocline. Such situation can cause serious problems of decreased concinnity, as has been demonstrated in unfortunate case of myself."

He turned a challenging look at Stan. Since he had supported Stan's position, clearly he now felt it was Stan's turn to support his. Stan might have done so. What prevented him was that he was having a hard time following the discussion. "I guess," he said vaguely, and then, "Excuse me."

It occurred to him that another glass of wine might clear his head. But as he turned to go in search of one he almost tripped over a short, dark organic human woman standing just behind him. He stared at her with astonishment. "You look just like that baby doctor, Kusmeroglu. Can't be, though. Hypatia told you not to come."

The woman looked pleased with herself. "Hypatia changed her mind. She caught me at the spacecraft terminal, told me Klara wanted me to stay so I could keep an eye on Estrella. And here I am. So you see, I did get to meet Klara after all."

"But—" Stan said reasonably. "But—" He stopped there. He was clear in his mind that the woman must have made some egregious mistake, but he was having difficulty in framing the sentences that would straighten her out. "I think I need to sit down," he said, and looked around for the nearest chair, and did.

Dr. Kusmeroglu bent swiftly to sniff his lips. "Oh, I see," she sighed. "Listen, Stan. Let me collect Estrella. I think we need to get you home."

III

When Stan woke up, he immediately wished he hadn't. He had little previous experience of hangovers, but he recognized the symptoms at once. When his eyes were open enough, he identified Estrella standing over him, but much too close, and holding something out to him, but he could not tell what. He checked his memory, found it empty and muttered weakly, "Hon, I'm sorry."

Or thought he had. Estrella didn't seem to have heard. She not only was not appropriately sympathetic, she seemed somehow pleased about something. "Come on," she said, hardly comfortingly at all, "drink this. I want to tell you something."

The sense of what she was saying penetrated to Stan's brain. It didn't elevate his mood. In Stan's experience, when someone said she wanted to tell him something it was unlikely to be something he wanted to hear. Puzzlingly, though, Estrella didn't seem to be angry or offended or any of the other things Stan associated with that sort of remark. She was grinning. Her eyes were—yes—dancing. "Oh, for God's sake," she was saying. "Are you going to drink this or not?"

It appeared to be a cup of coffee. Not the good, thick Turkish kind, but the only marginally less good kind that Americans liked to drink at breakfast. He swallowed it as rapidly as he could, but Estrella was already tapping her fingers before he got it all down. "Well?" she demanded. "Sigfrid said he'd get Marc to put something in it."

Stan moved his head experimentally. Apparently the chef had. The blinding pain was gone without a trace. The inside of his mouth still tasted of ancient cigar ends, and he had a sudden overpowering thirst—

For which Estrella was ready. She was handing him a cup of something that fizzed. "Sigfrid said this would help, okay?" Sipping, he nodded. "So guess what? I had a long talk with Hypatia while Klara was busy with her guests. Did you know Klara had practically a nervous breakdown after the tsunami ruined her island?" Stan shook his head, which happily did not fall off. "That's why she's on this planet. Sigfrid suggested she come here. At first he thought she might want to set up something like her island—for orphans, you know?"

Stan experimentally stretched his muscles. Everything seemed to be working all right. He said, "Strell, hon, is this going to be a long story? Because I'm kind of hungry."

"Almost done. Klara said no. Said she couldn't face being a mommy.

"Then she met us."

Stan hadn't exactly stopped paying attention, but it was true that his mind was filling with visions of ham with red eye gravy and stacks of fries. When he realized Estrella had stopped talking and was regarding him he blinked. "Oh. Right. She took an interest in you."

"In the baby, mostly. So do you know what the mother-in-law stuff was about?"

"The baby?" he hazarded.

"Sort of. If Klara was your mother-in-law or my mother-in-law—or both our mothers-in-law—what would that make her to the baby?"

The scales fell from his eyes. "Oh, my God," he said wonderingly. "She wants to be the baby's grandma."

Estrella was nodding vigorously. "Exactly. What do you think about that?"

Stan didn't hesitate. "Oh, absolutely sure," he said. "She'll be good at it. Now can we get some breakfast?"

IV

Estrella and Stan no longer lacked for company. People kept calling and dropping in. Stan didn't care for it, but Estrella seemed pleased. She told Stan, "You know, this is kind of nice. Back home people were visiting all the time—for a cup of mate, or to bring back something they borrowed, or just to sit and gossip for a few minutes. I miss that. Don't you?" Since Stan had never had any experience of that sort of neighborliness he had no good answer except to smile, and pat her on the shoulder, and ask brightly if it wasn't getting close to time for lunch.

Then, when Stan was in the drencher, he came out and Estrella was waiting. "Hon? Rowena McClune called."

He stopped drying himself. "What about?"

"Well, she was real interested in the baby, and I invited her to come over. So she wants to do it now."

Stan groaned. "Strell, don't we have enough—"

"So I told her to come away. I liked her, Stan. You'd better put some clothes on."

While he was doing it he heard the door. When he came out, there she was, sitting in the overstuffed chair (but, he noticed, revealing her immaterial status because she put no dent in it). When they turned Stork on she seemed really fascinated, not only by the chubby little image with the Buddha smile that floated before, but in Stan's account of all the changes it had gone through. She was a good listener. Good talker, too; she was perfectly willing to answer every one of Estrella's questions about her other life. "Well," she said, "the first part, right after I died, wasn't too interesting. I just fooled around, like everybody else. Then I got tired of just having fun, the way most of the other machine-stored were doing, and I found out there weren't too many other kinds of things for a woman without much education to do. That could be dealt with, though. There were enough people in storage by then, some of them serious-minded, to have started some kind of correspondence-school things. I took courses. I don't know if organic Harvard would have let me into graduate school, with what I had in the way of a baccalaureate, but the machine-stored Harvard did, and before you knew it I had a Ph.D. Three of them, in fact, because I kept getting interested in different things."

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, hearing 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 seats 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 interact 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."

VII

It had been a long time since Stan had seen a human baby, not since one of the girls in Mr. Ozden's brothel had got herself pregnant. That sort of thing was an economic hardship for Mr. Ozden when it happened. To deal with the problem he kept a neighborhood abortionist on permanent retainer. Not this time, though. The baby's father, or at least the customer considered to have been the likeliest to be the baby's father, was a man high up in Istanbul's city government. When the father indicated he would prefer it, the girl had been allowed to keep the child, and even to show it off to such neighbors as young Stan.

As far as Stan could remember, this baby looked pretty much the same as that long-ago one: eyes screwed tightly shut, mouth closed except for the occasional little whimpering cry, scalp bald, fingers made into tiny fists.

He sat down on the edge of the narrow cot, and looked down at Estrella. She looked tired (naturally enough, because she had just been trying to push a bowling ball through her private parts), and happy (well, of course she would be happy: it was over) and—yes—proud.

"Strell?" he said, pondering on how best to bring up the subject of the proposition that had been made to him. "There's something we need to talk about."

"Sure," she said. "Just a minute. Here."

And when she handed him the baby he felt the warm, solid weight of it. He looked down at the guileless face. The lips puckered for a moment. The eyelids flickered. The fingers wriggled. The eyes opened—

And something grabbed at Stan's heart.

When he looked up he saw Estrella's questioning eyes on him. "Was there something you wanted to say?"

He took a deep breath. "Yes, there is, Strell. I was talking to Sigfrid. He thinks I've been screwing around long enough. I should try to make something of myself."

Estrella, closely supervising the way he was holding the baby, said, "Is that what he said?"

"It's what he meant, and he's right. Someday there's going to be a human congress in the Core. When it comes along I'm going to try to get elected to it. And I want to be ready for the job if I get it, so I'm going to get an education first."

Estrella reclaimed the baby. "That," she said, lowering one flap of her gown to see if the baby would take it yet, "sounds like the best idea yet. I'll help all I can."

That's what they did, with the help of the greatest of grandmas to make sure everything was under control when they were studying. They got the best education that the resources of Socrates, Marc Antony and Sigfrid von Shrink could provide for them, and when the first planet-wide election was held, Stan Avery was indeed a candidate. He didn't win, though. He lost narrowly to the only other candidate in the race.

All the same, Stan was not gravely disappointed. He shook the hand of his victorious opponent with a glad heart. His consolation was that by then he was deeply immersed in his continuing studies. Anyway it meant he had more time to spend on caring for, playing with and generally adoring his daughter when congressional duties took away from home the person who had won the election, Estrella Pancorbo-Avery.