The Boy Who Would Live Forever

I

Let me tell you what really happened with this annoying young guy. He came into the reservation while we were busy, bold as brass. He didn't belong there, and as soon as I had a moment I was going to tell him so. But just then we were too busy to pay him much attention. We were aversion-training a leopard cub.

That always takes all the attention we have. This particular cub was a healthy little male, no more than a week old. That's a little bit young to begin the aversion training, but we'd been tracking the mother, looking for a good opportunity, since she began showing the signs that she was about to give birth. When we spotted the mother this day she had dropped off to sleep in a convenient place, at the edge of a patch of brush that wasn't large enough to conceal any other leopards. So we jumped the gun a little. We doped the mother with an airgun and borrowed her cub while she slept.

That is a job that takes all three of us. Shelly was the one who picked up the baby. Shelly was completely covered, and sweating, in a gas-proof isolation suit so the cub wouldn't get any memories of a friendly human smell. Brudy kept an eye on the mother so we wouldn't have any unpleasant surprises from her—the mother had had her own aversion training long before, but if she had awakened and seen us messing with her cub she might have broken through it.

I was the head ranger. That was because I had the best "resume" when they were hiring. In fact I had a D.V.M. Although the Old Ones weren't exactly animals, they weren't exactly people either, so a veterinarian seemed like the right person for the job. As boss, I was the one who manipulated the aversion-training images. These were 3-D simulations of an Old One, a human and a Heechee, one after another, along with a cocktail of smells of each that was released as we displayed the images. There was also a sharp little electric shock each time that made the kit yowl and struggle feebly in Shelly's arms.

Aversion training isn't actually a hard job. We do it four or five times for each cub, just to make sure, but long before we're through with the training the animals'll do their best to run away as fast as they can from any one of the images or smells, whether they're simulations or the real thing. Which is what they're supposed to do.

I don't mind handling leopard cubs. They're pretty clean, because the mother licks them all day long. So are cheetahs. The ones that really stink are the baby hyenas; that's when whoever holds the animal is glad that the gas-proof suit works in both directions. As far as other predators are concerned, lions and wild dogs are long extinct in this part of the Rift Valley, so the leopards, hyenas and cheetahs are the only carnivores the Old Ones have to worry about on their reservation. Well, and snakes. But the Old Ones are smart enough to stay away from snakes, which aren't likely to chase them, anyway, since the Old Ones are a lot too big for them to eat. Oh, and I should mention the crocs, too. But we can't train crocodiles very reliably, not so you could count on their running the other way if an Old One wandered near. So what we do is train the Old Ones themselves to stay away.

What helps us there is that the Old Ones are sort of genetically scared of open water, never having experienced any until they were taken out of the big old spacecraft where the Heechee had left them and brought here. The only reason the Old Ones would ever go near water would be that they were tormented by thirst and just had to get a drink. We never let it come to that. We've taken care of that problem by digging boreholes and setting up little solar-powered drinking fountains all over their reservation. The fountains don't produce a huge gush of water, but there's a steady flow from each fountain, a deciliter a second year in and year out, and anyway the Old Ones don't need much water. They're not very interested in bathing, for instance. You catch a really gamy Old One, which we sometimes have to do when one of them is seriously sick or injured, and you might wish you could trade it for a hyena cub.

The first indication we got that we had a visitor was when we'd given the baby leopard four or five aversion shocks, and he suddenly began to struggle frantically in Shelly's arms, nipping at her gas-proof clothing, even when he wasn't being shocked. That wasn't normal. "Let him go," I ordered. When a cub gets really antsy we don't have any choice but to call it off for the day. It isn't that they'll hurt whoever's holding them, because the gas-proof coveralls are pretty nearly bite-proof as well. But it's bad for the cubs themselves. Wild animals can have heart attacks, too.

We backed away, keeping an eye on the mom as her baby, whining, scooted over to creep under her belly and begin to suckle. What I didn't know was what had set the cub off. Then I heard it: motor and fan noises from afar, and a moment later a hovercar appeared around a copse of acacias. Leopard cubs had better hearing than people, was all. The vehicle charged right up to us and skidded to a halt, the driver digging its braking skids into the ground for a quick stop and never mind how much dust it raised or how much damage it did to the roadway.

The man who got out when the bubble top popped open was skinny, tall, dark-complected and quite young looking—for what that's worth, since young looking is pretty much what everybody is these days. He was quite peculiar looking, too, because he was wearing full city clothing, long pants and long sleeves, with little ruffs of some kind of fur at the cuffs and colar. (A fur collar! In equatorial Africa!) He gave Brudy a quick, dismissive glance, looked Shelly and me over more thoroughly and ordered, "Take me to the Old Ones."

That was pure arrogance. When I sneaked a look at my indicator, it did not show a pass for his vehicle, so he had no right to be on the reservation in the first place, whoever he was. Brudy moved toward him warningly, and the newcomer stepped back a pace. The expression on Brudy's face wasn't particularly threatening, but he is a big man. We're all pretty tall, being mostly Maasai; Brudy is special. He boxes for fun whenever he can get anybody to go six rounds with him, and he looks it. "How did you get in?" Brudy demanded, his voice the gravelly baritone of a leopard's growl. What made me think of that was that just about then the mother leopard herself did give a ragged, unfocused little coming-awake growl.

"She's waking up," Shelly warned.

Brudy has a lot of confidence in our aversion training. He didn't even look around at the animals. "I asked you a question," he said.

The man from the hover craned his neck to see where the leopard was. He sounded a lot less self-assured when he said, "How I got in is none of your business. I want to be taken to the Old Ones as soon as possible." Then he squinted at the leopard, now trying, but tailing, to. get to her feet. "Is that animal dangerous?"

"You bet she is. She could tear you to shreds in a minute," I told him—not lying, either, because she certainly theoretically could, if she hadn't had her own aversion training. "You'd better get out of here, mister."

"Especially since you don't have a pass in the first place," Shelly added.

That made him look confused. "What's a 'pass'?" he asked.

"It's a radio tag for your hover. You get them at the headquarters in Nairobi. If you don't have one, you're not allowed on the reservation."

" 'Allowed,'" he sneered. "Who are you to 'allow' me anything?"

Brudy cleared his throat. "We're the rangers for this reservation, and what we say goes. You want to give me an argument?"

Brudy can be really convincing when he wants to be. The stranger decided to be law-abiding. "Oh, all right," he said, turning back to his hover; he'd left the air-conditioning going and I could hear it whine as it valiantly tried to cool off the whole veldt. "This petty bureaucracy crap stinks, but I'll go back to Nairobi and get the damn pass."

"Maybe you will and maybe you won't," Shelly said. "We don't want the Old Ones disturbed any more than we can help, so you'll need to give them a pretty good reason."

He was already climbing into the vehicle, but he paused long enough to give her a contemptuous look. "Reason? To visit the Old Ones? What reason do I need, since I own them?"

II

The next morning all us rangers had to pitch in, because the food truck had arrived. Brudy and Carlo were unloading little packets of rations from the Food Factory in the Mombasa delta while the rest of us kept the Old Ones in order.

I don't know why the Old Ones needed to be kept orderly in the first place. For most people that Food Factory stuff is the meal of last resort— that is, it is unless it's been doctored up, when you can hardly tell it from the real thing. The Old Ones chomp the untreated stuff right down, though. That's natural. CHON-food is what they grew up on, back when they were floating around out in the Oort cloud. The Old Ones had come running in from all over the reservation when they heard the truck's food bell. Now they were all pressing close to the vehicle, all fifty-four of them, chattering "Gimme, gimme!" at the top of their voices as they competed for the choicest bits.

When I came to work at the reservation I had only seen the Old Ones in pictures. I knew they all had beards, males and females alike. I hadn't known then that even the babies did, or did as soon as they were old enough to grow any hair at all, and I hadn't known about the way they smelled.

The ancient female we called "Spot" was pretty nearly the smelliest of the lot, but she was also about the smartest, and about as close as they had to a leader. And, well, she was kind of a friend. When she saw me she gave me an imploring look. I knew what she wanted. I helped her scoop up half a dozen of the pink and white packets she liked best, then escorted her out of the crowd. I waited until she had scarfed down the first couple of packets, then tapped her on the shoulder and said, "I want you to come with me, please."

Well, I didn't say it like that, of course. All of the Old Ones have picked up a few words of English, but even Spot was a little shaky on things like grammar. What I said was, "You," pointing at her, "come," beckoning her toward me, "me," tapping my own chest.

She went on chewing, crumbs of greasy-looking pale stuff spilling out of the corners of her mouth, looking suspicious. Then she said, "Is for?"

I said, "Is because today's the day for your crocodile-aversion refresher." I said it just like that, too. I knew that she wasn't going to understand every word but headquarters wanted us to talk to them in complete sentences as much as we could, in the hope they might learn. To reinforce the process I took her by one skinny wrist and tugged her away.

She had definitely understood the word "crocodile," because she whimpered and tried to get free. That did her no good. I had twenty kilos and fifteen centimeters on her. I let her dally long enough to pick up a couple of extra food packets. Then I put her in our Old Ones van, the one that never stops smelling of the Old Ones, so we never use it for anything else. I picked five more Old Ones pretty much at random and waved them in. They got in, all right. That is, they followed Spot, because she was the leader. They didn't like it, though, and all of them were cackling at once in their own hopelessly incomprehensible language as I drove the van to the river.

It was a pretty day. Hot, of course, and without a cloud in the sky. When I turned off the motor it was dead silent, too, not a sound except the occasional craaack of a pod coming in from Low Earth Orbit to be caught in the distant Nairobi Lofstrom Loop. I took a deep breath. Even the air smelled pretty, a dry scent of spiky grass and acacias. Times like that are when I'm glad I decided to take my park-ranger job instead of lawyering or doctoring, the way my patents wanted me to go.

The place in the river where the hippos hang out is what we call the Big Bend. The stream makes pretty nearly a right-angle turn there, with a beach on the far side that gets scoured out every rainy season. There are almost always fifteen or twenty hippos doing whatever they feel like doing in the slack water at the bend—basically just swimming around, sometimes underwater, sometimes surfacing to breathe. And there's almost always a croc or two squatting patiently on the beach, waiting for one of the babies to stray far enough away from the big hippos to become lunch.

This time there were three crocs, motionless in the hot African sun. They lay there with those long, toothy jaws wide open, showing the yellowish inside of their mouths—I guess that's how they keep from being overheated, like a pet dog in hot weather. What it looks like is that they're just waiting for something edible to come within range. Which I guess is also true, and why I can't help getting sort of shivery inside whenever I see one. So did the Old Ones. They were whimpering inside the van, and I nearly had to kick them out of it. Then they all huddled together, as far from the river bank as I would let them get, shaking and muttering fearfully to each other.

Fortunately they didn't have long to wait, because Geoffrey was right behind us in the truck with the goat projector.

That was Geoffrey's own invention. Before I came, he used to use live goats, but I put a stop to that. We raise the goats for food and I'm not sentimental about slaughtering them, but I made sure the ones we used for aversion training were dead already.

While he was setting up I gave myself a minute to enjoy the hippos. They're always fun, big ones the size of our van and little ones no bigger than a pig. They look to me like they're enjoying themselves, and how often do you see a really happy extended family? I'm sure the big ones were aware of our presence, and undoubtedly even more aware of the crocs on the bank, but they seemed carefree. They aren't particularly violent, either, unless you get in their way. Given a chance, I would have liked to swim with them someday—except for the crocs.

"Okay, Grace," Geoffrey called, hand already on the trigger of the launcher.

"You may fire when ready," I said to him, and to the Old Ones, "Watch!" They did, scared but fascinated, as the goat carcass soared out of the launcher and into the water, well downstream from the hippo families so there wouldn't be any accidents.

You wouldn't think a crocodile could run very fast, with those sprawly little legs and huge tail. You'd be wrong. Before the goat hit the water all three of the crocs were doing their high-speed waddle clown to the river's edge. When they hit the water they disappeared; a moment later all around the floating goat there were half a dozen little whirlpools of water, with an occasional lashing tail to show what was going on under the reddening surface. The show didn't last long. In a minute that goat was history.

I glanced at the hippos. They hadn't seemed to pay any attention, but I noticed that now all the big ones were on the downstream side of the herd and the babies were on the other side, away from the crocs.

"Show's over," I told the Old Ones. "Back in the van!"—pointing to make sure they understood what I said. They didn't delay. They were all shivering as they lined up to climb back in, one by one. I was just about to follow them in when I heard Geoffrey calling my name. I turned around, half in the van, and called, "What's the problem?"

He pointed to his communicator. "Shelly just called. You know that guy who claims he owns the Old Ones? He's back!"

All the way back I had one hand on the wheel and my other hand on my own communicator, checking with Shelly—yes, the son of a bitch did have a pass this time—and then with Nairobi to see why they'd allowed it. The headquarters guy who answered the call was Bertie ap Dora. He's my boss and he sounded really embarrassed. "Sure, Grace," he said, "we gave him a pass. We didn't have any choice, did we? He's Wan."

It took me a moment. Then, "Oh, my God," I said. "Really? Wan?" And when Bertie confirmed that Wan was who the mysterious stranger was, identity checked and correct, it all fell into place.

Since he was Wan, he had been telling the truth, almost. He wasn't really the owner of the Old Ones, but you could make an argument that he was something pretty close, because legally he was the man who had discovered them.

Well, that argument didn't actually make much sense in my book. If you stopped to think about it, Wan himself had been discovered by that Herter-Hall party as much as the Old Ones had. However, it didn't have to make sense. That was the way Gateway Corp had ruled—had given him a finder's share of property rights in the place where the Old Ones had been discovered and everything on it—and nobody argued with the findings of Gateway Corp.

The thing about the Old Ones was that they had been found on a far-out, Sun-orbiting Heechee artifact, and it was the Heechee themselves who had put them there, all those hundreds of thousands of years ago when the Heechee had come to check out Earth's solar system.

The Heechee were looking for intelligent races to be friends with. What they discovered was the ancestors of the Old Ones, the dumb, hairy little hominids called australopithecines. They weren't much, but they were the closest the Earth had to the intelligent race the Heechee were looking for at the time, so the Heechee had taken away some australopithecine breeding stock to study. And then, a little later, when the Heechee got so scared that they ran off and hid in the Core, all the billions of them, they left the australopithecines behind. They weren't exactly abandoned. The Heechee had left them the Food Factory they inhabited, so they never went hungry. And so they stayed there, generation after generation, for hundreds of thousands of years, until human beings finally got to Gateway and its abandoned Heechee spacecraft. And, the story went, one of those human beings on that huge old artifact, and the only one of them who had survived long enough to be rescued, was the kid named Wan.

As soon as I got to the compound I saw him. He wasn't a kid anymore, but he wasn't hard to recognize, either. His size picked him out. He wasn't all that much taller than some of the Old Ones, a dozen or so of whom had gathered around to regard him with tepid interest. He was dressed better than the Old Ones, though. In fact, he was dressed better than we were. He'd deep-sixed the fur collars, sensibly enough, and the outfit he was wearing now was one of those safari-jacket things with all the pockets, that tourists are so crazy about. His, however, was made of pure natural silk. And he was carrying a riding crop, although there wasn't a horse within five hundred kilometers of us. (Zebras don't count.)

As soon as he saw me he bustled over, hand outstretched and a big told-you-so grin on his face. "I'm Wan," he said. "I don't hold that thing yesterday against you."

I didn't feel any blame, but I let it go. I shook his hand. "Grace Nkroma," I said. "Head ranger. What do you want?"

The grin got bigger. "I guess you'd call it nostalgia. Is that the right word? I'm kind of sentimental about my Old Ones, since they sort of took care of me while I was growing up. I've been meaning to visit them ever since they were relocated here, but I've been so busy—" He gave a winsome little shrug, to show how busy he'd been.

Then he gazed benevolently around at the Old Ones. "Yes," he said, nodding, "I recognize several of them, I think. Do you see how happy they are to see me?" Well, maybe they were. The one we called Beautiful was jabbing a muddy thorn into the arm of her son, Gadget, to make one of their ugly tattoos. The rest of them were a fifty-fifty split, half looking at Beautiful, the other half at Wan. He didn't seem to mind. He told me, "I've brought thorn some wonderful gifts." He jerked a thumb at his vehicle. "You people better unload them. They've been in the car a while, and you need to get them into the ground as soon as possible." And then he linked arms with a couple of the Old Ones, seemingly unaware of how they smelled, and strolled off, leaving us to do his bidding.

III

There were about forty of the "gifts" that Wan had brought for his former family, and what they turned out to be were little green seedlings in pressed-soil pots. Carlo looked at them, and then at me. "What the hell are we supposed to do with those things?" he wanted to know.

"I'll ask," I said, and got on the line with Bertie ap Dora again.

"They're berry bushes," he told me, sounding defensive. "They're some kind of fruit the Old Ones had growing wild when they were out there. They're supposed to love the berries. Actually, it's quite a thoughtful gift, wouldn't you say?"

I wouldn't. I didn't. I said, "It would be a lot more thoughtful if he planted the damn things himself. What's with this guy, anyway? Is he always like that?"

It was pretty much a rhetorical question, but Bertie chose to answer it. He took a moment to think first. Then he said delicately, "Wan has done quite a few—ah—impulsive things, now and then. Some of them caused some trouble. Police trouble, even."

"You mean he's a criminal?"

"Oh, well," Bertie said dismissively, "never with any kind of real jail time. There wouldn't be, would there? With the kind of lawyers his kind of money can buy?" Then he changed the subject. "One thing I should tell you about. Those berry bushes are supposed to need quite a lot of water, so make sure you plant them near the runoff from the drinking fountains, all right? And, listen, see if you can keep the giraffes from eating the seedlings before they grow out."

"How are we supposed to do that?" I asked, but Bertie had already cut the connection. Naturally. He's a boss. You know the story about the second lieutenant and the sergeant and the flagpole? There's this eight-meter flagpole and the lieutenant only has six meters of rope. Big problem. How does the lieutenant get the flagpole up?

Simple. The lieutenant says, "Sergeant, put that flagpole up," and goes off to have a beer at the officers' club.

As far as Bertie is concerned, I'm his sergeant. I don't have to be, though. Bertie keeps asking me to conic in and take a job as a sector chief at the Nairobi office. There'd be more money, too, but then I'd have to live-in the big city. Besides, that would mean I wouldn't be in direct contact with the Old Ones anymore.

Everything considered, you might think that wouldn't sound so bad, but—oh, hell, I admit it—I knew I'd miss every smelly, dumb-ass one of them. They weren't very bright and they weren't very clean, and most of the time, although I liked them, I wasn't a bit sure that they liked me back. But they needed me.

By the time Wan had been with us for three days, we had got kind of used to having him around. We didn't actually see a lot of him. Most of the daylight time he was off in his hover with a couple of the Old Ones for company, feeding them ice-cream pops and lemonade out of his freezer—things that really weren't good for them but, I had to admit, wouldn't do them much harm once or twice in a lifetime. When it got dark he was always back in the housing compound, but he didn't mingle with us rangers even then. He stayed in his vehicle, watching soaps and cartoons again with a couple of Old Ones for company. He slept in it, too.

When I finally asked Wan just how long he intended to be with us, he just gave me that grin again and said, "Can't say, Gracie. I'm having fun."

"Don't call me Gracie," I said. But he had already turned his back on me to collect another handful of Old Ones for a joyride.

Having fun seemed to be what Wan's life was all about. He'd already been all over the galaxy before he came back to see us, flying around in his own private ship. (Did you get that? His own private ship!) He could afford it. Those royalties on the Heechee stuff that came out of the Food Factory made him, he told us, the eighth richest person in the galaxy, and what Wan could afford was pretty nearly anything he could think up. He made sure he let us all know it, too, which didn't endear him to most of the staff, especially Carlo. "He gets on my nerves with his goddamn bragging all the time," Carlo complained to me. "Can't I run the son of a bitch off?"

"As long as he doesn't make trouble," I said, "no. How are you coming with the planting?"

Actually that was going pretty well. All the guys had to do was scoop out a little hole in the ground, a couple of meters away from a fountain, and set one of the pressed-earth pots in it. That was the whole drill. Since there were a couple of patrols going out all over the reservation every day anyway, checking for signs of elephant incursions or unauthorized human trespassers, it only took them a couple of extra minutes at each stop.

Then, without warning, Wan left us.

I thought I heard the sound of his hover's fans, just as I was going to sleep. I considered getting up to see what was going on, but—damn it!— the pillow seemed more interesting than Wan just then and I rolled over and forgot it.

Or almost forgot it. I guess it was my subconscious, smarter than the rest of me, that made my sleep uneasy. And about the fourth or fifth time I half woke, I heard the voices of Old Ones softly, worriedly, murmuring at each other just outside my window.

That woke me all the way up. Old Ones don't like the dark, never having had any back home. I pulled on a pair of shorts and stumbled outside. Spot was sitting there on her haunches, along with Brute and Blackeye, all three of them turning to stare at me. "What's the matter?" I demanded.

She was munching on a chunk of CHON-food. "Grathe," she said politely, acknowledging my existence. "He. Gone." She made sweeping-away gestures with her hands to make sure I understood her.

"Well, hell," I said. "Gone where?"

She made the same gesture again. "Away."

"Yes, I know away," I snarled. "Did he say when he was coming back?"

She swallowed and spat out of a piece of wrapper. "No back," she said.

I guess I was still pretty sleepy, because I didn't take it in right away. "What do you mean, 'no back?'"

"Gone," she told me placidly. "Also Beautiful. Pony. Gadget. They too."

IV

I woke Shelly and Carlo and sent them up in the ultralight to check out the whole reservation, but I didn't wait for their report. I was calling headquarters even before they were airborne. Bertie wasn't in his office, of course—it was the middle of the night, and the headquarters people kept city hours—but I got him out of bed at home. He didn't sound like he believed me. "Why the hell would anyone kidnap a couple of Old Ones?" he wanted to know.

"Ask the bastard yourself," I snarled at him. "Only find him first. That's three of the Old Ones that he's kidnapped—Beauty and her two-year-old, Gadget. And Pony. Pony is the kid's father, probably."

He made a sound of irritation. "All right. First thing, I'll need descriptions no, sorry," he said, catching himself; how would you describe three Old Ones? And why would you need to? "Forget that part. I'll take it from here. I guarantee he won't get off the planet. I'll have cops at the Loop in ten minutes, and a general alarm everywhere. I'll—"

But I cut him off there. "No, Bertie. Not so much you will. More like we will. I'll meet you at the Loop and, I don't care how rich the son of a bitch is, when we catch him I'm going to punch him out. And then he's going to see what the inside of a jail looks like."

But that wasn't the way the hand played out.

I took our two-man hover, which is almost as fast as the ultra-light. The way I was goosing it along, maybe a little faster. By the time I got within sight of the Lofstrom Loop, with Nairobi's glowing bubble a few kilometers to the north, I was already aware of police planes crisscrossing across the sky—once or twice dropping down to get a good look at me before they were satisfied and zoomed away.

At night the Loop is picked out with lights, so that it looks like a kind of roller-coaster ride, kilometers long. I could hear the whine of its rotating magnetic cables long before I got to the terminal. There weren't many pods either coming or going—maybe because it was nighttime in this part of the world—so, I figured, there wouldn't be so many passengers that Wan and his captives might not be noticed. (As though anybody wouldn't notice three Old Ones.)

Actually at that time of night there were hardly any passengers waiting around in the terminal. Bertie was there already, with half a dozen Nairobi city cops, but they didn't have much to do. Neither did I, except to fret and swear to myself for letting him get away.

Then the cop manning the communicator listened to something, snarled something back and came toward us, looking shamefaced. "He won't be coming here," he told Bertie. "He didn't use the Loop coming down. He used his own lander, and it looks like he used it to get off, too, because it's gone."

And so he had.

By the time Bertie, fuming, was able to get in touch with any of the authorities in orbit, Wan had had plenty of time to dock with his spaceship and be on his way, wherever it was he was going, at FTL speeds. And I never saw him, or any of the three missing Old Ones, again.

Heard about him, though. You bet I heard about him. Everybody did, because everybody likes to read about nasty, spoiled rich kids, and this Wan sure filled the bill.

The whole thing made you wonder, though. They brought the Old Ones to Africa to make them safe, and that certainly hadn't worked out. So what were they going to do with them next?