“Don’t drown us now, you old fool,” Heimat snarled at his partner, and Harold squawked in fear as water came in over the side. Sneezy understood the humans’ fear. As his head cleared, he began to share it. The little boat was broadside to the waves, and the risk of capsizing it was real. But their concern did not dampen his mood. The pod radiation was as refreshing as a cold drink on a hot day—no, better than that! As refreshing as a rum toddy after being out in a blizzard; warmth and pleasing numbness stole volition from him. The dreamy lassitude would last only a short time, until his body had soaked up enough microwave to be content again. But while it lasted he was simply too relaxed to worry.
So he sat docilely while Cyril Basingstoke searched the shore for a refuge. He listened uncaring while the two old men argued over what to choose. He obediently tried to help scoop water out of the bottom of the boat with his skinny, bare Heechee hands—so ill adapted to such a task—as they settled on a beach house with its own floating dock, and Basingstoke ran the craft to a mooring next to it.
Out of the boat, up the beach to the dwelling, gathering before the screened porch of the beach house—there were a dozen times when Sneezy might have broken free and run. The old men were tiring now, because the night was well advanced and they had been taxing themselves a great deal. But Sneezy didn’t take the chance. Neither did Harold, though perhaps the human boy’s chances were worse; General Heimat never once let go of his arm. And of course Oniko had never had a chance to escape on her own, and so Sneezy docilely helped Oniko and waited patiently as the old men argued.
“There will be a watch system, man,” Basingstoke warned.
Heimat smiled. All he said was, “Take this boy’s arm,” and turned to his work. The skills that a dozen times had been pitted against the prison’s multiply redundant guard programs were not to be defeated by some householder’s burglar alarm.
In two minutes they were inside the house. The door was locked behind them. The chances of escape were gone; and, tardily, Sneezy realized what opportunities he had let slip away.
“On your bellies, my dears,” Heimat ordered cheerfully, “and put your hands behind your necks. If you move you are dead—except you, of course, sweet Oniko.”
Obediently the children lowered themselves to the floor, and Sneezy heard the sounds of the old men ransacking the house, muttering to each other. The lassitude was wearing off, now that it was too late, but he was beginning to be aware of something else. He hardly heard what the kidnapers were saying or doing. He wanted something…He had a need to do something…
Without intending it in the least, he got up and moved toward the bungalow’s PV communications set.
It happened to be Basingstoke who saw him first, which perhaps saved Sneezy’s life. The old man was beside him in a second, swatting him away. Sneezy landed halfway across the room, blinking at him. “Boy, boy,” rumbled the old man chidingly. “What in the world do you think you’re doing?”
“I have to make a call,” Sneezy explained, standing up again. Nothing was broken. He started toward the set once more.
Basingstoke grabbed him. The old man was stronger than Sneezy had thought; the boy struggled for a moment, then let himself go limp. “What you have to do,” Basingstoke scolded, “is exactly what we tell you to do, boy, and nothing more. You will sit quietly, or—Heimat! Watch the girl!”
For Oniko, too, had struggled to her feet and was advancing doggedly toward the set, the expression on her face determined.
Heimat had an arm around her in the first step. “What’s the matter with you two?” he snarled. “Didn’t you think we were serious? Perhaps we should kill the Heechee brat to convince you?”
“We will just tie them up, Beaupre,” Basingstoke corrected. Then, observing the look on Heimat’s face and the way he was holding the girl, he sighed, “Oh, give it a rest, man! There is plenty of time for what you want later!”
The beach house was a treasure trove for the old terrorists. There was food, there was power, they even found weapons of a sort—a spring-wound shark gun for scuba-diving, and a flat, mean-looking stun gun apparently designed for the times when a sportfisher had brought aboard a large game fish that still had enough life left to thrash dangerously around in the boat. Sneezy’s lassitude wore off, and he looked at the guns with astonishment and more than a little horror. They were weapons! They could kill someone! What typically human devices they were!
When they had located food, the two men ate first, muttering to each other over the table, but when they were finished they untied Oniko and allowed her to feed the others. She had to spoon soup into the boys’ mouths as though they were babies. Once she rose awkwardly and started once more toward the PV commset, but Heimat was ahead of her. She didn’t try it again. Sneezy’s own uncontrollable urge to do the same thing departed, leaving him puzzling over just what it was he was so anxious to do. Call someone, of course. But whom? The police? Yes, certainly, that would have been logical; but he did not think that was what had been in his mind.
When everyone was fed and the children had even been allowed, one by one, to make escorted visits to the toilet, Heimat came over and draped his arm fondly over Oniko’s shoulders. The girl shuddered without looking at him.
“Heimat, man,” said Cyril Basingstoke warningly.
The general looked surprised. “What have I done?” he asked, carelessly toying with the girl’s bobbed black hair. “We’ve eaten. We’re in a nice, safe place. We’ve earned the right, surely, to rest for a moment and enjoy ourselves.”
Basingstoke said patiently, “We are still on an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, man. We are not safe until we are off it. Sooner or later the people who own this house will come back, or some neighbor will see the lights and come to call, and what will we do then?”
Heimat sighed tolerantly and stood up, wandering about the room. “But we’ve got a long night ahead of us, and there won’t be any flights until morning,” he pointed out.
“Morning is not very far,” Basingstoke countered. “And there is also the flywheel boat. If we leave it where it is, it will lead people to us. I think you and I, Beau, should go down and send it off to sea before it gets light.”
“Oh?” said Heimat. “But why two of us, Cyril?” He sat down at a desk in the corner, watching the other man, and though no one’s expression changed, Sneezy was suddenly aware of a new tension in the room.
Heimat went on thoughtfully, “Let me see if I can read your mind, old comrade. You are thinking that it will be harder for two to book passage than one. You are also thinking that if I, and these nice young people, were dead, our bodies could be left here in this house for maybe quite a long time.”
“Oh, Beaupre, what an imagination you have,” Basingstoke said tolerantly.
“Yes,” Heimat agreed. “I imagine you are making a calculation, Cyril, of whether my help or my dead body would be of more use to you. I even think you are considering some plan in which all four of our bodies could be found in some way that would be helpful to you. Perhaps in the boat set adrift, so that people would think you had most likely drowned while crossing the strait. Am I very close to what you were thinking?”
Basingstoke gave his partner a tolerant smile. “Oh, perhaps in general terms,” he conceded. “One has such idle thoughts now and then. But it was only a thought, man.”
“Then think of this.” Heimat smiled, raising his hand from the desk to reveal the flat, mean fish-killing gun.
Oniko shrieked and collapsed against Sneezy. He wished he could pat her shoulder reassuringly, but the ropes did not allow that; he compromised by rubbing his leathery cheek against the top of her head. Basingstoke gazed at the children for a moment, then turned earnestly back to Heimat.
“Beaupre,” he said, “what I think is only what you yourself have surely been thinking, too; it is only sensible for each of us to consider alternatives. But I do not want your body found off the island. As far as anyone knows, we are still on M
oorea. I hope no one will think otherwise until it is too late. So do not be a great fool, man. Let us get rid of the boat. Then let us arrange transportation away from here.”
Heimat studied him, scratching his chin with his thumbnail. He didn’t speak.
“Also,” said Basingstoke, “there is something else to think of. No sensible person leaves a loaded gun in a drawer when he goes away. Do you think the owner of this house was so careless? How sure are you? You haven’t checked to see if it was empty, or I would have seen you do it.”
Heimat gave him a respectful nod. He put his hands in his lap for a moment, looking down at the gun. What he saw was concealed from the others by the desk; there was a snick of metal opening and a snap as it closed. Heimat’s expression didn’t change as he looked up. “Now I know whether it is loaded or not,” he observed. “But you don’t.”
“Is it, then?” Basingstoke inquired politely. He didn’t wait for an answer. “In any case, let us stop this nonsensical debate. We will both go and get rid of the boat; the children will be safe enough here. Then we will come back and see about finding a way off this island. Then, Beaupre, while we wait until it is time for our plane, you may entertain yourself in any fashion you like.”
It had been General Beaupre Heimat who tied them up, and Sneezy acknowledged that the old man knew what he was doing. In the few minutes they were out of the house he strained against the ropes uselessly. He was not helped by Harold’s complaining whine: “What the dickens is the matter with you, Dopey? You’re so skinny, you should be able to slide right out of those things! Then you could untie us and then—”
Harold stopped there, because not even he could visualize a good “and then.” In any case, the old men were back almost at once, hovering over the PV commset.
They accessed the reservations clerk at Faa-Faa-Faa Airport at once. It was—or looked to be—a pretty Polynesian girl in a sarong, with flowers in her hair. She appeared both friendly and real as she gazed out of the PV tank. For a moment Sneezy thought of crying out for help, but the hope did not justify the risk. She was undoubtedly only a simulation, and probably a very rudimentary one.
“Display all flights nonstop for more than two thousand kilometers departing between now and noon,” Heimat ordered.
“Oui, m’sieur.” The girl smiled and disappeared. The PV showed a list:
UA 495
Honolulu
06:40
JA 350
Tokyo
08:00
AF 781
Los Angeles
09:30
NZ 263
Auckland
11:10
QU 819
Sydney
11:40
UT 311
San Francisco
12:00
Heimat said at once, “I want the Los Angeles flight.” Basingstoke sighed. “Yes, Beaupre, I suppose you do. So do I.”
Heimat looked displeased. “You could take San Francisco,” he argued. “It’s only a couple hours later, and it’s better if we’re not on the same flight, isn’t it? Or you could go to Honolulu, or Tokyo—”
“I do not want to be on another island, or in a place where I will not speak the language, and I don’t want to wait a couple of hours. I will be on that plane to Los Angeles.”
Heimat sighed and gave in. “Very well. We can be quit of each other there. Reservations!”
The girl reappeared, politely inquiring. “M’sieur?”
“We want space for two on Air France 781 this morning. Mr. J. Smith and Mr. R. Jones,” Heimat improvised.
“First class or coach, sir?”
“Oh, by all means first class.” Heimat smiled. “Our dear little niece has been good enough to fly us here for a little vacation and she is very generous. One moment,” he said, signaling to Basingstoke to bring the little girl forward. Out of range of the PV pickup the old black man swiftly untied the girl’s hands. Then he nodded to Heimat and lifted her to the commset. “Oniko, my dear,” Heimat went on, “kindly give this nice young computer program your credit ID.”
Sneezy held his breath. Would Oniko try to call for help? She did not. In a clear voice she gave the program her credit data and submitted her thumb to the pickup for verification. Sneezy felt a moment’s disappointment. Where was this vaunted human courage when it was needed? And then he was ashamed of himself; certainly if Oniko had said the wrong word, it would have been very unpleasant for her as soon as the old terrorist could get her out of range of the PV.
That was all there was to it. There were no questions. The Polynesian-looking program verified the account in a second and announced, “You have confirmed space for two, Mr. J. Smith and Mr. R. Jones, nonstop from Faa-Faa-Faa Airport, departing at nine-thirty for Los Angeles Intercontinental. Will there be any continuing or return flights from there?”
“Not just now,” Basingstoke said, and snapped off the commset.
“Wait a minute,” Heimat protested. “What’s the hurry? We will want to move on from Los Angeles, you know!”
“But not on her credit, man, It’s too risky. You’ll have to find your own way from there.”
Heimat’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You take a lot on yourself, Cyril,” he said softly. “Have you forgotten that I still have the gun?” And then, suddenly, he yelped, “What is she doing? Stop her, Cyril!” For Oniko, with Basingstoke’s hand still on her, had reached out doggedly to the commset once more.
Basingstoke jerked her away. “Now, now,” he chided. “This can get quite tiresome, child!” Oniko didn’t respond. She only gazed at the commset, now out of reach.
“Tie her,” Heimat ordered. Sneezy watched anxiously as Basingstoke did, setting her down again in the row of captives along the wall. As soon as Oniko was bound, she relaxed again, her body leaning against Sneezy’s for comfort.
“I had to,” she whispered to him, and he hissed agreement. She had to, just as he, too, had had to try to reach the commset as soon as they got into the house. Sneezy puzzled over that compulsive attempt; he could not remember just why it had seemed to be so important, only that it had. In the same way, he thought, he had wanted to find and record every bit of data he could get on Heechee history and activities for his diary. It seemed likely to him that the urges were related, but he could not understand them.
“They will be gone soon,” he whispered to Oniko, offering the only reassurance he could find.
She looked at him without speaking. She didn’t have to speak; what she would have said would have been only, “Not soon enough.”
The old men were doing what they were always doing. They were arguing.
How strange humans were, to decide even the simplest questions only by fierce dispute. This time the argument was over whether or not they should sleep, and which should do it first. Heimat was saying, “We might as well rest, Cyril. An hour or two each, so we’ll be alert when we go to the airport. Why don’t you go first? I’ll stay awake to entertain our young guests.”
“If you entertain that little one the way you want,” snapped Basing-stoke, “she will probably die of it.”
Heimat shook his head sadly. “Old age has weakened you. What do you care what happens to the little charmer?”
“Old age has made you a fool! There is a whole world of little girls out there. Once we are off this island, you can do what you like with all of them, for all I care, but this one has credit we can use. Can she pay our bills dead?”
“What bills? We’ve already got plane tickets.”
“And how do we get to the airport?” Basingstoke inquired. “Shall we walk?”
Heimat looked thoughtful, then glum. “Perhaps you are right this time,” he conceded grudgingly. Then he brightened. “So let us order a limousine now, and there will be time for other things while we are waiting for it to come!”
How much of this Oniko was following Sneezy couldn’t tell. Her body was limp as she slumped against him. She lay with her eyes closed, but those slow tear
s were still trickling down her cheeks, one after another, from her apparently inexhaustible supply.
Sneezy closed his own eyes. It wasn’t so much weariness, although there was plenty of weariness, too, as an effort at concentration. Was there any possibility at all of escape? Suppose he told the old men that he had to go to the toilet again. Suppose they untied him for that; could he then break free, catch Oniko up in his arms, and run out of the building with her? Could Harold help? Was there any chance that such a plan, or any other plan, could succeed?
Or would they simply solve the problem of Sneezy and Harold, who had neither credit nor sexual victimization to offer, by terminating their lives at the first inconvenience?
For the first time in his young life, Sneezy contemplated the real possibility that it would end within the next few hours at most. It was quite frightening to a young Heechee. It was not merely a question of death—death came to everyone sooner or later. But death under these circumstances could well be total death, since there was no one nearby to do what was necessary to take the dead brain of Sneezy and empty it into storage; it was not death he feared so much as the prospect of his brain irretrievably decaying before he could be transformed into an Ancestor…
He became aware that the old men were quarreling again, this time more violently. “What is the matter with the damned thing!” cried Basingstoke in exasperation, and Heimat chimed in:
“You’ve done something wrong, you old fool. Here! Let me try!”
“Try as much as you like,” growled Basingstoke. “It simply will not go on.” He stood back, glowering as the paler old man bent to the commset. Then Heimat sat back, his expression bleak.
“What did you do?” he demanded.
“I did nothing! I simply turned it off. Then I tried to turn it on again, and it will not work!”
For a quick moment Sneezy felt a rush of hope. If the communications set had really been somehow broken, then perhaps the old men’s plans would have to change. Perhaps they must walk to the airport! Sneezy had no idea how far it was, or even in what direction, but probably the men didn’t either. They would not dare waste time, perhaps. They would need to start immediately, for the sun was almost rising outside, the sky in the windows brightening.
The Annals of the Heechee Page 26
