The Boy Who Would Live Forever: A Novel of Gateway

by Frederik Pohl

  Both shook their heads. The stranger said morosely, “Must have sounded so to some of your people, because it is that which they called us. Heechee. After what they considered those sounds sounded like. Do you know, I have even heard some of own people use that same to represent ourselves?”

  Stan took another quick look at Estrella, then answered for both of them. “I’m sorry if that offends you. We aren’t the ones who did it, though. We weren’t even there.”

  “No,” the male said. “Is correct you were not even there, you two.” He looked them both up and down with an expression Stan couldn’t read. Then he turned to leave. At the door he paused. “Is very interesting to me that of your people none accept to be responsible for that which others of your people have done.” Another pause, and then he contemptuously blew air out through his nostrils and said, “You two are considered to be some kind of heroes on Gateway. Of course, do not have too many persons which actually be proud of, correct?”

  II

  Alone again, Stan and Estrella took sitting-down turns. First Stan sat on the bundle of reeds, now detached again from the Heechee perch, and Estrella did her best to be at ease in the forks of the perch. Then the other way around. Then one standing while the other was something approaching comfortable lying on the reeds. Then both of them standing, or, more accurately, roaming around, because they were getting hungrier, and more tired of being in this room, and considerably more irritable, not just at their Heechee hosts but at each other for asking, over and over, questions that they had no way to answer: Who had that weirdo in the funny clothes been? When was the ship going to take off? What did the weirdo Heechee mean about them being heroes on Gateway, and what the hell did he know about Gateway in the first place? Why didn’t Salt come through that door and let them out of this place? Wasn’t it, for God’s sake, about time they got something to eat?

  Stan also had to go to the bathroom. Despite the long intimacy that had existed between them on their Five, he was reluctant to make use of the bodily-waste receptacle while she was right there watching him. When the pressure in his bladder matched, without canceling out, the yearning void in his belly he gave up. “The hell with it,” he said, and marched to the door, determined to find a way to get it open, no matter what weird Heechee locks held it shut, or at least to hammer on it until someone came to let them out.

  That problem solved itself. The moment he touched the door it quietly slid open. He found himself looking out at the passage they had come in, terminating in that big spindle-shaped chamber. Estrella was close behind.

  That faint Heechee odor of ammonia told him what he was going to see before he saw it. There were quite a few Heechee in the chamber now, a couple of them talking quietly to each other at one of the control carrels, another absorbedly selecting among the fan-shaped books to put into one of the reading machines. The rest of them, half a dozen at least, were eating and drinking around a couple of tables that had produced themselves from nowhere. None of these Heechee appeared to be the male who had visited them in their cabin, and, whatever they were doing, they all stopped it to look at Stan and Estrella.

  After a moment’s hesitation the female named Salt got up from the table and came toward them. “You persons wish to join us now for the eating?” she asked. “Are almost through here, us others. Did not know what to do when the eating began, since did not wish to disturb privacy.”

  “Oh, yes, we’d love to eat,” Estrella said eagerly, and Stan chimed in: “Me too. Absolutely. But give me a minute to, ah, freshen up first.”

  When the Heechee saw Stan and Estrella trying to fit themselves into the Heechee perches some of them made a series of sneezing sounds, perhaps the equivalent of a laugh. When Estrella told Salt what they had done about the problem in their own room, there was a quick discussion in the Heechee language. Then additional reed-clusters were quickly brought in to fill the space between the prongs.

  Then they were served a meal.

  It was Heechee food again, and there was no way to avoid eating it because the ship they were on had nothing else. Reluctantly Stan gave it a try, several varieties of it. The stuff was odd of texture, bizarre of color, indescribable of taste—Stan was sure of that last part, because he tried to describe it to himself as he ate, and failed. Was this pink, stringy stuff supposed to be mint-flavored? Something aromatic, certainly, but more like catnip than any Christmas candy cane. And the dark brown pebbles that shattered crisply in the teeth had no taste at all that he could detect. Nevertheless, he resolutely told himself, they were food, and indeed they did seem to fill that interior void.

  They had missed their ship’s takeoff, Salt told them. “Did not feel what-you-call lurch of passage? Small shaking up? But have been en route for quite lengthy time. Hope had nice sleep.”

  “Oh, we didn’t sleep,” Estrella said. “We had a visitor, you know.”

  That made Salt pause in her desultory nibbling, done, Estrella was sure, mostly to keep them company. “Understanding minimal,” she said. “Why say this? No person of ours intruded, I am of this sure.”

  “One did, though,” Stan corrected her, his mouth full of something bitter in flavor but with the sticky texture of marshmallows. “He had funny clothes and a funny hat, and he spoke very good English.”

  The effect of those words on Salt was remarkable. The fur on the sides of her head bristled, her face muscles writhed like snakes under the skin, her mouth hung open. She seemed to be having trouble taking it in. “Person entered privacy of your private room?” she asked incredulously.

  “Sure did,” Stan said, nodding.

  “But that is—” she began, then cut herself off. She flopped her wrists in obvious distress, then turned to speak to the other Heechee in the chamber. What she was saying neither Stan nor Estrella had any hope of understanding, because it was in Salt’s own language, but it produced its effect. Suddenly all the Heechee seemed to be talking at once, flapping their skeletal arms, shaking their skull-like heads, pointing bony fingers at Estrella and Stan, and the faint ammoniacal smell grew more intense with emotion.

  Stan swallowed the last of the fibrous wad in his mouth and turned to Estrella. “Are we in trouble?” he asked.

  She shrugged worriedly. “Salt did tell us not to speak to him,” she said. “I don’t know how we could have avoided it, though. He’s the one who came and talked to us.”

  And then, wonderfully, when every Heechee in the room had had his say, most of them several times, what Salt said to the two humans was much the same. “You have not offended,” she told them. “The person visited and addressed to you. You did not visit or address to him. So there is no fault for you. Also should be no repetition of same, because person is now in own compartment with responsible senior companion name of Slightly Bitter. Who,” she added glumly, “should not have allowed such visit in first place.” She was silent for a moment, and then went on: “But is quite surprising to us he should do this thing of seeking out you company. You see, he hate you very much.”

  III

  Estrella wanted to know why they were hated. (“Why should he hate us? He never even met us!”) Stan wanted to be told what this person was likely to do to them if he hated them so. After half a dozen unsuccessful attempts to answer the questions individually Salt flopped her wrists in resignation and began from the beginning.

  Their visitor (whose name, she said, was the word in the Heechee language for something like “One Who Accomplishes Much”) had been part of the crew of an exploring party. There were three of them in this crew, and their mission had been to look for a race of spacefaring sentients known as “the Assassins.”

  When Estrella wanted to know why they were called that, Salt looked puzzled. “Because is what they were, assassins,” she explained. “In days of old before Withdrawal these Assassins killed off every person they found, totally. Unanimously. What else may they be called? Although,” she corrected herself, “we do sometimes also call them by the term the ‘Foe,’ s
ince is what they are to us.”

  “I get it. This guy thought we were the Assassins?” Stan hazarded.

  Salt made the choking Heechee laughter sound, then politely stopped herself. “Not at all is that the case. Please allow me to complete elucidation.”

  Resignedly Stan told her to elucidate away, and so she did. Those three Heechee explorers had traveled around the galaxy looking for signs of these Assassins without success. Stan couldn’t quite figure out what “signs” Salt was talking about; as near as he could understand her their ship was sniffing various corners of the galaxy hoping to pick up some scent of the Assassins on the loose in inhabited portions of the galaxy. Literally she had used the word “scent.” Stan objected, “But you can’t smell anything in space,” and then shook his head. “Never mind. Go on the way you want to.”

  The explorers didn’t find their quarry, but they tried another tack. They took the ship to a place where, before the Withdrawal, the Heechee had left a number of their ships on an asteroid in orbit around a rather small yellowish star—

  “Jesus!” Stan cried, and Estrella whispered:

  “Gateway. You’re talking about Gateway.”

  Salt waggled her jaw in agreement. “So he spoke of the place, yes. Was there for four years.” And then she had trouble explaining just what the person had been doing for four years. It had something to do with the Gateway ships. One by one he had analyzed the mission plans each ship had stored, in case one of them could have tracked the Assassins in that last frantic period before the whole of the Heechee race ran into the Core to hide. And he went on doing this for four years.

  “In which time,” Salt said earnestly, “this person was alone. With many hundreds, even thousands, human persons, yes, but completely otherwise alone.”

  “Now wait a minute,” Stan said. “Surely some other Heechee came there now and then.”

  “Not much now. Not that much even then. A few visited only. Even such few not for long.”

  Estrella cut in. “But he still wasn’t alone, was he? There were three of them.”

  “Oh, did I not say? Not the case. This person, Achiever, he check records of spacecraft all time. Other two are gone for other purpose, while he stay on asteroid continuing checking records. And for that reason—” She hesitated, as though reluctant to say the next thing. Then she plunged ahead. “Only him, you see? And many, many of you. Toward end he could not stand sight of one more human person. Had no choice. Had to go on standing it. Must now receive relaxing and repairing on Shining Mica Mountains on Forested Planet of Warm Old Star Twenty-Four—this, you understand, is identical place to which I invited you.”

  Stan and Estrella thought that over for a moment. It was Estrella who asked, “What kind of relaxing and repairing?”

  “Is hard to explain. Is resting. Is associating—” She flapped her wrists in chagrin. “Have no proper words of your speaking. Perhaps proper words for same not existing.” She looked glum. “Actually, most sad thing is, we do not exactly know what is to be done. What is wished is to rid him of total hatred of your kind. Among you this is called—?”

  She stopped there. Stan filled in for her. “You mean craziness?”

  “I think perhaps so, yes,” Salt said reluctantly. “That is, deficiency of intellect leading to unusual and harmful actions. Except among us is no such thing, ever. Therefore we do not know how to treat.”

  “No such thing ever?” Estrella said skeptically.

  “Not ever never,” Salt said with emphasis. “Not a trait of our persons, this deficiency.”

  Estrella was still doubtful, but she asked, “So what will you do with him?”

  The muscles under the skin of Salt’s face writhed worriedly. “Will house him in certain place on Forested Planet of Warm Old Star Twenty-Four. Place is for purpose of remediating deficiencies. For example, in this place are old ones nearing death. You know, no longer controlling appropriate functions of body and so forth.” But the more she tried to explain the purpose of this sanitarium, or whatever it was, the harder it got. “Is for—” she would begin, and then pause for a while, sometimes quite a while, before venturing, “To make some persons Stored Ancestors, this place is. Not for this person, though.” Another long pause. “Or like, supposing some person is to wear tunic not one’s own? Without permission? So is there to make needed repairs to person so not to do again, you see?” But Stan and Estrella didn’t see. Finally she flapped her wrists at them in surrender. “Place is not exactly right for this person, no,” she conceded. “But is all we have.”

  7

  * * *

  Hatching the Phoenix

  I

  My name is Gelle-Klara Moynlin, and I probably don’t need any additional introduction. If I do, you just haven’t been paying attention, because I’m in the newscasts often enough.

  When we crossed the wavefront from the Crab supernova we were about half a day out from Earth. The crossing didn’t set off any alarms or anything. I wouldn’t even have noticed it, but my shipmind, Hypatia, is programmed to notice things that I don’t, if she thinks they might interest me. So she asked me if I wanted to take a look at it, and I did.

  Of course I’d already seen that doomed old star blow up two or three times already in simulations, but as a flesh and blood human being I like reality better than simulations—most of the time, anyway. Hypatia had already turned the Heechee screen on, but it showed nothing but the pebbly gray blur that’s the Heechee idea of a good default. Hypatia can read that stuff, but I can’t, so she changed the phase for me.

  Then I saw a field of stars, looking exactly like any other field of stars. I had to ask her, “Which one is it?”

  She said, “You can’t see it yet. We don’t have that much magnification, but keep your eyes open. Wait a moment. Another moment. Now, there it is.”

  She didn’t have to say that. I could see it for myself. Suddenly a point of light emerged and got brighter, and brighter still, until it outshone everything else on the screen. It actually made me squint. “It happens pretty fast,” I said.

  “Well, not really that fast, Klara. Our vector velocity, relative to the star, is quite a lot faster than light, so we’re speeding things up. Also we’re catching up with the wavefront, so we’re seeing it all in reverse. It’ll be gone soon.”

  And a moment later it was. Just as the star had become brightest of all, it unexploded itself. It became a simple star again, so unremarkable that I couldn’t even pick it out. The planets that they told me it had were unscorched again, their populations, if any, not yet whiffed into plasma. “All right,” I said, somewhat impressed but not enough to want Hypatia to know it, “turn the screen off and let’s get back to work.”

  Hypatia sniffed—she has built herself a whole repertory of human behaviors that are all her own idea, because I had never had them programmed into her. She said darkly, “We’d better, if we want to be able to pay all the bills for this thing. Do you have any idea what this is costing?”

  Of course, she wasn’t serious about that. I have problems, but I’m Gelle-Klara Moynlin, and being able to pay my bills isn’t one of them.

  I wasn’t always this solvent. When I was a kid on that chunk of burned-out hell they call the planet Venus, driving an air-body around its baked, bleak surface for the tourists all day and trying not to spend any of my pay all night, the thing I wanted most was to have money. I wasn’t hoping for a whole lot of money. I just wanted enough money so that I could afford Full Medical and a place to live that didn’t stink of rancid seafood. I wasn’t dreaming on any vast scale.

  It didn’t work out that way, though. I never did have exactly that much money. First I had none at all and no real hopes of ever getting any. Then I had much, much more than that, and I found out something about having a lot of money. When you have the kind of money that’s spelled M*O*N*E*Y, it’s like having a kitten in the house. The money wants you to play with it. You can try to leave it alone, but if you do it’ll be crawling into
your lap and nibbling at your chin for attention. You don’t have to give in to what the money wants. You can just push it away and go about your business, but then God knows what mischief it’ll get into if you do, and anyway then where’s the fun of having it?

  So most of the way out to the PhoenixCorp site Hypatia and I played with my money. That is, I played with it while Hypatia kept score. She remembers what I own better than I do—that’s what she was designed to do—and she’s always full of suggestions about what investments I should dump or hold or what new ventures I should get into.

  The key word there is “suggestions.” I don’t have to do what Hypatia says. Sometimes I don’t. As a general rule I follow Hypatia’s suggestions about four times out of five. The fifth time I do something different, just to let her know that I’m the one that makes the decisions here. I know that’s not smart, and it generally costs me money when I do, but that’s all right. I have plenty of money to spare.

  There’s a limit to how long I’m willing to go on tickling the money’s tummy, though. When I had just about reached that point Hypatia put down her pointer and waved the graphics displays away. She had made herself optically visible to humor me, because I like to see the person I’m talking to, wearing her fifth-century robes and coronet of rough-cut rubies and all, and she gave me an inquiring look. “Ready to take a little break, Klara?” she asked. “Do you want something to eat?”

  Well, I was, and I did. She knew that perfectly well. She’s continually monitoring my body, because that’s one of the other things she’s designed to do, but I like to keep my free will going there, too. “Actually,” I said, “I’d rather have a drink. How are we doing for time?”