the little lurch that meant the lander had disengaged. And then he would be venturing even closer to one of these terrible objects! And what would happen to him then? Or to her? Not that she would go with him, certainly! But if he died, and left her alone, a hundred lightyears from anything she knew-what then?
She heard an angry mumble and knew that at least that time was not now. The hatch opened and Wan crawled out of the lander, wrathful. “Another empty one!” he snarled at her, as though he were holding her accountable for it.
And, of course, he was. She tried to look sympathetic rather than scared. “Aw, honey, what a pity. That makes three of them.”
“Three! Huh! Three with you along, you mean. More than that in all, indeed!” His tone was scornful, but she didn’t mind the scorn. It was drowned in the relief when he slipped past her. Dolly moved inconspicuously as far away from the control board as she could-not far, in a Heechee ship that would have fit readily into a good-sized living room. As he sat down and consulted his electronic oracles she kept silent.
When Wan talked to his Dead Men he did not invite Dolly to take part. If he conducted his end of the conversation in words she could at least hear that half of it. If he tapped out instructions on his keyboard she did not have even that much. But this time she could figure it out easily enough. He punched out his questions, scowled at what one of the Dead Men said in his earphones, punched out a correction, and then set up a course on the Heechee board. Then he took the headphones off, scowled, stretched, and turned to Dolly. “All right,” he said, “come, you can pay another installment on your passage.”
“Why, sure, honey,” she said obligingly, though it would have been so very much nicer if he didn’t always have to put it like that. But her spirits were a little higher. She felt the tiny suggestion of a lurch that meant that the spacecraft was starting off on another trip, and indeed, the great blue and violet horror on the screen was already dwindling away. That made up for a lot!
Of course, it only meant they were on their way to the next one.
“Do the Heechee,” commanded Wan, “and, let me see, yes. With Robinette Broadhead.”
“Sure, Wan,” said Dolly, retrieving her puppets from where Wan had kicked them and slipping them over her hands. The Heechee did not, of course, look like a real Heechee; and as a matter of fact the Robinette Broadhead was pretty libelous, too. But they amused Wan. That was what mattered to Dolly, since he was paying the bills. The first day out of Port Hegramet he had boastfully shown Dolly his bankbook. Six million dollars automatically socked into it every month! The numbers staggered Dolly. They made up for a lot. Out of all that cataract of cash there had to be a way, sooner or later, of squeezing a few drops for herself. To Dolly there was nothing immoral in such thoughts. Perhaps in an earlier day Americans would have called her a golddigger. But most of the human race, through most of its history, would only have called her poor.
So she fed him and bedded him. When he was in a bad mood she tried to look invisible, and when he wanted entertainment she tried to entertain:
“Halo thar, Mr. Heechee,” said the Broadhead hand, Dolly’s fingers twisting to give it a simpering grin, Dolly’s voice thick and corn-pone-bumpkin (part of the libel!). “I’m moughty pleased to make your acquaintance.”
The Heechee hand, Dolly’s voice a serpentine whine: “Greetings, rash Earthman. You are just in time for dinner.”
“Aw, gosh,” cried the Broadhead hand, grin widening, “I’m hungry, too. What’s fer dinner?”
“Aargh!” shrieked the Heechee hand, fingers a claw, mouth open. “You are!” And the right-hand fingers closed on the left-hand puppet.
“Ho! Ho! Ho!” laughed Wan. “That is very good! Though that is not what a Heechee looks like. You do not know what a Heechee
She heard an angry mumble and knew that at least that time was not now. The hatch opened and Wan crawled out of the lander, wrathful. “Another empty one!” he snarled at her, as though he were holding her accountable for it.
And, of course, he was. She tried to look sympathetic rather than scared. “Aw, honey, what a pity. That makes three of them.”
“Three! Huh! Three with you along, you mean. More than that in all, indeed!” His tone was scornful, but she didn’t mind the scorn. It was drowned in the relief when he slipped past her. Dolly moved inconspicuously as far away from the control board as she could-not far, in a Heechee ship that would have fit readily into a good-sized living room. As he sat down and consulted his electronic oracles she kept silent.
When Wan talked to his Dead Men he did not invite Dolly to take part. If he conducted his end of the conversation in words she could at least hear that half of it. If he tapped out instructions on his keyboard she did not have even that much. But this time she could figure it out easily enough. He punched out his questions, scowled at what one of the Dead Men said in his earphones, punched out a correction, and then set up a course on the Heechee board. Then he took the headphones off, scowled, stretched, and turned to Dolly. “All right,” he said, “come, you can pay another installment on your passage.”
“Why, sure, honey,” she said obligingly, though it would have been so very much nicer if he didn’t always have to put it like that. But her spirits were a little higher. She felt the tiny suggestion of a lurch that meant that the spacecraft was starting off on another trip, and indeed, the great blue and violet horror on the screen was already dwindling away. That made up for a lot!
Of course, it only meant they were on their way to the next one.
“Do the Heechee,” commanded Wan, “and, let me see, yes. With Robinette Broadhead.”
“Sure, Wan,” said Dolly, retrieving her puppets from where Wan had kicked them and slipping them over her hands. The Heechee did not, of course, look like a real Heechee; and as a matter of fact the Robinette Broadhead was pretty libelous, too. But they amused Wan. That was what mattered to Dolly, since he was paying the bills. The first day out of Port Hegramet he had boastfully shown Dolly his bankbook. Six million dollars automatically socked into it every month! The numbers staggered Dolly. They made up for a lot. Out of all that cataract of cash there had to be a way, sooner or later, of squeezing a few drops for herself. To Dolly there was nothing immoral in such thoughts. Perhaps in an earlier day Americans would have called her a golddigger. But most of the human race, through most of its history, would only have called her poor.
So she fed him and bedded him. When he was in a bad mood she tried to look invisible, and when he wanted entertainment she tried to entertain:
“Halo thar, Mr. Heechee,” said the Broadhead hand, Dolly’s fingers twisting to give it a simpering grin, Dolly’s voice thick and corn-pone-bumpkin (part of the libel!). “I’m moughty pleased to make your acquaintance.”
The Heechee hand, Dolly’s voice a serpentine whine: “Greetings, rash Earthman. You are just in time for dinner.”
“Aw, gosh,” cried the Broadhead hand, grin widening, “I’m hungry, too. What’s fer dinner?”
“Aargh!” shrieked the Heechee hand, fingers a claw, mouth open. “You are!” And the right-hand fingers closed on the left-hand puppet.
“Ho! Ho! Ho!” laughed Wan. “That is very good! Though that is not what a Heechee looks like. You do not know what a Heechee
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