is.”
“Do you?” asked Dolly in her own voice.
“Nearly! More nearly than you!”
And Dolly, grinning, raised the Heechee hand. “Oh, but you’re wrong, Mr. Wan,” came the silky, snaky Heechee voice. “This is what I look like, and I’m waiting to meet you in the next black hole!”
Crash went the chair Wan was sitting on as he sprang up. “That is not funny!” he shouted, and Dolly was astonished to see he was trembling. “Make me food!” he demanded, and stomped off to his private lander, muttering.
It was not wise to joke with him. So Dolly made him his dinner and served him with a smile she did not feel. She gained nothing from the smile. His mood was fouler than ever. He screeched: “Stupid woman! Have you eaten all the good food when I was not looking? Is there nothing left fit to be eaten?”
Dolly was near tears. “But you like steak,” she protested.
“Steak! Of course I like steak, but look at what you serve for dessert!” He pushed the steak and broccoli out of the way to seize the plate of chocolate-chip cookies and shake it under her nose. Cookies sailed away in all directions, and Dolly tried to retrieve them. “I know it’s not what you’d like, honey, but there isn’t any more ice cream.”
He glared at her. “Huh! No more ice cream! Oh, very well, then. A chocolate soufflé-or a flan-“
“Wan, they’re almost all gone, too. You ate them.”
“Stupid woman! That is not possible!”
“Well, they’re gone. Anyway, all that sweet stuff isn’t good for you.”
“You have not been appointed my nurse! If I rot my teeth I will buy new ones.” He struck at the dish in her hand, and the cookies went flying indeed. “Jettison this trash. I do not wish to eat at all now,” he snapped.
It was just another typical meal on the frontiers of the Galaxy. It finished typically, too, with Dolly clearing away the mess and weeping. He was such a terrible person! And he didn’t even seem to know it.
But as a matter of fact, Wan did know that he was mean, antisocial, exploitive-a whole long list of things that had been explained to him by the psychoanalysis programs. More than three hundred sessions of them. Six days a week, for almost a year. And at the end he had terminated the analysis with a joke. “I have a question,” he told the holographic analyst, displayed for him as a good-looking woman, old enough to be his mother, young enough to be attractive, “and the question is this: How many psychoanalysts does it take to change a light bulb?”
The analyst said, sighing, “Oh, Wan, you’re resisting again. All right. How many?”
“Only one,” he told her, laughing, “but the light bulb has to really want to change. Haw-haw! -And you see, I don’t.”
She looked directly at him for a silent moment. The way she was displayed, she was sitting on a sort of beanbag chair, with her legs tucked under her, a note pad in her hand, a pencil in the other. She used it to push up the glasses that were sliding down her nose as she looked at him. As with everything else in her programming, the gesture was meant to have a purpose, the reassuring indication that she was, after all, only another human being like himself, not an austere goddess. Of course, human she was not. But she sounded human enough as she said, “That’s really a very old joke, Wan. What’s a light bulb?”
He shrugged irritably. “It is a round thing that gives off light,” he guessed, “but you are missing the point. I do not wish to be changed anymore. It is not fun for me. It was not my desire to begin this in the first place, and now I have decided to end it.”
The computer program said peacefully, “That’s your right, of course, Wan. What will you do?”
“I will go looking for my-I will go out of here and enjoy myself,” he said savagely. “That is also one of my rights!”
“Yes, it is,” she agreed. “Wan? Would you like to tell me what it was you started to say, before you changed your
“Do you?” asked Dolly in her own voice.
“Nearly! More nearly than you!”
And Dolly, grinning, raised the Heechee hand. “Oh, but you’re wrong, Mr. Wan,” came the silky, snaky Heechee voice. “This is what I look like, and I’m waiting to meet you in the next black hole!”
Crash went the chair Wan was sitting on as he sprang up. “That is not funny!” he shouted, and Dolly was astonished to see he was trembling. “Make me food!” he demanded, and stomped off to his private lander, muttering.
It was not wise to joke with him. So Dolly made him his dinner and served him with a smile she did not feel. She gained nothing from the smile. His mood was fouler than ever. He screeched: “Stupid woman! Have you eaten all the good food when I was not looking? Is there nothing left fit to be eaten?”
Dolly was near tears. “But you like steak,” she protested.
“Steak! Of course I like steak, but look at what you serve for dessert!” He pushed the steak and broccoli out of the way to seize the plate of chocolate-chip cookies and shake it under her nose. Cookies sailed away in all directions, and Dolly tried to retrieve them. “I know it’s not what you’d like, honey, but there isn’t any more ice cream.”
He glared at her. “Huh! No more ice cream! Oh, very well, then. A chocolate soufflé-or a flan-“
“Wan, they’re almost all gone, too. You ate them.”
“Stupid woman! That is not possible!”
“Well, they’re gone. Anyway, all that sweet stuff isn’t good for you.”
“You have not been appointed my nurse! If I rot my teeth I will buy new ones.” He struck at the dish in her hand, and the cookies went flying indeed. “Jettison this trash. I do not wish to eat at all now,” he snapped.
It was just another typical meal on the frontiers of the Galaxy. It finished typically, too, with Dolly clearing away the mess and weeping. He was such a terrible person! And he didn’t even seem to know it.
But as a matter of fact, Wan did know that he was mean, antisocial, exploitive-a whole long list of things that had been explained to him by the psychoanalysis programs. More than three hundred sessions of them. Six days a week, for almost a year. And at the end he had terminated the analysis with a joke. “I have a question,” he told the holographic analyst, displayed for him as a good-looking woman, old enough to be his mother, young enough to be attractive, “and the question is this: How many psychoanalysts does it take to change a light bulb?”
The analyst said, sighing, “Oh, Wan, you’re resisting again. All right. How many?”
“Only one,” he told her, laughing, “but the light bulb has to really want to change. Haw-haw! -And you see, I don’t.”
She looked directly at him for a silent moment. The way she was displayed, she was sitting on a sort of beanbag chair, with her legs tucked under her, a note pad in her hand, a pencil in the other. She used it to push up the glasses that were sliding down her nose as she looked at him. As with everything else in her programming, the gesture was meant to have a purpose, the reassuring indication that she was, after all, only another human being like himself, not an austere goddess. Of course, human she was not. But she sounded human enough as she said, “That’s really a very old joke, Wan. What’s a light bulb?”
He shrugged irritably. “It is a round thing that gives off light,” he guessed, “but you are missing the point. I do not wish to be changed anymore. It is not fun for me. It was not my desire to begin this in the first place, and now I have decided to end it.”
The computer program said peacefully, “That’s your right, of course, Wan. What will you do?”
“I will go looking for my-I will go out of here and enjoy myself,” he said savagely. “That is also one of my rights!”
“Yes, it is,” she agreed. “Wan? Would you like to tell me what it was you started to say, before you changed your
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