Read Online Beyond the Blue Event Horizon by Frederik Pohl - Free Book Online
Authors: Frederik Pohl
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comes to Food Factory?”
“That’s what we have to find out,” I yelled back. The boat skillfully snaked us in to shallow water and waited while we jumped out and ran up the grass. When it recognized that we were gone, it purred down the shoreline to put itself away.
Wet as we were, we ran directly to the brain room. We had begun to get opticals already, and the holo tank showed a skinny, scraggly youth wearing a sort of divided kilt and a dirty tunic. He did not seem threatening in any way, but he sure as hell had no right to be there. ‘Voice,” I ordered, and the moving lips began to speak-queer, shrill, high-pitched, but good enough English to understand:
“-from the main station, yes. It is about seven seven-days- weeks, I mean. I come here often.”
“For God’s sake, how?” I could not see the speaker, but it was male and had no accent: Paul Hall.
“In a ship, to be sure. Do you not have a ship? The Dead Men speak only of traveling in ships, I do not know any other way.”
“Incredible,” said Essie over my shoulder. She backed away, not taking her eyes off the tank, and came back with a terrycloth robe to throw over my shoulders and one for herself. “What do you suppose is ‘main station’?”
“I wish to God I knew. Harriet?”
The voices from the tank grew fainter, and my secretary’s voice said, “Yes, Mr. Broadhead?”
“When did he get there?”
“About seventeen point four minutes ago, Mr. Broadhead. Plus transit time from the Food Factory, of course. He was discovered by Janine Herter. She did not appear to have had a camera with her, so we received only voice until one of the other members of the party arrived.” As soon as she stopped speaking the voice from the figure in the tank came up again; Harriet is a very good program, one of Essie’s best.
“-sorry if I behaved improperly,” the boy was saying. Pause. Then, old Peter Herter:
“Never mind that, by God. Are there other people on this main station?”
The boy pursed his lips. “That,” he said philosophically, “would depend, would it not, on how one defines ‘person’? In the sense of a living organism of our species, no. The closest is the Dead Men.”
A woman’s voice-Dorema Herter-Hall. “Are you hungry? Do you need anything?”
“No, why should I?”
“Harriet? What’s that about behaving improperly?” I asked. Harriet’s voice came hesitantly. “He, uh, he brought himself to orgasm, Mr. Broadhead. Right in front of Janine Herter.”
I couldn’t help it, I broke out laughing. “Essie,” I said to my wife, “I think you made her a little too ladylike.” But that wasn’t what I was laughing at. It was the plain incongruity of the thing. I had guessed-anything. Anything but this: a Heechee, a space pirate, Martians-God knows what, but not a horny teen-aged boy.
There was a scrabble of steel claws from behind and something jumped on my shoulder. “Down, Squiffy,” I snapped.
Essie said, “Just let him nuzzle neck for a minute. He’ll go away.”
“He isn’t dainty in his personal habits,” I snarled. “Can’t we get rid of him?”
“Na, na, galubka,” she said soothingly, patting the top of my head as she got up. ‘Want Full Medical, don’t you? Squiffy comes along.” She kissed me and wandered out of the room, leaving me to think about the thing that, to my somewhat surprise, was making all sorts of tiny but discomforting stirrings inside me. To see a Heechee! Well, we hadn’t-but what if we did?
When the first Venus explorers discovered the traces the Heechee had left, glowing blue-lined empty tunnels, spindle-shaped caves, it was a shock. A few artifacts, another shock-what were they? There were the scrolls of metal somebody named “prayer fans” (but did the Heechee pray, and if so to whom?) There were the glowing little beads called “fire pearls”, but they weren’t pearls, and they weren’t burning. Then someone found the Gateway asteroid, and the biggest
“That’s what we have to find out,” I yelled back. The boat skillfully snaked us in to shallow water and waited while we jumped out and ran up the grass. When it recognized that we were gone, it purred down the shoreline to put itself away.
Wet as we were, we ran directly to the brain room. We had begun to get opticals already, and the holo tank showed a skinny, scraggly youth wearing a sort of divided kilt and a dirty tunic. He did not seem threatening in any way, but he sure as hell had no right to be there. ‘Voice,” I ordered, and the moving lips began to speak-queer, shrill, high-pitched, but good enough English to understand:
“-from the main station, yes. It is about seven seven-days- weeks, I mean. I come here often.”
“For God’s sake, how?” I could not see the speaker, but it was male and had no accent: Paul Hall.
“In a ship, to be sure. Do you not have a ship? The Dead Men speak only of traveling in ships, I do not know any other way.”
“Incredible,” said Essie over my shoulder. She backed away, not taking her eyes off the tank, and came back with a terrycloth robe to throw over my shoulders and one for herself. “What do you suppose is ‘main station’?”
“I wish to God I knew. Harriet?”
The voices from the tank grew fainter, and my secretary’s voice said, “Yes, Mr. Broadhead?”
“When did he get there?”
“About seventeen point four minutes ago, Mr. Broadhead. Plus transit time from the Food Factory, of course. He was discovered by Janine Herter. She did not appear to have had a camera with her, so we received only voice until one of the other members of the party arrived.” As soon as she stopped speaking the voice from the figure in the tank came up again; Harriet is a very good program, one of Essie’s best.
“-sorry if I behaved improperly,” the boy was saying. Pause. Then, old Peter Herter:
“Never mind that, by God. Are there other people on this main station?”
The boy pursed his lips. “That,” he said philosophically, “would depend, would it not, on how one defines ‘person’? In the sense of a living organism of our species, no. The closest is the Dead Men.”
A woman’s voice-Dorema Herter-Hall. “Are you hungry? Do you need anything?”
“No, why should I?”
“Harriet? What’s that about behaving improperly?” I asked. Harriet’s voice came hesitantly. “He, uh, he brought himself to orgasm, Mr. Broadhead. Right in front of Janine Herter.”
I couldn’t help it, I broke out laughing. “Essie,” I said to my wife, “I think you made her a little too ladylike.” But that wasn’t what I was laughing at. It was the plain incongruity of the thing. I had guessed-anything. Anything but this: a Heechee, a space pirate, Martians-God knows what, but not a horny teen-aged boy.
There was a scrabble of steel claws from behind and something jumped on my shoulder. “Down, Squiffy,” I snapped.
Essie said, “Just let him nuzzle neck for a minute. He’ll go away.”
“He isn’t dainty in his personal habits,” I snarled. “Can’t we get rid of him?”
“Na, na, galubka,” she said soothingly, patting the top of my head as she got up. ‘Want Full Medical, don’t you? Squiffy comes along.” She kissed me and wandered out of the room, leaving me to think about the thing that, to my somewhat surprise, was making all sorts of tiny but discomforting stirrings inside me. To see a Heechee! Well, we hadn’t-but what if we did?
When the first Venus explorers discovered the traces the Heechee had left, glowing blue-lined empty tunnels, spindle-shaped caves, it was a shock. A few artifacts, another shock-what were they? There were the scrolls of metal somebody named “prayer fans” (but did the Heechee pray, and if so to whom?) There were the glowing little beads called “fire pearls”, but they weren’t pearls, and they weren’t burning. Then someone found the Gateway asteroid, and the biggest
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