Heechee rendezvous (27 page)

She looked at him in a puzzled way, then shook her head. “Dear Robin,” she said, “I have something I must tell you. One moment.” She turned to Albert and shot three or four fast Russian sentences at him. He nodded, looking grave.

It takes me a long time to see what is before me sometimes, but by now it was evident. Something was going on that I should know about. “Come on, Essie,” I said, alarmed, and even more alarmed because I didn’t know what I was alarmed about. “What’s happening? Has Wan done something?”

She said soberly, “Wan has left Gateway, and not a moment too soon, to be sure, since is in trouble with Gateway Corp and with many others as well. But is not of Wan I wish to speak. Is of woman I observed in my shop. She did closely resemble, dear Robin, woman whom you loved before me named Gelle-Klara Moynlin. So close that I thought perhaps a daughter.”

I stared at her. “What-How do you know what Klara looked like, anyway?”

“Oh, Robin,” she said impatiently. “Twenty-five years and I a specialist in data retrieval. You think I would not arrange to know? Know her exactly, Robin. Every datum on record.”

“Yes, but-she never had a daughter, you know.” I stopped, suddenly wondering if indeed I would know. I had loved Klara very much, but not for very long. It was quite possible there were things in her history she had not got around to telling me.

“Actually,” said Essie apologetically, “first guess was maybe she was your own daughter. Only theory, you know. But was possible. Could have knocked lady up, you know. But now-“ She turned to Albert questioningly. “Albert? Have completed search?”

“I have, Mrs. Broadhead.” He nodded, looking grave. “There is nothing in Gelle-Klara Moynlin’s record to suggest she ever bore a child.”

“And?”

He reached for his pipe and fumbled with it. “There is no question about the identity, Mrs. Broadhead. She checked in two days ago, with Wan.”

Essie sighed. “Then,” she said bravely, “is no doubt at all. Woman in shop was Klara herself, no impostor.”

At that moment, trying to take in what I had been told, what I wished for most in the world, or at that moment most urgently at any rate, was the soothing, healing presence of my old analysis program, Sigfrid von Shrink. I needed help.

Klara? Alive? Here? And if this impossibility was true, what should I do about it?

It was easy enough for me to tell myself I owed Klara nothing I had not already paid. The coin I paid in was a long time of mourning, a deep and abiding love, a sense of loss that even three decades had not entirely cured. She had been taken away from me, across a gulf I could not span, and the only thing that made that bearable to me was that I had finally come to believe that it was Not My Fault.

But the gulf had somehow spanned itself. Here she was! And here was I, with a well-established wife and a well-ordered life, and no room in it for the woman I had promised to love exclusively and always.

“Is more,” said Essie, watching my face.

I was not keeping up with the conversation very well. “Yes?”

“Is more. Wan arrived with two women, not one. Second woman was Dolly Walthers, unfaithful wife of person we saw in Rotterdam, you know? Young person. Weeping, eye makeup smeared-pretty young woman, but not in pretty frame of mind. U.S. military police arrested her when Wan left without clearance, so I went to talk to her.”

“Dolly Walthers?”

“Oh, Robin, listen to me, please! Yes, Dolly Walthers. Could tell me very little, though, because MPs had other plans for her. Americans wanted to take her to High Pentagon. Brazilian MPs tried to stop them. Big argument, but Americans finally won.”

I nodded to show I was comprehending. “I see. The Americans have arrested Dolly Walthers.”

Essie studied me sharply. “Are you all right, Robin?”

“Certainly I’m all right. I’m only a little worried, because if there’s friction between the Americans and the Brazilians I hope it doesn’t keep them from putting their data together.”

“Au,” said Essie, nodding, “now is clear. Could tell you were worried about something, was not sure what it was.” And then she bit her lip. “Excuse me please, dear Robin. I am a little upset, too, I think.”

She sat down on the edge of the bed, twitching irritably as the anisokinetic mattress poked at her. “Practical matters first,” she said, frowning. “What do we do now? These are alternatives. One, go off to investigate object Walthers detected, as planned. Two, attempt to discover more information about Gelle-Klara Moynlin. Three, eat something and get good night’s sleep before doing anything else-for,” she added reprovingly, “must not forget, Robin, you are still somewhat convalescent from major abdominal surgery. I personally lean toward third alternative, what do you think?”

As I was mulling over this difficult question Albert cleared his throat. “Mrs. Broadhead? It has occurred to me that it would not be very expensive, a few hundred thousand dollars perhaps, to charter a One for a few days and send it on a photoreconnaissance mission.” I peered at him, trying to follow his meaning. “That is,” he explained, “we could have it seek the object you are interested in, locate it, observe it, and report to us. Single-passenger ships are not in great demand now, I believe, and at any rate there are several available here on Gateway.”

“What a good idea!” Essie cried. “Settled then, all right? Arrange same, Albert, and at same time cook us up something delicious for first meal on, ah, on new ship True Love.”

Myself interposing no objection, that is what we did. Myself interposed no objection because myself was in shock. The worst thing about being in shock is that you don’t know it while you’re in it. I thought I was quite lucid and aware. So I ate whatever it was they put in front of me, and did not notice anything strange until Essie was tucking me into the big bouncy bed. “You haven’t been saying anything,” I said.

“Is because last ten times I spoke to you, dear Robin, you did not respond,” she said, not accusingly at all. “Will see you in morning.”

I figured the implications of that out pretty quickly. “You’re going to sleep in the guest cabin, then?”

“Yes. Not in anger, dear, or even in sorrow. Just to let you be by yourself for a bit, all right?”

“I guess so. I mean, yes, sure, honey, that’s probably a good idea,” I said, beginning to register the notion that Essie really was upset and even to think that I should concern myself about it. I took her hand and kissed the wrist before letting it go, and bestirred myself to offer some conversation. “Essie? Should I have consulted you before naming the ship?”

She pursed her lips. “True Love is good name,” she said judiciously. But she did seem to have reservations, and I didn’t know why. “I would have asked you,” I explained, “but it seemed tacky to do that. I mean, to ask the person you’re naming it after, like asking you what you want for your birthday instead of thinking up something by myself.”

She grinned, relaxing. “But Robin dear, you always do ask me that. Is not important, really. And yes, True Love is truly excellent name, now that I know particular true Jove you had in mind is me.”

I think probably Albert had been fooling around with his little magic sleeping potions again, because I went right off. But I didn’t stay asleep. Three or four hours later I was lying in the anisokinetic bed, wide awake, fairly tranquil, very perplexed.

Out on the perimeter of the Gateway asteroid, where the docking pits are, there is a little bit of centrifugal force because of rotation. Down becomes up. Only in the True Love it didn’t. Albert had turned the ship on, and the same force that kept us from floating around in flight was also neutralizing and reversing the thrust of the asteroid’s spin; I was gently held to the gentle bed. I could feel the faint hum of the ship’s housekeeping systems as they changed the air and kept the pressure in the plumbing and did all the other little chores that made the ship alive. I knew that if I said Albert’s name he would appear for me-how, exactly, I didn’t know, and it was almost worth summoning him to see whether he would choose to walk through the door or maybe crawl out from under the bed to amuse me. I suppose there was a mood elevator in the food as well as a sleepy drink, because I felt quite at ease with my problems-although that feeling did nothing to solve them.

Which problems to solve? That was the first problem. My priorities had been reordered so many times in the past few weeks that I didn’t know which to put on top of the pile. There was the hard, harmful problem of the terrorists, and that was important to solve for more reasons than my own; but that had moved down a notch when I heard what

Audee Walthers had produced as a new problem for me in Rotterdam. There was the problem of my health, but that seemed temporarily, at least, in abeyance. And there was the new and insoluble problem of Klara. Any one of them I could have dealt with. All four of them I could deal with, too-one way or another-but, specifically, how? What should I do when I got up?

I didn’t know the answer to that, and so I didn’t get up.

I drifted off to sleep, and when I woke again I was not alone. “Good morning, Essie,” I said, reaching out for her hand.

“Good morning,” she said, pressing my hand to her cheek in the fond, familiar way. But she had an unfamiliar subject to discuss. “Are feeling all right, Robin? Good. I have been thinking about your situation.”

“I see,” I said. I could feel myself tensing up; the peaceful relaxation was being nibbled away. “What situation is that?”

“The Klara Moynlin situation, to be sure,” she said. “I see is difficult for you, Robin dear.”

“Oh,” I said vaguely, “these things happen.” It was not a situation I could discuss easily with Essie, but that didn’t stop Essie from trying to discuss it with me.

“Dear Robin,” she said, her voice calm and her expression gentle in the dim night light of the room, “is no use your keeping all this to self. Bottle up, it will explode.”

I squeezed her hand. “Have you been taking lessons from Sigfrid von Shrink? That’s what he always used to tell me.”

“Was good program, Sigfrid. Please believe, I understand what is in your heart.”

“I know you do, only-“

“Only”-she nodded-“is embarrassing to talk of this with me, who am Other Woman in case. Without whom would be no problem.”

“That’s not true, damn it!” I had not intended to yell, but maybe there was, after all, something bottled up.

“Incorrect, Robin. Is true. If I did not exist could go look for Klara, no doubt find her, then decide what to make of this worrying situation. Might become lovers again. Might not-is young woman, Klara, might not want raddled old spare-parts wreck for lover, eh? I foreclose this option. I am sorry.”

She thought for a moment, then corrected herself. “No, is not true; I am not a bit sorry we love each other. Value that very greatly-but problem remains. Only, Robin! There is no guilt in this for anyone! You deserve none, I accept none, certainly Klara Moynlin has earned none. So all guilt, worry, fear, is all in your head. No, Robin, do not mistake me; what is in head can hurt very powerfully, especially for person with well-developed conscience like you. But is paper tiger. Blow on it, it goes away. Problem is not Klara’s reappearance; problem is you feel guilt.”

It was very apparent that I had not been the only one to sleep poorly; obviously Essie had been rehearsing this speech for some time.

I sat up and sniffed the air. “Is that coffee you brought in with you?”

“Only if you want, Robin.”

“I want.” I thought for a minute while she was handing me the bottle.

“You’re certainly right,” I said. “I know this. What I don’t know, as

Sigfrid used to say, is how to integrate this knowledge into my life.”

She nodded. “I perceive I blundered,” she said. “Should have included Sigfrid subroutines in Albert program instead of, let us say, gourmet cookery. Have thought of making programming change in Albert for you, because this is on my conscience.”

“Oh, honey, that’s not your-“

“-fault, no. That is center of this conversation, correct?” Essie leaned forward to give me a swift kiss, then looked concerned. “Oh, wait, Robin, I withdraw that kiss. For what I wish to say is this: In psychoanalytical shrinkery, as you have so often explained to me, the analyst is not important. What is important is what happens in the head of analysand, e.g., you. So the analyst can be machine, even very rudimentary machine; or dolt with bad breath; or human with doctoral degree ... or even me.”

“You!”

She winced. “Have heard more flattering tone from you,” she complained.

“You’re going to psychoanalyze me?”

She shrugged defensively. “Yes, me, why not? As friend. As good friend, intelligent, wishing to listen, I promise not judgmental in the least. I promise this, dear Robin. As one who will let you talk, fight, shout, weep if you will, until all comes out for you to see clear what you want and feel.”

She melted my heart! All I managed to say was “Ah, Essie ...” But I could have managed to weep then without much trouble.

Instead I took another pull at the coffee and then shook my head. “I don’t think it would work,” I said. I was feeling regretful and must have sounded it, but also I was feeling-what’s the right word? Interested? Technically interested. Interested in it as a problem to be solved.