“Tell me, dammit!” she barked.
I barked back: “Oh, hell! You ask some dumb questions, you know that? I mean, you are the truest of true loves and I adore you and all, but-but-but, Jesus, Essie, how can you ask a question like that? What’s the matter? You mean, outside of the fact that the whole universe is at risk, and I died a while ago-again!—and I might very likely die again pretty soon, only this time forever, because I have to go up against some people I don’t even want to think about, and I’ve got two wives, and I don’t really exist, and all that—You mean, outside of that, how did you like the play, Mrs. Lincoln?”
“Oh, Robin,” she sighed dismally. “Cannot even add right!”
She took me by surprise. “What?”
“Point one,” she said, all brisk and businesslike. “Have not got two wives-unless, of course, count meat original of me separate from me here who has just been most enjoyably making love with you.”
“I mean—”
“Know very well what you mean, Robin,” she said firmly. “Mean love me and also love Gelle-Klara Moynlin, who keeps showing up every once in while to remind you. Have discussed this before. Is no problem. Have exactly one wife that matters, Robinette Broadhead, namely me, Portable-Essie, S. Ya. Lavorovna-Broadhead, who is not in least jealous of feelings toward Moynlin lady.”
“That’s not the real—” I began, but she waved me to silence.
“Second,” she said firmly, “taking in reverse order-no, taking actually first point as second in present discussion—”
“Essie! You’re losing me.”
“No,” she said, “never lose you, or you me; that is subset of first point, which we will deal with third. Pay attention! As to threat to entire sidereal universe, yes, granted, is so. Is great problem. Is, however, problem with which we are dealing as best we can. Now. Leaves only remaining point, maybe fifth or sixth in original presentation, I forget—”
I had begun to catch the rhythm. “The fact that we don’t really exist, you mean,” I said helpfully.
“Exactly. Glad are on your toes, Robin. Are not dead, you know; keep making this point. Are merely in fact discorporated, quite something else. Are no longer meat, but are still very much alive. Have just demonstrated that, dammit!”
I said tactfully, “It was wonderful, and I know that what you say is true—”
“No! Don’t know it!”
“Well, I know it logically, anyway. Cogito ergo sum, right?”
“Exactly right!”
“The difficulty,” I said wretchedly, “is that I just don’t seem able to internalize it.”
“Ah!” she cried. “Oh! I see! ‘Internalize,’ is that it? To be sure, internalize. First we get Descartes, now get head-shrinker talk. Is blowing smoke, Robin, smokescreen behind which to hide real concerns.”
“But don’t you see—”
I didn’t finish, because she placed her hand on my lips to cut me off. Then she got up and went to the door. “Robin, dearest person, give you word, I do see.” She picked another robe from a chair by the door and rolled it in her hands. “See that it is not me you should be talking to now, but him.”
“Him? What him?”
“That psychoanalytic him, Robin. Here. Put this on.”
She tossed me the robe, and while I was dazedly doing as I was told, she went out the door, leaving it open, and a moment later in through it came a gentle, sad-looking elderly man.
“Hello, Robin. It’s been a long time,” said my old head-doctor program, Sigfrid von Shrink.
“Sigfrid,” I said, “I didn’t ask for you.”
He nodded, smiling, as he went around the room. He was drawing blinds, extinguishing lights, making the bedroom less a passion pit and more a reasonably close approximation to his old consulting room.
“I didn’t even want you!” I yelled. “And besides, I liked this room just the way it was.”
He sat down in a chair by the bed, looking at me. It was almost as though nothing had changed. The bed was no longer a playpen; it was the agony couch I had lain on for so many tormented hours. Sigfrid said comfortably, “Since you are obviously in need of some sort of easing of tensions, Robbie, I thought I might as well reduce the extraneous distractions. It’s not important. I can put it back the way it was if you like—but, truly, Rob, it would be more productive if you would tell me about your feelings of unease or worry instead of discussing the way the room is decorated.”
So I laughed.
I couldn’t help myself. I laughed out loud, big belly-busting laughter that went on for a long time-many microseconds at least-and when I stopped laughing, I wiped my streaming eyes (the laugh was soundless, the tears were nonmaterial, but that didn’t matter), and I said:
“You kill me, Sigfrid. You know? You haven’t changed a bit.”
He smiled and said, “You, on the other hand, have. You have changed very much from that insecure, guilt-ridden, self-doubting young man who did his best to manipulate our sessions like parlor games. You’ve come a long way, Robin. I’m very pleased with you.”
“Aw, shecks,” I said, grinning-warily.
“On the other hand,” he went on, “in a lot of ways you haven’t changed at all. Do you want to spend our time in idle conversation and parlor games? Or would you like to tell me about what’s worrying you?”
“Talk about games! You’re playing one right now. You know everything I’ve said already. You probably know everything I’ve even thought!”
He said seriously, “What I know or don’t know doesn’t matter. You know that. It’s what you know, particularly the things you know but don’t want to admit to yourself, that are important. You have to get them out in the open. Start by telling me why you’re worried.”
I said, “Because I’m a wimp.”
He looked at me, and he was smiling. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“Well, I’m certainly no hero!”
“How do you know that, Robin?” he asked.
“Don’t jerk me around! Heroes don’t sit and brood! Heroes don’t worry about whether they’re going to die! Heroes don’t get all snarled up in guilt and worries and head-crap, isn’t that true?”
“It is true that heroes don’t do any of those things,” Sigfnd agreed, “but you left one trait out. There’s one other thing heroes don’t do. Heroes don’t exist. Do you really think all those people you call ‘heroes’ are any better than you are?”
“I don’t know if I believe it. I sure as hell hope it.”
“But Robin,” he said reasonably, “you really haven’t done that badly, have you? You’ve done what no one else has ever done, not even a Heechee. You’ve talked with two of the Foe.”
“I fucked it up,” I said bitterly.
“Do you think that?” Sigfrid sighed. “Robbie, you often simultaneously hold quite contradictory views of yourself. But, given a choice, in the long run you adopt the least flattering one. Why is that? Do you remember that for many sessions, when we first met, you kept telling me what a coward you were?”
“But I was! God, Sigfrid, I stalled around on Gateway forever before I got up the guts to ship out.”
“That could be described as cowardice, yes,” said Sigfrid. “It is true that that was your behavior. Yet there were other times when you behaved in ways that can only be called extraordinarily brave. When you jumped into a spaceship and headed for the Heechee Heaven, you faced terrible odds. You endangered your life-in fact, you very nearly lost it.”
“There was big money involved that time. It made me rich.”
“You already were rich, Rob.” He shook his head. Then he said thoughtfully, “It is interesting that when you do something praiseworthy, you ascribe venal motives to yourself, but when you do something that appears bad, you jump to agree that the appearances are correct. When do you win, Robin?”