at him.
He stepped back onto the walk and let it carry him. “Sorry,” he said, “it was just very beautiful—and very unexpected.” That seemed to mollify and please them; after that they didn’t seem quite so nasty. They weren’t too bright, he reflected. When he’d stepped off the walk to look they’d gone several meters past before they realized he’d stopped. If he had a little more experience being whatever these people were and if he hadn’t
There were uniforms and uniforms, though. Loads of uniforms and symbols of what he took to be rank. It was funny, really. The place looked to be a parody of a military state, an almost perfect place for someone of his talents, background, and experience.
They finally reached the place they wanted, a large elevator or whatever with siding, empty now. “You get in,” the leader ordered. “You will be met at the bottom.”
He nodded absently and entered, making sure he cleared his spiked tail before the door rumbled closed. The descent was quick; more, it was fascinating, since the rear of the cube was transparent and afforded him a nice view of the city. He noted absently the little device in one corner of the ceiling that had to be a camera of some kind. He had seen them all over. A dictatorship for sure, he decided. He wondered what the hell they were so scared of.
The view was suddenly masked as the cube settled in its berth and he turned to the door. He felt a bump as the car settled, then the door slid open to reveal a single creature staring at him with those eerie burning eyes. The reception committee’s jacket had slightly more decoration; Marquoz had been passed on to a higher-up, although one not very high, he decided. He saw no squads of nervous guards, no hidden cops or nasties. He was disappointed; he was beginning to like being considered an important enemy of the republic or whatever.
“I am Commander Zhart, two hundred ninety-first District,” the creature told him, his voice a hissing echo of the man above.
Marquoz bowed slightly and walked slowly from the elevator. “I’m Marquoz, formerly of Chugach, a new Entry to this land and this world,” he responded. “Glad to meet someone who’ll at least talk to me,” he added.
“Just come with me,” the commander chided and started off. He followed, noting that the ability to avoid stepping on the spikes of the next person’s tail was an art.
“Just where am I?” he asked casually.
“You are in Hakazit,” Zhart told him. “Specifically, in Harmony City.”
“Hakazit,” he repeated. That was how his mind saw it; actually the sounds they were using to converse would have been impossible for human or Chugach. “Well, this is a most fascinating and beautiful land you have here, Commander. I look forward to a new life here.”
The commander was pleased. “I must say,” he noted, “that you are remarkably calm and relaxed for an Entry. Our last Entry—about thirty years ago—was a frightened wreck.”
“Oh, it comes naturally,” Marquoz responded casually. “I’ve spent a good part of my life in strange cultures among alien people. The new and the strange fascinate more.”
“A commendable, if surprising, attitude,” Zhart approved. “You are a most unusual individual, Marquoz. Tell me, what brought you to such other worlds and creatures? What did you do formerly? A salesman, perhaps?”
Marquoz chuckled. “Oh, my, no! Dear me, no!” He continued chuckling. “I was a spy.”
Commander Zhart stopped short, almost causing Marquoz to step on his tail. He looked back gravely at the new Hakazit and tried to decide if he was being put on.
Marquoz was still chuckling. “A salesman indeed!” he snorted.
South Zone
“There are
“Between three and four hundred, Ambassador” came the reply on the intercom.
Serge Ortega settled back on his coiled tail. “All Type Forty-one, you say?”
“That’s correct, sir. What do you want done with them? We hardly have facilities for so many.”
He thought for a moment. “Keep them there,” he instructed. “I’ll be down shortly. We’ll just h’ave to do a mass introduction right there and shove ’em through the Well in shifts. Get any personnel you might need from the dry-land embassy staffs. And find me a public address amplifier.”
“At once, sir.”
He did not move at once; they would need some time to set up anyway. He flicked on a televisor screen, one of a number recessed in his curved control console. The screen showed him the great chamber where all those who happened on Markovian gates found themselves. The sight of so many Entries was stunning, even though the chamber was so large that they were still but a small dot in the middle of it. He adjusted some of the controls and zoomed in on them. The other embassies’ officials wouldn’t be able to tell, of course, but it was clear enough to him. They were all stunning human females and all looked just about exactly alike except for hairstyle and some body decorations. Like that woman, Yua, but without the tail. Olympians.
“So it’s begun.” He sighed. Slowly, still considering all the steps he might take, he slithered out the door and down the long corridor to the entry chamber.
It took very little time to brief them, a lot longer to organize the multiracial staff that would escort them in groups of ten or so to the Well Gate. The Olympians all knew what they were about; Brazil and his agents had briefed them ahead of time. But even this early, the pretense was gone—except one, of course. They all claimed that their planet was being destroyed and that a strange little man named Brazil had offered to save them.
That was bad enough. The other staff members would be rushing back to their bosses with the news that Brazil was alive, that he was actively shoving an entire planetary civilization through—and who knew what else?
It took several hours to handle the whole operation. Still uncertain as to his immediate course of action, Ortega called the Czillian Embassy, explained the situation, and advised that race of scholarly plant creatures to activate the Crisis Center at their computer-laden central research complex. The others would have to be briefed, and soon, before they started jumping to the wrong conclusions and taking even worse action unilaterally than they would collectively. A Council meeting, a great conference call of all the seven hundred and one ambassadors, who currently kept embassies at Zone, would have to be called. Ortega was about to order it when his intercom buzzed.
“Yes?” he snapped, annoyed. He needed time to set this all up, time to get everything together, and, most of all, he needed time just to think.
“Sir! It’s incredible! No sooner did we clear the last group than an identical group appeared! At least as many as before! Sir! What do we do now?”
Ortega sighed. No time, damn it all. No time at all. “I wish I knew,” he told the panicked aide. “I really wish I knew.”
Awbri
She awoke with a start. The last thing she remembered was stepping into that blackness, and now, as if waking from a long sleep, here she was—where?
On a damned tree branch, she realized suddenly, and pretty precariously balanced. All around her an enormous forest grew, a jungle, really, stretching out on all sides as well as above and below her. No sunlight seemed to penetrate the dense growth, although some must, she knew, in order for there to be so much green.
She knew immediately that her body had changed. The fact that she was grasping the thick branch with clawed hands and with feet that felt very much like hands told her as much.
She had never been particularly fond of great heights, but this was somehow different. She felt no vertigo and had a fair sense of confidence; the limb seemed almost a natural place to be.
