Exiles at the Well of Souls

pants and sandals. But from the waist up—

They were goats.

Well, not exactly, he decided. The head was a rounded triangular shape with a long lower jaw running its length, and their noses were black and located at the end of the upper jaw. Their ears were the same pointed type as his own, and their horns short and more rounded than the males. Over the entire upper torso was that thick, woolly blue hair that was his from the waist down; the female’s arms looked like a goat’s forelegs except that they terminated in lone, thin, fragile-looking hands.

They all had what appeared to be very large human breasts, almost gargantuan, and covered with either brightly colored bras or tied halters. And he got erotic sensations looking at them. Not just at the breasts, but at all of them. It amazed him. He began to realize just how much he had become this new creature.

The lack of clothing concerned him most; obviously if he stepped out into that traffic he’d cause a stir. Nowhere was there any evidence that nudity was normal or accepted.

He sat back down in what appeared to be a fruit grove to think. He was hungry; if he was going to skulk around or wait until dark to try and bargain for a pair of pants, he’d need something to sustain him.

He eyed the large, orange fuzz-covered balls on the bushes around him. He’d seen peaches on New Pompeii; he knew they didn’t grow on bushes like this, but he suspected that these were close enough, and very edible, since nobody would grow the things like this to poison anyone. He reached over and picked one.

There was a crackle and a pop, and he felt some sort of release inside him that seemed to flow into his hand. The peach crackled; it was cooked solid, and suddenly very hot. He dropped it with an oath. He felt a dull burning sensation in his hand, but it wasn’t from whatever had cooked the fruit but rather from the fruit heating up.

What else? he wondered, both curious and anxious.

He carefully reached out to pick up another fruit off the bush. He felt the sensation rising within him, and fought it. It seemed to subside, go down. He picked the thing and ate it. It tasted good.

Trying to figure out what had happened, he reached over and probed the cooked peach; it was still warm. Somehow, he thought, my body contains hundreds, perhaps thousands of volts of electricity that can be discharged and renewed. He instinctively knew it, and the success he had in fighting the power the second time, when he expected it, showed that it could be contained or discharged at will.

He picked up another peach, put it down in front of him, and kind of let the sensation flow, touching the peach with his index finger. He felt the sensation rise, flow into his arm, down it, and there was a slight crackle and the peach started smouldering.

Where does that energy come from? he wondered. He considered the thick upper calves and thighs, and the tremendously dense hair there. That might well build up a static charge, he thought, particularly with all that running. A charge transferred to his body, to some sort of storage, discharging only when that body willed it.

I could possibly electrocute somebody by shaking hands with him! he thought in wonder.

He found he could feel the energy, even feel a slight loss after a discharge. It could be routed to any part of his upper body. Talk about a shocking embrace!

He was still experimenting when a sharp voice said behind him, “If you’re all through trying to burn the field down, will you kindly get up and tell me why you’re sitting in a fruit field, stark naked, frying peaches?”

He turned with a start. It was a male—whatever else he was. There was no mistaking his manner, the club and radio on his belt.

He was a cop.

* * *

They had radioed for a lock-up cart, and it arrived. They hustled him into it, and it rolled down the moving roadway smoothly, bumping only when it reached a junction point where two belts met.

How you got off or on the roadway was simple. There was a small set of casterlike wheels attached to the underside, and they, in turn, were attached to a basic electric motor.

The cops provided their own electrical power.

They rolled to a halt inside the police garage and took him out. A female desk sergeant, her goatlike head impassive, punched information into a computer and asked him questions.

“Name?”

“Renard,” he responded.

“Odd name,” she commented. “Place and date of birth?”

“The city of Barentsk, on the planet Muscovy, August 12, 4412 N.D.,” he answered honestly.

She stopped typing and looked at him. “You trying to be funny?” she asked. The two male cops flanking him didn’t look amused.

“No,” he told her, trying to sound sincere. “Honest. Look, I crashed here in a spaceship, somewhere in a place inhabited by giant cyclopses, and then I woke up here. I don’t know anything more than you do.”

She remained impassive, that rigid face incapable of showing emotion, but she said, “Less,” cryptically, and punched something on the terminal. There was a flip-flop on the screen, and a new printout appeared, line-by- line. She nodded, looked at the two cops.

“He’s an Entry, all right. One of the drug addicts.”

“You sure,” one of the cops responded. “He just looks like a Class-One nut to me.”

Renard felt insulted, but decided not to press the matter.

“Look,” the desk clerk said. “Take my word for it. Get some clothes for him from the lockup and then take him up to Lieutenant Ama’s office. I’ll call ahead.”

They reluctantly agreed, using the age-old principle of uncertainty: when you’re not positive of your own position, pass the buck. They gave him some uncomfortable, tight-fitting briefs of a bright-white color, and a white T-shirt that was too large and obviously had been worn by a legion of people before him. The bright-white was obvious: the contrast with his deep-blue complexion was spottable a kilometer away. Jail clothes.

Lieutenant Ama was a typical bored servant of the people who didn’t like problems in his district. He also wouldn’t answer questions of any kind, although he asked a number, obviously to make sure that Renard was indeed who he said he was. Nobody else would talk, either.

He sat there for hours. He knew what was happening—at least he hoped he knew. Ama was calling his superior, who was calling his superior, who was—and so forth, until somebody decided what to do with him.

Well, they fed him, anyway. They even showed him how you touched different points on the metal plate set in the wooden base to cook anything you liked how you liked it. He discovered that men were the cooks here. Women couldn’t do it—didn’t have the electrical capacity. They were, however, as immune to electrical shocks of any kind as the males. Renard wondered idly how you made love around here without burning the house down.

He slept in an unlocked cell, and by the middle of the second day he was wondering if he’d been forgotten.

He hadn’t. A little into the afternoon, they came for him. Big guys—bigger than he was, anyway. It occurred to him that, since everything was to scale, he had no idea how big he was. Could be ten centimeters high or four meters high.

Another trip, much longer this time, and then into a huge building that was shaped like a pyramid but with minaretlike towers all around. Into another office, this one obviously a big shot’s, and more questioning. They had no doubts he was who he said he was; the questions were quite different this time.

Most of them were about Antor Trelig.

He told them everything; he held nothing of his hatred back. He described the man who enslaved so many to terrible drugs, the depravities of New Pompeii, Trelig’s mad ambitions. They took it all down.

And, finally, they answered some of his questions.

“Where am I?” he asked.

The interrogator, a slighter-built man who wore glasses, thought a moment. “You are in Agitar, and you