Exiles at the Well of Souls

That set off more discussion. Finally, the universal rules set themselves in motion. When in doubt, pass the buck.

He put up his hands in what he hoped was a recognizable sign of surrender, hoping they, too, had hands and could understand his meaning.

They did. Suddenly a whole host of them erupted from the trees, armed with nasty-looking energy rifles. As a Djukasis veteran, he also immediately noticed the pretty but obvious stingers.

Pixies!he thought in surprise. Little flying girls. A high-tech hex, though; those rifles looked plenty effective, and whether that antiaircraft fire was automatic or them shooting, they could hit anything they wanted, of that he had no doubt.

They surrounded him, looked wonderingly at Doma, and made unmistakable gestures that he was to move ahead. He saw that they all wore goggles and seemed very uncomfortable. He suspected that they were nocturnal creatures. They led him to a clearing a few thousand meters farther on; one of them made a lot of sign-language gestures that gave no doubt as to their meaning. He was to stay there and make no move, and he would be covered, so no funny business, or else.

That suited him. He was used to waiting now. Doma grazed on the rich new grass, and he stretched out and went to sleep.

* * *

Vistaru came into Mavra Chang’s ground-level quarters in a hurry.

“Mavra?”

She had been lying there on a specially constructed bed, looking over Well World maps and geographies, mostly children’s picture books. You didn’t learn a complex language in a few weeks, particularly one established for a vocal system you couldn’t imitate.

“Yes, Vistaru?” she responded, weary and bored from doing nothing.

“Mavra, there is one of the creatures involved in the war who came in from the Djukasis border a few minutes ago. We just got a radio report.”

The news was mildly interesting, but didn’t change her situation at all. “So?”

“He came in on a huge flying horse! You won’t believe it! Gigantic, pale green. And, Mavra—he kept calling for you! Over and over! By name!”

She was on her feet in a moment. “What did this creature look like?”

The Lata shrugged. “An Agitar, they say. Bigger than Lata, smaller than you. All dark blue and fuzzy at the bottom.”

She shook her head. “That’s a new one on me. What do you think? A trick?”

“If it is, it’s misfired,” the Lata responded firmly. “Anything funny and he’ll never leave Lata alive. They asked whether you’d talk to him.”

“If I can,” she replied, and walked out.

There was no problem getting her there quickly. Although the Lata flew and hence had no need for roads or aircraft, they did have to move freight and foodstuffs all over. They just diverted a large, crate-laden truck on government authority and much to the driver’s disgust. Mavra Chang and three thousand crates of apples sped south to the border in a flatbed dual-rotor helicopter, skimming the treetops. The trip took about three hours, and the sun was into late afternoon when they arrived. With a straight axial tilt, all hexes had equal amounts of daylight, a little over fourteen standard hours each.

The pegasus was really as grand and beautiful as had been described, and its rider was as short, squat, and ugly.

“Cute little devil,” Mavra muttered mostly to herself—and that’s what the face looked like. An old Traditionist’s view of the devil in dark-blue and black hair. The creature had awakened when the helicopter approached, and stood and walked around. The thick body and the terribly thin legs looked almost impossible; he moved as if on tiptoe, and reminded Mavra of a costumed ballet dancer.

Guards armed with energy pistols motioned him to a cleared area and flanked him on all sides. He wondered idly what bigwig had come to see this new intrusion, but then he looked again and there was no mistake.

“Mavra!” he cried, and started to move toward her. The guards were quick, no doubt about it. He stopped cold. He pointed to himself. “Renard, Mavra! Renard!”

She was more than surprised. Although she knew the system of the Well—it had been explained at length to her—this was the first time it really hit her in the face. She chuckled, then turned to Vistaru. “This translator—can I talk to him?”

She nodded. “You have a translator,” the Lata reminded her.

“Renard?” she called out. “Is that really you?”

He beamed. “It’s me, all right! A little changed, but still me inside! I traded sponge for goat!” he called back.

She laughed. Communication worked fine. He understood her Confederation, the translator took care of the Agitar.

“Are you sure it’s really Renard?” one of the border guards asked her. “Somebody you know? A lot of folks have claimed to be a lot of other folks lately.”

She nodded, thinking it over. Then she yelled, “Renard! They need proof that you’re you. And, to tell the truth, so do I. And there’s only one question I can think of that only our side would know, so forgive me.” He nodded, and she went on. “Renard, who was the last old-type human being you made love to?”

He frowned, embarrassed by the question even as he saw the logic of it. Only Mavra, he himself, and the person involved would know the answer, and she would have no reason for deception. “Nikki Zinder,” he replied.

She nodded. “It’s Renard. Not only the answer but the way he made it sound so terrible convinces me. Let him come to me or me to him.”

The guards still weren’t all that certain. “But he’s an Agitar!” one growled. “One of them.”

“He’s Renard, no matter what,” she responded, and walked briskly out to him. The guards kept at the ready, but appeared resigned.

She was taller than he, now—maybe ten centimeters with her boots on, three or four without. He was ugly as sin and smelled like a goat, but she hugged him and kissed him lightly on the forehead, laughing.

“Renard! Let me look at you! They told me this would happen, but somehow I couldn’t really believe it!”

He was slightly embarrassed again, from his strange new form and, oddly, because the Agitar part of his brain didn’t really react to her as a woman, but as another, alien creature. He began to realize just how much he’d changed.

Mavra turned to Doma, who looked up as she cautiously approached. “He’s beautiful!” she breathed. “Can I—touch him? Will he mind?”

“She,” Renard corrected. “Her name is Doma. Let her look you over for a moment and then rub the spot between her ears when her head droops. She likes that.”

Mavra did as instructed, and found the great pegasus friendly, curious, and responsive.

She walked around, looking at the saddle between the great, now-folded wings and the neck. It was a sophisticated device—altimeter, air-speed and ground-speed indicator, everything.

She turned to him. “You’ll have to take me up on her sometime,” she said longingly. “I’d love to see her fly. “But tell me everything that’s happened, first.”

“If you’ll get me some food—any fruits or meats will do that you can eat,” he replied lightly. “I’m starving to death!!”

They sat there in the glen until the sun was down and the pixie people were out in force. He told her of waking up in Agitar, of Trelig, of being drafted, and of the war and his experiences. She sympathized, while secretly wishing to be in the thick of what he had escaped from, and told him a simplified version of how they’d been hypnotized to minimize the sponge effects, of their capture by the Teliagin, their Latan rescue, and how