Quest for the Well of Souls

bring more attention than it was worth, and he opted instead to hide behind some wooden vegetable crates. Mavra could do nothing but huddle in the rear of the cage, in shadow, and hold her breath.

The Wuckl walked by on its great clawed bird’s feet, pacing slowly, steadily, but relaxed. It shined a portable spotlight here and there at random. Clearly it was not expecting trouble, just checking on things.

Feeling helpless, she hunched up as much as she could and waited as the footsteps approached. The light swung from one side to the other, and as it seemed that the watchman was almost upon her it shined directly on her for a moment. Mavra felt panicky, exposed—trapped. But the light swung away; the Wuckl was swinging it to and fro idly, and hadn’t been looking.

Soon the Wuckl was gone, out the door and out of the warehouse. They breathed again, but Mavra was shaken by the encounter. Being caged and helplessly cornered was new to her; she hated it, and feared it.

Still, there was the problem. She went back to working on the lock. Finally, she grunted in their code, “It won’t work. Get me out and we’ll try something else.”

The bolts were easily slid with Joshi’s flat snout from the outside, and she almost leaped out in relief. After a few moments to get hold of herself, she examined the rest of the warehouse.

One major problem was that everything was so high and they were so low to the ground. Even in her old form she had been more than a meter high; now, with the shorter pig’s legs, her fat stomach almost rubbed the floor, and even a normal table appeared a giant obstacle.

She found the manager’s office, and started looking around on the floor. It was dark, and the light switch might as well have been a light-year high on the wall, but she’d lived by other senses for almost half her life and those senses were much sharper now.

Finally she caught the smell; like all smells, it seemed different than she remembered, but it was unmistakable. Crawling half under a file, she struggled with, then managed to roll out a big grease pencil.

There were lots of paper scraps about, and they managed to find some fairly large sheets. Then Joshi took them in his mouth while she held the pencil in hers. They left.

Over the next day, in their hideout beneath the pier, Mavra tried holding the pencil in her mouth while he held paper with his hooves. It was tough, and there were several false starts until she managed an intelligible message. It was shaky, uneven, a terrible scrawl, but finally she made one that was readable. Wandering in frail lines all over the paper, it said:

I AM MAVRA CHANG HELP ME DONT TELL

She hoped it was good enough.

Now she had to wait; the ship then in port was heading in the wrong direction. For her only the Trader would do.

The streets of Hygit were crowded with Wuckl of all sizes scurrying to and fro. The clamor of trams, some motorized traffic, and all the rest of the sights and sounds indicated a big city in a high-tech hex. The foursome making their way down one of the streets drew a great deal of attention even in a city used to the strange life forms of passing ships.

Vistaru, perched on Domaru’s rump, grumbled, “You could hide an army in a place like this.” Her soft, tiny voice was almost drowned out by the sound.

Renard, leading the great horse through the crowd, nodded in agreement. “It does look rather hopeless, doesn’t it? But she’s here, I’ll bet on it. This is the only east coast port.”

“She will be down by the docks,” Wooly added. “It may not be as hopeless as you think. Consider how long and involved a journey it has been to this point, and now we have closed the gap. I feel that the search will end here. Come, let us go to the wharves.”

The city’s low hills dropped off abruptly at the coast; a cliff had been smoothed mechanically and they descended a steep, final incline to the piers, one of which, from the top, afforded a panorama of the port complex and the rough seas out to the horizon.

“Look!” Renard noted, pointing. “Smoke. A ship’s coming in!”

“Going out, more likely,” the Yaxa replied. “It draws a bit farther away. I should not like to be on it—that sky looks very threatening.”

It did indeed, but the dark clouds and occasional distant lightning contrasted with the warmth and sunshine they enjoyed. Another hex lay in that direction; Wuckl’s slightly pinkish atmosphere and somewhat darker water marked the border between Wuckl and the next hex.

Of course, such differences existed between each Southern hex, but they were usually minor—a matter of humidity, carbon-dioxide content, the addition or subtraction of some trace gas. In only a few was it necessary for visitors to use respirators or protective gear. Nonetheless, all hexes were slightly uncomfortable for nonresidents.

“It is disappearing,” Vistaru noted. “Look—you can’t see the smoke any more. They’re making speed.”

“Zanti is high-tech,” the Yaxa reminded them. “They will have full power and speed.”

Ordinarily two high-tech hexes did not adjoin, but there were exceptions. For their part, the Wuckl swam poorly and could not tolerate more than a dozen or so meters depth; the Zanti, nearly immobile plants few had seen, could not stand depths of less than one hundred fifty meters. In this case the two hexes were well balanced; neither had anything the other wanted, and in the few matters—like fishing rights—that required in-terhex cooperation, they got along well.

Renard had a funny feeling all of a sudden about that ship. “You know,” he said glumly, “wouldn’t it be a bitch if that’s the Toorine Trader, or something, and they’re on it?”

Theirs had been a long and tiring hunt; suddenly all three felt that he was right. Their pace accelerated.

At the docks they found tired longshoremen packing their gear. The Wuckl were fascinated by the strange- looking foursome, but pleasant enough.

“Excuse me—was that the Toorine Trader just left?” Renard asked with grim foreboding.

The Wuckl gave that shake of assent. “That’s right. You missed her by a good half-hour. Next boat in three days.”

There was not a shred of doubt in the three aliens’ minds that Mavra Chang was somehow aboard her.

“We can fly out and overtake her,” Vistaru suggested.

“Wouldn’t recommend it,” the Wuckl longshoreman put in. “That’s a hell of a storm brewin’ out there. If Zanti weren’t a high-tech hex, they’d never have put to sea at all, I think. They’re built to take it. But there are winds over eighty kilometers per hour in it, and a good deal of sleet. That’s cold water —dip your feet in it if you want to see how cold. It’s why we’re fogged in here almost every night.”

“How long before the storm passes?” Wooly asked the Wuckl.

The longshoreman wagged its neck a bit. “Hard to say. Meteorology up at the Port Authority Building could probably tell you. Not before midmorning tomorrow, though, I’d say.”

The Yaxa thought a moment. “Any idea how fast the ship moves in a high-tech hex?”

The Wuckl cocked its head and considered it. “In a calm with full power, maybe twenty-five, thirty kilometers per hour, more or less. They got the storm with them, though, so make it thirty, I’d say.”

Renard looked at the other two. “If the storm lasts as long as our friend here estimates, that’s about fourteen hours. Four hundred twenty kilometers head start.” He turned back to the Wuckl. “This is near the hex border, isn’t it? I mean, Zanti and the next water hex.”

The longshoreman nodded. “Yep. But they won’t go over into Simjim if they can help it. It’s nontech. They’re headin’ for Mucrol, and they’ll keep to the high-tech side unless the storm’s too bad to deal with. A straight line’s always best, you know.”

They thanked the Wuckl and Renard quickly got the map from Domaru’s saddle bags. They all peered at it intently.

“All right, here’s where they’d have to land in Mucrol,” Renard pointed. “Now, there’s Gedemondas, possibly two hex sides overland. If we assume she’s a stowaway, then she’ll have to get off at the Mucrol port. So that’s