Quest for the Well of Souls

where we head to begin with. If, on the other hand, she’s managed to communicate with the crew, and if they’re willing, I’d bet on them dropping her as far north in Mucrol as possible, giving her only a hex side to cross, here, near Alestol. If there’s nothing at the Mucrol port, that’s where we head next.”

Vistaru stared at the map in concern. “I don’t know about this Mucrol—but I hope she doesn’t cross into Alestol. Those nasty barrel-shaped plants can gas you in seconds.”

“The Yaxa are friendly with Alestol,” Wooly pointed out. “If we can get to a Zone Gate somewhere I can send a message to watch for them but not to harm them.”

“Not much chance of that,” Renard responded. “We’ll be sticking to the borders, and the water hexes are out for that. No, we’ll stick to Mucrol. She’ll be aware of the dangers on the other side.”

Vistaru was thoughtful. “I wonder, though, about the dangers on the Mucrol side.”

Renard’s head shot up, looked straight at her. “You know about the place?” he asked sharply.

She shook her head. “Not a thing. Do you? Or you, Wooly?”

None of them did. It was a complete mystery.

Mucrol

Ti-gan stared into the midday sun from his post atop the caravan. It was bleak country; a desert of reds and oranges and purples, badly eroded and with occasional clumps of brush, cactus, even a few trees where ground water approached nearer the surface. It was like this for much of the year, except in early and mid spring when melting snows from the northeastern mountains sent floodwater—in its own way, as dangerous as any enemy— cascading through the canyons.

There was water, though; it was locked beneath the surface, and brought up by steam pumps into basins, which then had to be jealously guarded. To control a pack’s water was to control it completely.

Ti-gan looked like a cross between a dog and a weasel; his face came almost to a point at a moist black nose, under which a huge mouth opened to reveal a nasty set of long, sharp teeth. He had rounded, saucerlike ears. His body was disproportionately small for a creature with a head the size of Ti-gan’s. His arms and legs ended in stubby black five-fingered paws with equally dark claws, somewhat like those of a raccoon. When he moved he moved on all fours, but when seated, as he now was, he sat back on thick rear legs, resting on his tailless rump like a humanoid.

To the first-time viewer, a Pack Guard Unit was a strange sight—a massive armored platform supported on rows of giant balloon tires, each with an independent axle so that it followed the subtle contours of the harsh land like a treaded vehicle. On top was a wall of metal with gun ports, and a smaller structure atop that was also well armored. Five progressively smaller decks terminated in a huge sooty smokestack that belched great plumes of steam and ash to be sucked up by the dry air.

It was the driest of seasons, and therefore the most dangerous. Some packs had only mudholes now, with the prospect of four weeks or more until the melt started. So it was a time of desperation. Particularly during this period, all were loaded into Pack Guard Units except those in the water village that were needed for essential services. Expecting a last-ditch attack at any moment, they patrolled in a circle around the oasis that was the key to their power.

It was hot as hell in the Pack Guard Unit, although some relief from massive fans was possible. Ti-gan’s pack had once managed to trade for some precious freon produced across the waters-that-cannot-be-drunk, so steam-powered air conditioning cooled the upper tiers. The effect was almost self-defeating, though; so many bodies gathered in the cooler areas that their natural body heat was overcoming the advantages.

Ti-gan preferred the outside, the steady wind and occasional cool breeze from the far-off mountains. None of the Mucrolians, as much as they felt the heat and discomfort, considered the conditions intolerable. They had been born in this environment and perceived it as one of life’s normal burdens. Flies buzzed around him, and he idly swatted at them, not really caring what they did nor even blaming them. It was a hard country, and all life had an equal right to struggle.

He leaned over, blew into a speaking tube, and was rewarded when a little mechanical gauge near him twitched and rang a bell, informing him that someone was still able to move in the engine room.

“Cut to idle, all stop,” Ti-gan commanded, and the PGU ground to a halt. There was still vibration and some engine noise, of course, but not nearly the roar there had been. He didn’t know why he’d ordered the halt; just a sense developed in him after long years of experience. Something not quite right, something he had to check out. He reached over and picked up his field glasses.

Although his race was almost color-blind, seeing everything in a nearly completely faded set of textures often allowed better visual discrimination than did true color sense. His eyes were extremely sharp and the field glasses made them almost phenomenal. He surveyed the hills to his right, looking for he knew not what.

He was almost ready to admit to himself that he was simply jumpy or getting too old when he noticed movement—very slight, almost lost among the shades of almost-gray among the low hills to his right.

Two figures, going fairly slowly. He adjusted the focus to try to see what they were, but they were just too far off. Nothing familiar, that was for sure. Not scouts from an attacking PGU, but not desert animals, either.

“Left nine degrees and full speed,” he called into the speaking tube. The PGU roared to life, hissing and moaning, and by the application of power to only one side at first, it waddled off. “Full speed” wasn’t all that fast, but it would do.

At first the two figures seemed unsure when they heard the sounds, then they tried to hide in a small wash. Ti-gan nodded to himself in satisfaction; they were making pursuit too easy.

“Give me a five-man squad, pistols, and nets.”

There was a lot of sound and movement inside the PGU, and within a minute the squad was on the third tier, ready. He nodded to them and gestured in the direction of the two strange objects.

“Two of them, some kind of animal, not anything I know,” he shouted to the squad leader. “Try and take them alive if you can. I want to see just what the devil we’ve got there.”

They strained but could see nothing. Finally Ti-gan shouted, “Get up on the jump platform. I’ll give ’em a panic flare that’ll start ’em running!”

They climbed to the second tier to a flat area of metal flush with the armored sides. They waited, more excited than tense. They rather welcomed this little break in the tedium of the slow roast below.

Ti-gan loaded a pinpoint flare, attached a high-compression gas cylinder, and, using the rail as a brace, fired where he knew the two mystery creatures to be hiding. He didn’t care if he hit them, but he hardly expected to; at this range a flash and bang within ten or fifteen meters would be sheer luck.

The flare struck the gully wall and exploded with a roar that rolled across the flats. And it did the trick. Two creatures suddenly darted from the shadows at a pretty good clip.

The squad saw them. “Jump and run!” yelled the leader, and they were off, their small bodies showing incredible speed. The Mucrolians could sprint to almost sixty kilometers per hour.

The PGU slowed to a crawl and a number of people came out on deck to watch the chase. This was against procedure, but Ti-gan didn’t have the heart to shove them back into those conditions, not for the length of time he anticipated the hunt would last. It would be time for a break soon, anyway.

The squad fanned out, forcing the fugitive animals first this way, then that. Although the quarry were fast, the squad was faster, and they also seemed able almost to change direction in midleap. They toyed with the animals for a bit, then two suddenly rushed them. As if from nowhere a spring-loaded net expanded over the animals and into the hands of a squad member, who grabbed it and did a back flip, bringing the net down with a twist that caught the animals perfectly. They were struggling, but the net was designed to hold tougher beasts than they.

The squad closed in, taking up the slack in the net as they did, and were now standing around the no longer struggling captives.

“They’re pigs!” one exclaimed. “Giant pigs!” There were pigs of a sort in Mucrol, but they were much smaller and had no hair at all.

The squad leader was puzzled. “They are and they aren’t. Some kind of relatives, I’d guess. Not from