Quest for the Well of Souls

codeword for that particular day. They’re changed daily, you know that.”

The Yaxa bowed slightly on its four forelegs in acknowledgement. “But Trelig used the code when you took, off, and that was a day later than Mavra Chang. You didn’t hear it—you were too busy flying. Deep hypnosis proved that. So the only codewords we know for certain are for the exact day and time that Mavra Chang took off. Correct?”

“That’s true,” he acknowledged, beginning to see the point.

“So, we also know from you that there are fifty-one code phrases. But only one can be matched to a specific day. They are changed daily. Even over twenty-two years, we can start with the day of Mavra Chang’s escape and project which day it will come up again this time. We know the standard Com calendar. Hence, by picking the time of entry we can be certain of getting through. Do you see?”

Yulin was uncomfortable with this line of thought. As long as he was the only pilot, it gave him absolute command. Mavra Chang was a threat to his power, an unknown quantity in that he did not know what else the computer had programmed in her brain. He didn’t want her on New Pompeii again, that was for sure.

“But you can just deep-hypno the words out of her and leave it at that!” he protested.

“We’ve tried,” the Yaxa told him. “So did Ortega long ago. It won’t work. Whatever is within her brain by Obie’s doing is accessible only in the applicable situations. She does not remember it until she needs it, and it’s blocked to us as well as to her.”

That was only partially true. Actually, the Yaxa had no love, let alone trust, for Ben Yulin, and they liked having a lever. They did, in fact, know the codewords, because she’d said them and used them consciously in the escape. It was the remainder of the programmed information that was blocked.

In addition to Yulin’s basic amorality, his new culture was totally male-dominated; the women did the work, the men reaped the rewards. Yaxa society was more than the reverse: basically, male Yaxa were sex machines, killed and eaten by their mates after their performance. To an all-female society, Mavra Chang’s additional knowledge was more trusted.

Yulin accepted the situation grudgingly. “All right, then, she’s going with us. So what’s all that?” He gestured toward the makeshift surgery.

“Chang and her companion were surgically altered by the Wuckl to look like pigs,” the Yaxa explained. “Never mind why. But we have a lot of problems to solve: protective suits can’t easily be altered; the reinstatement of vocal cords. Working on them are the Wuckl who did the original work and five surgeons from the best biologically advanced hexes we know who can be bought and trusted to stay bought. Some of their skills are incredible.”

“You mean they’re going to change them back?” Yulin gasped. “Wow! I’d think that was impossible!”

“Cosmetics,” Ambassador Windsweep told him, “are easy. Form-fitting them to the spacesuits that we have is more difficult. I think you’ll be amazed.”

Yulin shrugged resignedly. He would be happier if they died on the table.

They entered the ambassador’s office, and the minotaur took the huge fluffy chair there for his benefit. “So what’s the timetable?” he asked.

“We’ve already contacted the Torshind,” Ambassador Windsweep replied. “They’ll be ready for us in another two days, which should be enough for the recuperation of our prisoners. All the equipment from our end is already here, and all of the major paraphernalia has already been transferred by the Torshind and its associates to Yugash.” A tentacle snaked down and lifted a plastic cylinder holding a pale liquid.

“This is how you will survive. Taking four cows with us just to supply you with the needed calcium and lactose is an incredible expense. This will free you.”

Yulin looked uncertainly at the container. “How much of that do you have?” he asked nervously.

“You need only a small amount per day, really,” Windsweep noted. “We have a three-month supply. Even then, you could survive pretty well for another two months without it. If we aren’t done with our business by then, we will be dead.”

Yulin stared at the container and hoped the ambassador was right.

“You can always back out, you know,” the Yaxa prodded. “After all—we can’t force you into this, even though we need you to gain access to the computer.”

The minotaur threw up his hands. “You know better than that,” he said, defeated.

The surgeons had several problems to solve. The cosmetic changes would be easy to reverse, of course, but not the legs, which made it impossible to fit them into any available pressure suits. Though the Yaxa had manufactured suits based on their old forms, these were now deemed unusable because of the very different shape of the pigs’ limbs. To return them in any way to their original form would be to have them small, weak, slow, and facing downward—in other words, tremendous burdens on the expedition.

There, then, was the problem. Assuming that Mavra Chang could be snared and Joshi taken hostage, what to do with them to make them useful during the journey and to fit in a spacesuit that would have to be one removed from an Entry—someone who had fallen into a Well Gate out among the stars or on a deserted Markovian world and wound up in Zone.

The suit problem was acute. Though dozens of races had apparently reached space, many more had not. There were limits. The problem remained until the Yaxa themselves suggested a solution.

Over two centuries before, the near-legendary Nathan Brazil—perhaps the last living Markovian—had walked the Well World. Only a few who saw it were still alive, and a lot of propaganda had gone into convincing most that he was a legend, nothing more. Most of those witnesses were on Ortega’s side—indeed, Ortega himself had been there.

But one witness was on the side of the Yaxa, and that was all that was necessary.

In the far-off land of Murithel, inhabited by the ferocious Murnies, who ate living flesh, Brazil’s body had been battered and broken beyond repair, and the Murnies had somehow transferred his consciousness, that which was truly he, into the body of a giant stag.

Others knew of the process, although they couldn’t study it, for the Murnies tended to eat anyone first and ask polite questions afterward. Still, it had been done, and at least another two races in the North knew about it.

A Yaxa stuck her head in the surgery. “The Cuzicol are here!” she announced. From the North, the Cuzicol were a race that traded with the Yaxa.

A strange creature, like a metallic yellow flower with hundreds of sharp spikes, stood on spindly legs. In the yellow disk that was its head several ruby-red spots flashed as it spoke. “Bring in the first one,” it commanded.

The others would assist. Happily. Any of them would have sold his soul—if he believed in it—just to witness this operation, which most didn’t believe really possible, for it did, in fact, presuppose the existence of something not quantifiable, but real and transferrable, nevertheless. And they witnessed it, not once but twice, the transfer into an animal which was part surgical, part mystical. It was not the same method the Murnies had used, and it depended a great deal more on technological skills, but it worked.

And all agreed that the twin problems of spacesuit fit and usefulness to the travel party were well served, while minimum disruption of the subjects’ habits was observed. They were accustomed to being four-footed, hooved animals, and such they would remain.

The Wuckl’s skill was used in constructing rudimentary larynxes for the two and in implanting a translator in Joshi. Their voices would have low amplitude and sound somewhat artificial, but they would do. The only thing the translator required was something to modulate.

Mavra Chang awoke. The last thing she remembered was running across the barren salt flats away from her rescuers when four powerful tendrils suddenly wrapped themselves around her and another two pairs snared Joshi, jerking them into the skies. Something had stung painfully, and she had blacked out.

Now she was in a room. It was definitely made for creatures different from those she knew—there were odd cushions, strange furniture and implements all about.

She was still near-sighted, and now color-blind as well. This disturbed her; much more than the very slight fisheye effect she was getting. She had enjoyed color, and that was now taken from her.

She knew that they’d transformed her again. It was obvious from the change in perception and also from the fact that her height and viewing angle were different.