them, then at roughly the same time as they do. It’ll be a rough trip out, and there may be a fight at the end. It’s very much like a miniature replay of the Wars of the Well on neutral turf.”
Trelig nodded. “I understand. You have my complete cooperation, Ambassador Ortega.”
“Cooperation, yes—but I think we understand each other, Trelig,” the Ulik answered pointedly. “Don’t cross me. I’m sending some people with you as my representatives. One is an Agitar, and you know what kind of power
Trelig nodded.
Ortega continued, “Also along will be a Lata, whose sting works on Makiem, and who will have flying speed on New Pompeii—and some male and female Dillian centaurs to help carry supplies. In addition, one of the Yaxa who’s along with the other side, goes by the name Wooley, is a former sponge-addict Entry.”
Trelig, former head of the sponge syndicate, gasped.
“She has sworn to kill you at any cost and has tried several times,” the snake-man continued. “She’ll try again up North. The Yaxa are among the most cunning and deadly creatures on the Well World, so you can afford no mistakes.”
Trelig nodded soberly. “I have gotten this far and this high by not making any. I assure you that self- preservation is a primary objective with me.”
“All right then,” Ortega said. “You brought two Makiem suits?”
“Already being worked on by your people,” Burodir put in. “We will be set to go as soon as they are through.”
Ortega sighed. “Okay, then. Get your supplies transferred as quickly as possible, and be back here for briefing at 0400.”
The Makiem rose and made for the exit. Trelig turned slightly, and said, “You won’t regret this, Ortega.”
“You bet I won’t,” the snake-man replied, and watched them go out. The door closed. “You son of a bitch,” he added.
Two figures emerged from behind a partition.
“So that’s Trelig,” Renard breathed. “Now he looks just like he always was—slimy. Color matches, too. He hasn’t changed a bit.”
“I notice you didn’t tell him
Ortega chuckled. “No, and I think you better have an alias, Renard. Something that won’t give you away— and he’d better not find out, so don’t slip.”
Renard’s grin lent a particularly evil effect to his devil’s face. “I won’t slip. But nothing will stop me from electrocuting the son of a bitch once we don’t need him any more. You understand that.”
Ortega did. Trelig had picked Renard from a Comworld mental institution, fed him massive doses of sponge, and enslaved him on New Pompeii. More than anyone, Renard knew Trelig’s basic evil, his degradation. The man was a monster. But Trelig did not know that Renard was Renard—and if there were no slips, he would not. While Trelig worried about a vengeful Yaxa, right next to him would be an enemy who knew him well, knew New Pompeii well, and hated him with a passion that defied description.
“I just wish it’d been Mavra,” Vistaru said between clenched teeth. “That bitch Wooley! I’ll get her if it’s the last thing I do.”
Ortega looked thoughtful, then sighed. “Renard, will you see to some of the final preparations?” he prodded. The Agitar turned to go, and Vistaru started to follow. “No, Vistaru, not you. Stay here a minute.”
She looked puzzled, and Renard left. The door hissed shut again.
“I think,” Ortega said slowly, “it’s time to tell you a few things you don’t know. Wooley knows—I had to tell her in order to save Mavra Chang’s life these many years. Now it’s time for you.”
Vistaru experienced a creeping dread within her, as if she didn’t really want to know what Ortega was about to tell her, but dimly guessed the truth.
Ortega sighed and pulled some papers from a desk drawer, a thick file marked chang, mavra in indecipherable Ulik, but the Lata knew what it was from the photo on the jacket.
“I better start from the beginning, all the way,” he said carefully. “It begins fifty-four years ago, back when you found Nathan Brazil…”
Yaxa Embassy, South Zone
The Torshind floated a few centimeters above the floor, a pale-red cloak without a wearer, like a vision from a nightmare. Because it was essentially an energy creature, a translator had nothing to modulate, so it was also silent now as it watched the preparations underway. Yaxa guards armed with nasty weapons stood all about as insurance against attempts by Ortega or Trelig to interfere with the operation.
A drug was administered to the party; it made them sleepy, close to comatose. Because of the supply problem, the expedition was small: Wooley, of course, and Yulin and the horselike Mavra and Joshi and, of course, the Torshind. There had been some debate about it all, particularly the inclusion of Joshi and the exclusion of another Yaxa. But Joshi provided a handle on Mavra Chang and he was needed to carry supplies—and anyway, another Yaxa would consume more in food and water than he. Five were enough; none of them trusted Yulin, so that kept him in check. None trusted the Torshind either, but the Torshind could not pilot the ship. Mavra had no hands and her shape precluded her ability to activate the ship, particularly at an incline, so she would need an ally with arms—and for that Wooley was a better bet than Yulin. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best that could be done.
Most of the supplies had been shifted earlier; the suits in which the expedition would live in the North had been fitted with small but complex rebreather apparatus. For himself, Yulin adopted a “human” suit, of old design. The Yaxa had their own suites from Entries—and Mavra and Joshi used modified Dillian equipment. The Torshind did not breathe as the South understood breathing, and so needed nothing.
Transfer was simple. The Torshind simply glided up to the transferee, melted into the other’s body, awkwardly took control of it, then moved down the hall and into the Zone Gate.
The drugs made the Torshind’s task easier, and each transferee had undergone at least one test earlier.
Consciousness returned slowly.
Mavra Chang shook herself, stretched her limbs outward, and moved her head around as if clearing cobwebs.
They were in a strange chamber, a hall of some glassy substance. The light was poor but sufficient, and she could see the others struggling to one or another degree to regain control.
One thing seemed clear: the Well had been fooled. They were all in Yugash now, including the Torshind.
Other shapes moved about, as spectral as the Torshind but sharp and clear in the gloom. Mavra’s color- blindness actually helped the contrast; to her the Yugash were sharp white outlines against a dark-gray background.
Another creature could be seen in the room, a thing apparently of the same substance as the walls, an angular crystal sculpture of a crab with glassy tentacles instead of claws. It wore an incongruous device around its midsection, a transmitter that enabled the translation device inside the creature to send to the radios in their suits.
“Welcome to Yugash,” came the thin, electronic voice of the Torshind. “I shall keep to this ptir—this creature you see—for much of the trip. As soon as you all feel able, we will cross to a chamber prepared to your requirements. I suggest that we brief everyone on the route and problems and then get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow we will begin this epic journey.”
They nodded in agreement. They sensed that history was being made, that they were to be the focal point for events that would shape the future.
Still slightly groggy, they followed the Torshind out of the Zone Gate chamber and into Yugash.
