Yulin shook his bull’s head slowly from side to side.
“You know the answer there. That place is built like a fortress. Not even the full weight of the Com could get in there with less than the full fleet and its terror weapons. Even I was confined for the most part to the Obie project underside—I was only allowed up for breaks, and then only to the luxury rooms. No, Underside I’m totally familiar with, but Topside and the little secrets, twists, turns, and traps I’m not.”
Mavra suddenly had a headache. It irritated her, and she shook her equine head in annoyance. It was a sharp, local ache that felt as if someone had inserted a glowing wire in her brain.
And suddenly it exploded.
She remembered. Remembered it all. When she was first on New Pompeii, Antor Trelig had run his political guests through the great computer, Obie, giving them horse’s tails as demonstrations of his power. The computer, designed and built by Dr. Gilgam Zinder, was not friendly to Trelig. It simply obeyed whoever gave the orders from the console—but it was like making a deal with the devil, as Yulin had complained. If there was a loophole, Obie found it—and one such was Mavra herself. When she’d been run through, Obie had decided that she was best capable of escaping New Pompeii, of freeing Zinder’s daughter, Nikki, and getting her off-planet before Zinder and his near-human machine carried out their ultimate double-cross of Trelig and Yulin: the reversal of the field of probability that had transferred them all to the Well World.
She had almost made it, thanks to Obie. Obie had given her the complete plans and specifications for New Pompeii, down to the last nut and bolt. It had allowed her to foil Trelig’s best defenses, nab Nikki Zinder, steal the ship, and bypass the robot sentinels. But it had been too late—they’d all crashed anyway after being translated with New Pompeii to Well World orbit.
And all that knowledge had been locked inside her mind since that time. It was there now—more than she herself could follow. She suddenly understood Obie’s dilemma with the Well World—too much input. The computer was in contact with the great Well computer, but could not absorb the knowledge. She concentrated, found that if she wanted a specific thing it could be retrieved—but only if she knew the right question to ask.
The others ignored her.
“It is important, then, that we have our showdown at the launch site,” Wooley was saying. “We will have only a short time to prepare, so we must be extra careful. Remember, though, that this is a high-tech hex, and everything works here.”
Yulin was thoughtful. “What about the Bozog, though? Won’t they stop us from doing anything?”
The Torshind answered that. “No. They are opportunists. They cannot operate the ship, but they want a representative on it when it goes. They do not care who the pilot is—or what. They are also far from stupid. They will know that this tension exists, and that it must be released. I would suspect that, as long as at least one pilot lives, they will not interfere.”
“I wish we could be sure of that,” Wooley responded. “However, we will act as if it were true because we have no other choice. Remember, we will have only hours at the launch site before they arrive. Not much time to assess conditions and prepare.” Her voice seemed to grow even colder, sharper than usual. “On no account must Antor Trelig survive,” she concluded.
The launch site itself was impressive. The Bozog had had years to prepare, and they’d made the most of it. Huge buildings stood out from a flat, desolate landscape, and a massive version of the rail system on which the Southerners were riding ran about a kilometer from one huge building to the site itself. Around the site massive cranes were positioned to manipulate the ship onto the platform, a tremendous black metal structure reaching into the sky, with a tilt toward the northwest.
“I’m not sure I like that angle,” Yulin commented, surveying it from the train. “As it is, we’ll have to build to full thrust before taking off, a tremendous danger to us even without other problems.”
“You will need to clear sixty-three kilometers within the first minute of flight,” their Bozog host responded. “Using information supplied by you and by others, we calculate that you will have nine seconds to spare. The slight angle is to give you maximum high-tech free flight. A perfectly vertical takeoff is impossible with the ship’s design, anyway, and you would run the risk of a high-altitude wobble that might take you for a moment over the wrong side of the border. Any power failure during takeoff will result in insufficient speed to break free of the Well’s influence before normal rotation takes you over semitech Esewod or nontech Slublika. You of all people should know what that would mean.”
Yulin nodded soberly. He and Trelig had escaped New Pompeii in disguise to avoid being murdered by Trelig’s former guards and slaves, who, seeing that they were now in an alien sector of space, realized they were dead people because they’d be deprived of their daily sponge supply. Trelig and Yulin had made the same mistake as Mavra Chang had a day earlier—they had flown too low over the Well World, so that the technological limitations of the hexes below had affected them, and they had plunged to the surface.
But Chang’s ship had broken up over the South; attempts to recover the sections, particularly the power supply, had been the cause of the wars of the Well. That had ended in failure with the destruction of the engines in a volcanic crater in high Gedemondas.
Yulin’s ship, however, was not designed to break up but was a smaller utility craft used mostly for in-system work. It had atmospheric-flight capabilities and collapsible wings, and he and Trelig had brought it intact to a dead-stick landing in nontech Uchjin.
“Are you certain of those figures?” Yulin asked, worried. “I mean, absolutely certain?” Whoever was in that ship would have one crack at it, and one crack only.
“We are,” the Bozog assured him. “We have had independent channels of communication. We know as much about that ship as its designer. Only the lack of two key minerals anywhere on the Well World prevents us from constructing our own drive and building our own ships.”
“Curious,” Mavra put hi. “I wonder if the lack was deliberate?”
“Probably. Makes no difference,” the Bozog responded. “The fact is that nothing on the Well World so far discovered can power a plant with sufficient initial and sustained thrust to overcome the Well’s effects. You might say we know how to build one, we just can’t do it.”
They were taken to a large square building that proved to have a very conventional airlock. Inside, it contained a suite of comfortable rooms complete with closets, manipulable lights, and an intercom to the Bozog launch control complex, and the project director’s office.
It was also filled with a generic Southern atmosphere that was maintained at a temperature of twenty degrees Celsius, comfortable for all concerned.
The atmospheric difference seemed to have no effect on the Bozog.
“We are rather versatile in this department,” it explained. “In general, we cannot stand the presence of certain lethal gases, but none of them are present in your atmosphere. You will excuse me if I do not elaborate on which gases and other substances are not to our liking.”
They understood. Why give a possible enemy the lethal weapon?
“How do you breathe, then?” Joshi asked, fascinated.