The chills were back, although Ortega couldn’t say why he believed this man. “That’s impossible,” he retorted. “The Well doesn’t work that way.”
“I know it doesn’t,” the newcomer responded, unperturbed. “If you say so.”
“Maybe you had better explain yourself,” the ambassador said warily.
Gypsy laughed. “No, I don’t think so. Not right now, anyway. But I found your conversation with the Czillian fascinating. You took a lot longer to catch on than we’d figured, you know.”
That was the most irritating comment so far, mostly because Ortega had to agree with Gypsy. He didn’t like being suckered. He liked to be, and usually was, in control.
“Anyway,” Gypsy continued, “I’m here to talk to you. Just talk. As an ambassador, you might say, from the newcomers.”
“From Brazil, you mean.”
“Him, too,” Gypsy admitted. “Mostly you got it doped out right now and we want to know what you’re gonna do next.”
Suspicion creeped into Ortega. “You’re not another Markovian, like Brazil?” he suggested. “I kind of figured if there was one, there were more.”
Gypsy laughed. “No, not another Markovian. I’m not even as old as you are, Ortega. And Brazil—well, I’m not sure what he is, but I don’t think he’s a Markovian.”
“He claims to be God,” Ortega pointed out.
Gypsy laughed again. “Well, maybe he is. I don’t know. And you know what? I don’t really give a damn. All I know, all anybody knows, is that he’s the only guy around who knows how to work the Well of Souls. That’s all that really matters, isn’t it? Not who or what he is, or you are, or I am. But, no, that’s wrong. What you are counts a little, I think. That’s why I’m here.”
Ortega’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Why?”
“Why don’t you let ’em get in there, Ortega? Make it easy on them. You know he ain’t gonna do anything to louse up your little empire here. He doesn’t give a damn.”
“You know I couldn’t, even if I wanted to,” the Ulik responded. “I don’t run this world, no matter what you may think. Self-interest runs the world here, just like everywhere else. He’s trying to get into the Well to switch it off, make repairs. Too many nervous governments here to allow that.”
“But the Well World’s on a separate machine,” Gypsy pointed out. “His turning off the big machine won’t really do anything here. They all should know that much, anyway.”
Ortega shrugged all six arms. “They only know what I know and they only believe a fraction of that. We have only Brazil’s word on that sort of thing. And if we take him at his word, then this new universe he’s going to create will need seeds, new Markovian seeds like the last time. This planet was built to provide those seeds. If we take him at his word on how the system works, he’ll depopulate the Well World in that reseeding. The Well governments face extinction, Mister Gypsy, or whoever you are. No getting around that!”
“Not if you help,” the man came back. “You and I know that the natives are already murdering hordes of newcomers in many hexes. There are proposals simply to kill everything that comes in through the Well Gate. You gotta stop that, Ortega. One way or another. Don’t you understand? These newcomers are the seeds!”
The Ulik’s jaw dropped in amazement. “Of course! That makes sense! I don’t know what’s wrong with me these days. Senility, I guess. But—just saying so won’t make the plan acceptable. They’re scared, mister. Scared little people. They won’t take chances.”
“But you can stall, do what you can. Your influence is still pretty strong here. You know it and I know it. You got blackmail on most of those little men. We need time, Ortega. We need you to help us get that time.”
Serge Ortega leaned back and sighed once again. “So what’s your plan?”
Gypsy chuckled dryly. “Oh, no. We trust you just about as far as you trust us. One thing at a time. But you know your part—if you’ll do it. There’s no real cost to you, I promise you. You have Brazil’s word on that and you know that’s good.”
“I’ll do what I can,” the snake-man responded, apparently sincere.
Gypsy got up, stamped out his cigarette on the shiny floor, and looked around at the large office. “Tell me, Ortega, how do you stand it—being trapped in here all the time, year after year, for so long? I think I’d go nuts and kill myself.”
A wan smile came to Ortega’s face. “Sometimes I think of that. It’s easy, you know, for me. All I have to do is go to the Zone Gate and go home. I’m over two thousand years old, you know. Too old. But the spell that keeps me alive traps me here. You should know that.” His voice dropped to a dreamy whisper and he seemed to be gazing at not his visitor or the wall but something beyond the wall, something only he could see. “To feel wind again, and rain, and see the stars one last time. Oh, by God! Do I dream of that!”
“Why not do it, then? At least, do it after this is all over.”
The Ulik snorted. “You don’t really realize my trap, do you? I’m a Catholic, Gypsy. Not a good one, perhaps, but a Catholic nonetheless. And stepping back there—it would be suicide. I can’t bring myself to do it, you see. I just can’t kill myself.”
Gypsy shook his head in silent wonder. “We make our own hells, don’t we?” he murmured, almost too softly to be heard. “We make ’em and we live in ’em. But what kind of hell could be worse than this one?” He looked squarely at Ortega and said, louder, “You’ll hear from Brazil himself shortly, and I’ll keep in touch.” And with that he walked over to the office door, which opened for him, and stepped through. It closed behind him, leaving only the butt on the floor and the smell of stale cigarette smoke as signs he had ever been there.
The Ulik wasted no time. He rammed an intercom button home. “Attention! Apprehend a Type 41 just leaving the Ulik Embassy.” He gave Gypsy’s dress.
There was silence on the other end for a moment, then the guard outside, working to handle the hordes of incoming people more than as a police force, responded, puzzled, “But, sir, I’ve been just outside your door the past hour. Nobody’s come out. Not a soul since that Czillian, anyway. And definitely no Type 41.”
“But that’s impossible!” Ortega roared, then switched off and looked over at the floor. The crushed butt, to his great relief, was still there.
The intercom buzzed and he answered it curtly. “Ambassador Udril here,” came a translator-colored voice.
“Go ahead,” Ortega told the Czillian ambassador. “On that information you wanted on those three Entries. The one, Marquoz, is a Hazakit and is, well, it’s hard to believe after only a few weeks…”
“Yes?”
“Well, Ambassador, he appears to be the new head of the Hazakit secret police.”
Ortega almost choked. “And the others?”
“Well, the woman, Yua, appears to be enlisting fellow Awbri into some sort of military force with surprising ease. And as for Mavra Chang…”
“Well?” Ortega prompted, feeling increasingly out of control.
“She seems to have appeared as a Dillian, enlisted some local help, and, well, vanished.”
“Vanished! Where? How?”
“A few days ago she and a small party of Dillians went into the mountains of Gedemondas. Nobody’s heard anything from them since.”
Hakazit
It was a harsh land. The planet for which it was a laboratory model must have been something hellish indeed, Marquoz thought. The terrain was a burned, ugly, hard-packed desert with jagged, fierce-looking volcanic outcrops. Occasionally earth tremors would start slides and the very rare but horribly violent storms sometimes turned dry, dusty gullies into deadly torrents which carved great gashes in the landscape.