The once human horse chuckled dryly. "Me? Nothing much to tell that you wouldn't already know. As for regret-I don't know, really. Some individual things I would like to do differently. Stop my husband from that meet where they killed him. Not touch that d.a.m.ned stone in Olborn that changed me into a half-donkey. Maybe not have been so d.a.m.ned complacent these last years. I still don't understand why I stayed in Glathriel and accepted it so calmly."

"If it makes you feel any better, you had little choice in that," the Yaxa told her. "Every six months the Ambreza gave you a physical. One of the devices they used for checking you was also a hypno gadget. Bit by bit they carefully changed your att.i.tudes-slowly this time, so you'd never even be conscious of it."

Anger grew within her. "So that's it," she said in a tone devoid of emotion. "That explains a lot."

"But in a crisis the old you returned in full," Wooley pointed out. "They didn't dare hypno too strongly or too deeply, or you'd have been no use to them later. And that brings up your stake in all this. Only that computer up there can restore you to humanity, you know-or the Well itself, which might make you something other than what you want to be. I guarantee that if you somehow escaped they'd find a way to keep you from the Well just so your knowledge wouldn't fall into others' hands. They'd do a full brain scan, maybe using a Yugash to keep you from Well processing. You'd be be a dumb horse." a dumb horse."

Mavra considered that. She wasn't sure it was possible to return to the South without Well processing, but a lot more impossible things had happened. "I'm not sure I care," she said softly.

Wooley was startled. "Huh? How's that?"

"I keep going over and over my life," Mavra responded, "and I keep wondering what I'm trying to get back to. Sometimes I feel like the Markovians-money, some power that money brings, skill, my own ship, although it's probably been sold for salvage by now. But for what? Somewhere along the line I missed something, and I don't know what it is."

They were silent for a while, each locked in her own thoughts.

Mavra felt a little groggy, drained. At first she thought it fatigue, but the condition persisted, a numbness increasing like a lead weight on her brain. She shook her head to clear it, but the movement didn't help. She felt herself drifting off.

She was a little girl, running across green fields toward a large farmhouse. An elderly man and woman stood on the porch, looking kindly and smiling as she ran to them.

"Gramma! Grampa!" she squealed in delight. Her grandfather picked her up and hugged and kissed her, laughing. Her grandmother was still a remarkably good-looking woman, and she seemed to have an infectious spark of life inside her. She tenderly brushed back the little girl's long hair and kissed her.

And they sat on the porch and played and talked, and Grampa told tall tales of a magical world where everybody was a different kind of creature and you could have wondrous adventures. He was a marvelous storyteller, and she was enthralled. But though only four or five, she sensed that something was wrong, something was different about this visit.

It wasn't anything they said or did, it was something else, something in the grim way they talked to her parents and older brothers and sisters, some seriousness they tried valiantly to hide from her but could not.

And she'd cried and wailed when they left; for some reason she was certain that they were leaving for good this time, that they would never come back.

And they didn't. There was furious activity in the house, people coming and going, all kinds of serious people who spoke in whispers and pretended nothing was wrong whenever she approached.

She started playing games to eavesdrop on them. Once she hid behind a couch while her mother was arguing with two big men.

"No! We won't desert this farm and this world!" her mother yelled angrily. "We'll fight! We'll fight as long as there is breath in us!"

"As you wish, Vahura," one of the big men replied, "but you may regret it when it's too late. That b.a.s.t.a.r.d Courile is in charge now, you know. He'll seal this world off in a minute when he's ready. Think of the children!"

Her mother sighed. "Yes, you're right about that, I suppose. I'll try and make some arrangement."

"Time's short," the other man warned. "Already it might be too late."

And it had been too late. Some of the political opponents had been allowed out, but not her parents, for they were the leaders of the opposition to the party takeover. Not them. Their children would be the example of the new conformist society, and they would be forced to watch. An example to the nation, to the world.

And, one night shortly after, the funny man had come. A small, skinny man who sneaked in a back window, her window. She'd started to scream, but he was such a funny little man and he had such a nice smile. He held a finger to his lips and winked at her, and went out her door.

Soon there was m.u.f.fled conversation, and then her father came back with the funny little man.

"Mavra, you have to go with our friend here, now," he whispered to her. She was confused, hesitant, but there was something in the little man that made her trust and like him, and Daddy had said it was okay.

And the little man smiled at her, then turned to her much taller father, smile gone. "You were fools to stay," he whispered. "The Com is absolute once it wins."

Her father swallowed hard and seemed to be fighting back tears. "You will take good care of her, won't you?"

The smile was back. "I'm no father figure, but when she needs me, I'll be there," he a.s.sured the other.

They sneaked out the back, running from bush to bush, a game she was too sleepy to follow.

"Awake! To arms! Here they come!" A loud electric shout shot through her. Only vaguely did she identify it as the voice of the Torshind. A loud electric shout shot through her. Only vaguely did she identify it as the voice of the Torshind.

Woozily she managed to look up. Ben Yulin moved swiftly, grabbing the napalm rifle from Wooley's stunned grasp, turning, and firing.

A tremendously bright, pencil-thin line of flame shot outward, striking some objects nearby. There was a flash. Suddenly it seemed as if the very atmosphere were on fire, burning white-hot, burning and illuminating the Pugeesh, great huge spindly creatures standing on ten incredibly thin legs, with monstrous claws front and rear and large eyestalks that shone like rubies in the center of their round tiny bodies.

The napalm was effective. It struck the leading trio of attackers and clung like glue. There was no sound, but the two forward legs melted like molten plastic and the claws deformed. They retreated hastily, dripping fire.

"To your left!" Joshi shouted. "Something like a cannon!"

Yulin saw it by the flickering light and adjusted a dial on the rifle. The Torshind meanwhile had a.s.sembled a second weapon from the pack and shot a random half-moon of burning gelatin behind them, lighting up the surroundings.

Yulin fired again, this time in broad intermittent bursts, at a huge device that did indeed look like a cannon. When it went up, the whole area seemed to be melting.

"My G.o.d! They're all over the place!" Yulin screamed. "Get me a new cylinder!"

There was a report of some kind from the right, and a large stone landed near them with a crash and rolled, almost getting the Torshind on the bounce.

Wooley seemed to snap out of whatever trance she was in and grabbed a napalm cylinder, tossing it to Yulin.

Mavra looked around at the eerie scene, trying to see what she could with her poor vision. Napalm at least was the right weapon here; it seemed to set fire to anything it touched. Whenever it landed the stuff melted, burned, and bubbled-and it spread.

The Torshind covered the rear while Yulin zeroed in on a large and complex cannon device that shot huge rocks. He was good with the rifle; the third blob struck, disabling the machine before the Pugeesh manning it could fire again.

And suddenly they were gone. Moving so fast the eye had trouble following, they just faded back into the brush, leaving only the burning remains of eight of their number and the bubbling wreckage of two cannons.

The minotaur was furious and turned on Wooley. "Some guard! They d.a.m.n near had us!" he snarled.

The Yaxa was slightly bewildered. "I-I don't know what happened," she stammered, the cool self-confident tone of the Yaxa breaking for the first time. "I just seemed to sink into dreaming without even realizing it. I just don't understand it-I never dream, normally."

"Me, too," Mavra put in, furious not only at her own lapse but also because in a battle such as this she had been totally helpless. "It just sank on me like a heavy, irresistible weight."

The Torshind considered this. "I think perhaps there is no blame here. It is entirely possible that the Pugeesh caused those effects to take us off guard. I have heard of such things being done elsewhere."

"Oh, d.a.m.n!" Mavra swore. "Not another magic magic hex!" hex!"

"Call it what you will," the Torshind replied, "I think we'd better be doubly on guard from now on. How many more cylinders do we have of this stuff? I don't think anything but chemical fire is going to stop them. They appear to be silicon-based."

Yulin, scared and still grumbling, looked into the ammo pouch. "Nine. That's not so good. I don't think we can fight more than two more battles like this."

The Yugash silently agreed. "Let's try diplomacy, then. What have we to lose? Reach over and switch my radio to external amplification, will you?"

Yulin was still too upset, and it was Wooley who made the adjustment.

The Torshind walked to the side of the camp. "Pugeesh!" it called, its voice booming now out into the night. "Pugeesh! We should talk! We are weary travelers, nothing more. We do not threaten you or what is yours. We need only to cross your land to reach the other side! No one else need die, on either side! We ask your permission to continue!"

They waited. There was no reply, but there were no further attacks, either. They settled back for an uneasy balance of the night as the fires slowly burned themselves out and black smoke rose into the night sky.

About forty kilometers back, the other group was fighting a similar battle with different weapons.

Trelig and Burodir were crouched behind rocks, shooting tracers at the attackers. They had some effect, but not much; although the Pugeesh were enormous, there was really very little to them. A wall of flame was much more effective than the odds of a projectile hitting a vital spot.

The Dillians, acutely aware of how large a target they were, found concussion hand grenades much more effective. The shrapnel from the grenades found their marks in a wide spread.

One of the spindly creatures charged and a great claw reached out for Renard. The Agitar's suit was from an Entry of his race; it was designed at several contact points to allow the electrical discharge of which all Agitar males were capable. The claw grabbed him, and he reached up and fed the charge into it.

There was a hiss and a crackle, and the Pugeesh curled up into an impossibly small burning ball. This made the other Pugeesh pause, and they drew back cautiously.

The grip hadn't torn the suit, but it had been painful nonetheless. Renard hoped his shoulder was just bruised, not broken.

"Well, they're not eager to die, anyway," Trelig shouted optimistically.

The Ghiskind considered that. "Perhaps that works for us. Make sure this ptir doesn't wander away," it said, then abandoned the body, its red-cloaked visage floating into the darkness after the still-present but hesitant Pugeesh.

The creatures watched the Yugash's approach and hurled some rocks at it, which pa.s.sed harmlessly through. One took a sharp spear and lunged at the Yugash, also to no effect.

The specter reached the spear-thrower's body and merged into it. The Pugeesh turned, convulsed, then charged into its fellows in the darkness.

Terrified, they uttered high-pitched screams.

The occupation was short-lived, however; too scared to do anything, the poor Pugeesh who'd been possessed simply dropped dead.

The Ghiskind emerged, satisfied with it demonstration, and headed for another. They pulled back in terror.

Frustrated that it couldn't talk to them at this point, the Yugash turned and glided back, then returned into the ptir.

"I have just given those savages a demonstration of my powers," it told them. "Perhaps now I can talk to them."

The ptir scuttled toward them, and this time they were not hostile toward it. Their red faceted eyes had followed the fearsome ghost back to the camp and watched as it merged with the crystal being. They knew what approached them.

The Ghiskind stopped when it was convinced it had an audience, and turned its radio to external broadcast.

"Pugeesh! Hear me! We will cross your land. We will not harm or otherwise touch you or yours unless you attack us again. If you do, I promise you that not only you but your children will suffer for generations. Neither mind nor body of us shall you touch, and we will do the same. Is that agreed?"

There was no reaction for some time, then the sound of murmuring and mumbling. The Yugash received no formal reply, but soon heard the sound of many creatures moving off. Inspection revealed just one or two remaining, apparently observers.

In a way, they'd agreed.

Fairly confident now, the Yugash rejoined the others. "I don't think they'll bother us again. If they do, we'll have to come up with a really big power demo."

"Maybe they were luckier with the Yaxa group farther on," Trelig said hopefully.

Vistaru, totally helpless in the battle because she was too small to man a weapon and her suit prevented flying or use of her stinger, sighed. "Poor Mavra!" was all she could manage.

None of them slept the rest of the night, and they packed up and continued their journey at dawn's first light. None of the strange creatures had molested them further in mind or body, and they hoped it would stay that way.

A couple of hours later they came upon the camp of the Yaxa party, saw the charred remains of the battle, and Vistaru noted with relief the lack of non-Pugeesh bodies about.

"Too bad," Antor Trelig said sadly. "Looks like they're still in front of us."

Wohafa

Whether it was the promise, the fights, the threat, or other factors, the Pugeesh interfered no more. Both groups felt they were being watched, but as time pa.s.sed and the truth of their claim that they were simply pa.s.sing through became more obvious, they felt less threatened.

Wohafa was an eerie scene. A bleak, copper-colored landscape set against a deep-pink sky through which wisps of anhydrous white clouds drifted. Lightning was so frequent that often the land seemed to be lit by a stroboscope, with everything moving in a jerky slow motion.

The Wohafans themselves were odd creatures, b.a.l.l.s of bright yellow light from which hundreds of lightninglike tendrils darted. A cross between creatures of matter and those of energy, they manipulated things with arms of energy, yet seemed to have ma.s.s and weight.

As a high-tech hex, Wohafa had a large number of machines and artifacts, but, for the most part, these, too, reflected the ambiguity of their makers' nature and seemed odd lumps working from no apparent source and to no apparent purpose.

They became aware that building in Wohafa was accomplished by matter-to-energy-to-matter conversion, when they watched rock worked by a number of Wohafans dissolve and reform in new and obviously planned forms.

The Wohafans were a group neutral to them, though, which helped enormously. Having close contacts with the Bozog and a number of other high-tech Northern civilizations, they had almost daily contact with the South, obtaining whatever a customer wanted by making it from the surrounding rock and rearranging its atomic structure. They accepted the waste of other civilizations and remade it to order, so they were a key economic link in the loose economy of the Well World as a whole.

They were also pragmatic. They understood the significance of the eerie silver moon that shined on the Southern horizon, and they appreciated its dangers, so they were willing to allow someone to reach it and remove the threat-for whatever purposes. As insurance, the Wohafans were willing to aid both sides so that, no matter who reached New Pompeii, they would bear the strange creatures no ill will.

Wohafans created huge platforms that stood atop a strange blue-white glowing energy field, and transported first the Yaxa group and then the Ortega group across the hex, scrupulously maintaining the time interval between the two groups as well. The six hundred kilometers or so they needed to cross were wiped out in less than a day by this rapid and cooperative transportation system.

A semitech hex, Uborsk was a bit more of a challenge but it bordered both Wohafa and Bozog and was partially dependent on them for some manufacturing. It could not afford to run afoul of the neighbors without causing long-range strains in which it had the most to lose.

The Uborsk were enormous blobs of jelly, perhaps four meters around, who lived in a sea of soft, granular material that twinkled in sunlight. It was obvious that the Uborsk civilization was almost entirely hidden from the Southerners' sight.

Out of the translucent blobs, however, could emerge tentacles, arms, anything they needed when they needed it. In order to facilitate commerce between Wohafa and Bozog, the Uborsk had allowed the two high-tech hexes to build an efficient railroad causeway along the Slublika border. The trains were an almost unending series of flatcars rolling on a continuous rail and powered externally by internal combustion engines at regular points along the almost four hundred kilometer route, like an enormous escalator. For allowing the construction and running the system, the Uborsk received raw materials they needed from the versatile Wohafans, manufactured goods their own technology could not produce from the Bozog. It was a good compromise that surprised the Southerners; interhex cooperation on a long-term basis was rare in the South, and it was all the more remarkable in the North because the three hexes involved were so different in composition that long-term stays even with protection were uncomfortable.

The politics involved in the transportation systems were somewhat frustrating to the two groups, however; a five-and-a-quarter-hour interval had been established when the second group had crossed into Wohafa, and it was maintained absolutely. The trailing group was not permitted to close on the leaders, and the leaders were unable to prepare anything to eliminate their rivals.

And thus, much more rapidly than they had dreamed, the leading group under Wooley and Ben Yulin pulled in to a strangely surrealistic station in Bozog.

It was a surprisingly bright land; the pale-blue sky was reminiscent of the South, at least at the higher alt.i.tudes, and nearby mountains had what looked like snow. Spindly gnarled trees dotted the landscape, the fact that they were purple with orange leaves not in the least disconcerting. Only the midday temperature registering on the suit gauges offered any strong indication of difference: it was minus thirty degrees Celsius.

But the Bozog were no distant relatives of the South. The Bozog were, if anything, more alien and enigmatic than any creatures they had met to date.

A Bozog official rolled up to meet them on ballbearing feet. It was very thin, more or less round, and, except for the two orange circles on its back, rose no more than 30 or 40 centimeters from the ground.

"Welcome to Bozog," it said in its most dignified voice, like a small-town Chamber of Commerce head greeting visiting dignitaries. "We are amazed and pleased at your rapid and safe arrival. If you will follow me across town, we will arrange for the final part of your journey."

They followed it, noting the liquidity of its movements; the official seemed to flow rather than roll down broad streets, and almost oozed around corners.