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technologically. Everything that could work they had created, ingeniously.
"Yes, sir," the guard literally shouted, so loud that Trelig wished he had ear flaps to match
the nose ones. "Says he knows of an Entry, yes, sir." Pause. "No, nothing odd." Pause.
"Personally, sir? But-" Pause. "All right, sir. Right away," the guard completed the call,
detached the suction cup, which coiled back into its built-in holder, and replaced the headphones
on then: rack. He turned to Trelig.
"Come on, you," he grumbled. He followed the guard out.
There were no stairs or ramps, and Trelig had a bad time when they reached a high opening,
four walls of bare, smooth stone, obviously a junction for the hallways on the multistoried
castle, and the guard simply started walking up the wall.
Trelig hesitated, then decided, hell, why not? If it doesn't work I think I can survive the
fall. What he had to do, he saw from the guard, was press his finger-cups solidly on the stone,
pull himself up, then use leg-cups on the webbed hind feet to support him while he reached
farther up. If he managed it in a smooth series of motions, like climbing a ladder, it would be
effortless, but doing so proved awkward and slow for Antor Trelig. He was conscious of the
guards' stares and chuckles in the corridor below, and heard the guard above growl, "Come on,
you! Can't keep the old man waiting!"
He made it, with difficulty, to the third story, thankful that they didn't have to go any
farther. That took some getting used to. Getting down, looking down the whole way, would be
worse. He put the thought out of his mind.
They passed by great rooms, some sumptuously furnished with silks and fancy rugs and woven
tapestries. A few doors were closed, but, no matter what, the place reeked of opulence. There was
a lot of fancy metal art, too, and most of it wasn't brass or iron, either-it was solid gold,
often encrusted with jewels of amazing proportions.
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Finally they entered what had to be some sort of reception hall. It was rectangular, but too
small to be the king's regular place. The ceiling was still a good ten meters high, and the walls
were draped with maroon and gold velvet curtains. There was a thick rug of some soft fur from the
door sill to every corner of the room, and a slightly raised dais near the far wall with the most
comfortable-looking of those strange cushion-chairs he'd ever seen. He looked around, mentally
betting himself that there was another entrance somewhere, probably just behind that dais.
He was right. The curtains behind the chair moved, and an elderly Makiem walked in on all
fours, got up on the dais, and turned, settling back onto the broad cushion-chair. The effect was
remarkably human, as if a man, leaning about forty-five degrees forward in a chair were sitting
there. The old man even crossed his huge legs a little, and rested bis arms on two small wooden
adjustable rails.
The old one looked at the newcomer critically, then looked over at the guard. "That will be
all, Zubir. I'll call you if I need you." The guard bent its head slightly and withdrew, closing
the big wooden door behind him.
The old man turned back to Trelig. "You know the whereabouts of an Entry?" he asked, his voice
crackling with energy. His skin was blotched and old and bloated, but this was a very lively
individual, Trelig decided.
"I do, sir," Trelig responded carefully. "He has sent me here to find out what is in store for
him before he turns himself in."
The old man chuckled. "Insolent, too. I like that." He suddenly leaned farther forward and
pointed. "You're the Entry and you know it!" he snapped, then his tone softened again, became
friendlier. "You are a terrible wall-climber, although a smooth liar. I'll give you that. Now,
come! Who are you really?"
Trelig considered his answer. He could be any one of several people, and perhaps be the better
for it. Either Zinder was out-he was too mature to be the daughter and not versed well enough in
technology to be the father. The same for Ben Yulin, and that wouldn't be much of an improvement,
anyway. Renard or Mavra Chang? The former wouldn't hold up-too slick at the start to pretend to
be a guard now; this old guy was no fool-and Mavra Chang would be conspicuous if alive. So the
best he could do was try and get into their good graces by the truth.
He imitated the guard by flexing his elbows so that his body lowered to the floor, then came
back up again. "Antor Trelig, at your service, sir," he said. "And who might I have the honor of
talking to?"
The old man smiled slightly. A Makiem smile was far different from a human one, but Trelig
recognized it. "Consider all the angles before you act, don't you, Trelig?" he said offhandedly.
"I could see all the possible lies going through your head before the truth came out. As to who I
am, I am Soncoro, Minister of Agriculture."
Trelig barely suppressed a chuckle. "And the man who really makes all the decisions around
here," he stated flatly.
Soncoro liked that. "And what brings you to that conclusion?"
"Because the guard sent me to the minister of agriculture, not the prime minister, king, or
even state security. You were his first and only choice. Those types know who's who."
Soncoro nodded. "I think I'm going to like you, Trelig. We're two of a kind. I like you-and
I'll never trust you. You understand that. Just as you wouldn't trust me, in reversed
circumstances."
Trelig did understand. "I'm much too new to be a threat, Soncoro. Let's say a partnership
until then."
The old man considered that. "Quite so. You understand what you have that we want, don't you?
And why we are delighted and relieved that you are who you are?"
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"Because I can pilot a spaceship," the former syndicate boss replied easily. "And because I'm
able to open up everything on New Pompeii." Trelig felt vastly relieved. He had been afraid that
he would wind up in a water hex, or, if not that, in a hex whose government had neither designs
on New Pompeii nor people like Soncoro. But then, he reflected, if we have a common beginning,
the odds were always in my favor.
Trelig looked at the old man. "You're going after the one in the North?"
Soncoro shook his head. "No, that would involve almost insuperable obstacles. We looked at it,
of course. You went down a good ways in, in a nontech hex, so we would not only have to get to
it, and no Southerner has ever been into the North, we would somehow have to move it close to two
hundred kilometers to make it flyable, then set it straight up so it would be well away before
the Well could snare it. And-this is equally important-to do it one would have to pass through a
number of hexes with life so alien one couldn't understand it, control it, or trust it; and in
some atmospheres that are lethal. No, I'm afraid we leave your ship to the Uchjin."
"But the other ship isn't in one piece!" Trelig objected. "It was my own ship. It would break
up on the way in. The nine modules would be spread over half the Well World!"
"They are," Soncoro admitted. "But, tell me, would you need all the modules to make it fly
again? Suppose you had a fabricating plant capable of building an airtight central body? And a
couple of good electrical engineers to help do it right? What would you need then?" [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]