They were riding down now, at a deceptively steep angle. Down into the bowels of the planet itself.
“But why didn’t the first generation establish a high civilization?” Varnett asked. “After all, they were just like us, changed outside only.”
“You overestimate people from a highly technological culture. We take things for granted. We know how to turn on a light, but not why the light comes on. None of us could build most of our artifacts, and most civilized races become dependent on them. Suddenly dumped in a virgin wilderness, as they all were, they had no stores, no factories, no access to anything they didn’t make themselves out of what was available. A great many died from hardship alone. The tough ones, the survivors, they built their own societies, and their children’s societies. They worked with purpose—if the test failed, then they died out. If they succeeded—well, there was the promise that the successful ones would someday go to the Well of Souls at midnight, and there be taken to a new world, to found a new civilization, to grow, develop, perhaps become the progenitors of a future race of gods who would be fulfilled. Each hoped to be the ones whose descendants would make it.”
“And you were here when that happened,” Wuju said nervously.
“I was,” he acknowledged. “I assisted the creator of Hex Forty-one—One Eighty-seven, the hundred and eighty-seventh and last race developed in that hex. I didn’t create it, simply monitored and helped out. We stole ideas from each other all the time, of course. Dominant species in one hex might be a modified pattern of animals in another. Our own race was a direct steal from some large apes in another hex. The designer liked them so much that not only did the dominant race turn out to be apes, but they were almost endlessly varied as animals.”
“Hold on, Brazil,” Skander said. “These others might not know much about things, but I’m an archaeologist. Old Earth developed over a few billion years, slowly evolving.”
“Not exactly,” Brazil replied. “First of all, time was altered in each case. The time frame for the development of our sector was speeded up. The original design produced the life we expected, but it developed differently—as giant reptiles, eventually. When it was clear that it wouldn’t do to have our people coexist with them, a slight change in the axial tilt caused the dinosaurs to die out, but it placed different stresses on other organisms. Minor mammals developed, and to these, over a period of time, we added ours to replace the ones logically developing in the evolutionary scale. When conditions seemed suitable for us, when apelike creatures survived, we began the exodus. Soon the temperate zones had their first intelligent life. Again, with all the resources but nothing else. They did well, astonishingly so, but the long-term effects of the axial tilt produced diastrophism and a great ice age within a few centuries. Our present, slow climb has been the product of the extremely primitive survivors of those disasters. So, in fact, has it been with all your home worlds.”
“Is there a world, then, or a network of worlds of the Akkafians?” Hain asked.
“There was,” Brazil replied. “Perhaps there is. Perhaps it’s larger and greater and more advanced than ours. The same with the Umiau, the Czill, the Slelcronians, the Dillians, and others. When we get to the Well itself, I’ll be able to tell you at least which ones are still functioning, although not how, or if they’ve changed, or what. I would think that some of the older ones would be well advanced by now. My memory says there were probably close to a million races created and scattered about; I’ll be curious to see how many are still around.”
They had been going down for some time. Now they were deep below the surface, how deep they couldn’t say. Suddenly a great hexagon outlined in light appeared just under them.
“The Well Access Gate,” Brazil told them. “One of six. It can take you to lots of places within the Well, but it’ll take you to the central control area and monitoring stations if you have no other instructions. When we get to it, just step on it. I won’t trigger it until everyone is aboard. In case somebody else does, by accident, just wait for the light to come back on and step on again. It’ll work.”
They did as instructed, and when all were on the Gate, all light suddenly winked out. There followed a twisting, unsettling feeling like falling. Then, suddenly, there was light all over.
They stood in a huge chamber, perhaps a kilometer in diameter. It was semicircular, the ceiling curving up over them almost the same distance as it was across. Corridors, hundreds of them, led off in all directions. The Gate was in the center of the dome, and Brazil quickly stepped off, followed by the others, who looked around in awe and anticipation.
The texture of the place was strange. It seemed to be made up of tiny hexagonal shapes of polished white mica, reflecting the light and glittering like millions of jewels.
After they stepped off the Gate, Brazil stopped and pointed a tentacle back over it.
Suspended by force fields, about midway between the Gate and the apex of the dome, was a huge model of the Well World, turning slowly. It had a terminator, and darkness on half of its face, and seemed to be made of the same mica-like compound as the great hall. But the hexagons on the model were much larger, and there were solid areas at the poles, and a black band around its middle. The sphere seemed to be covered by a thin transparent shell composed of segments which exactly conformed to the hexagons below.
“That’s what the Well World looks like from space,” Brazil told them. “It’s an exact model, fifteen hundred sixty hexagons, the Zones—everything. Note the slight differences in reflected light from each hex. That’s Markovian writing—and they are numbers. This is more than a model, really. It’s a separate Markovian brain, containing the master equation for stabilizing all of the new worlds. It energizes the Well, and permits the big brain around us to do its job.”
“Where are the controls, Nate?” Ortega prodded.
“Each biome—that is, planetary biome—has its own set of controls,” Brazil told him. “This place is honeycombed with them. Each hex on the Well World is controlled as a complement to the actual world. Most controls, of course, do not have corresponding hexes. What we’re left with today are the last few hexes created and some of the failures—not necessarily the ones that died out, but the ones that didn’t work out. The Faerie, for example. Some of them snuck into the last batch of transits, and several of the others who were leftovers from closed and filled projects, some Dillians, some Umiau, and the like, who wanted to get out of the Well World and thought they could help, came, too. Not many, and they were disrupted by civilization’s rises and falls, and became the objects of superstition, fear, hatred. None survived the distance on Old Earth, but we didn’t get many to begin with, and reproduction was slow. But, come, let’s go to a control center.”
He walked toward one of the corridors on his six tentacles, and they followed hesitantly. All of them held their pistols tightly, at the ready.
They walked for what seemed an endless time down one of the corridors, passing closed hexagonal doors along the way. Finally Brazil stopped in front of one, and it opened, much as the lens of a camera opens. He walked in, and they followed quickly, anxious not to lose sight of him even for a moment.