He was ahead of her. “I can see a big battle,” he said after she had finished. “If he shuts it off, it all ceases to exist and it wipes the memory or whatever it has clean. Don’t look surprised; just because Dilla’s a semitech hex doesn’t mean we don’t know or use other folks’ machines. Just not here. A little cooperation. There’s more of that than you realize. There was once a plague and the people couldn’t stop it—no technology. But a far-off hex with labs and computers went to work on it, created a serum, and made enough for me to take over four thousand kilometers to the people who needed it but couldn’t make it or even isolate it. We saved a lot of folks’ lives and I got my title.”
“Why that one?” she asked him. “Out of all you’ve gathered?”
There was a faint smile and a faraway look in his eyes. “The only one I ever got for saving lives,” he responded softly. Then he snapped out of his reverie and returned to business.
“You and I know the rules,” he pointed out. “If he’s going to rebuild the universe, then he’s going to need live models. Us. Don’t sound like I have any percentage on your side—nor would anybody else on this world of ours.”
“He won’t destroy the Well World,” she assured him. “In a little while our army’s going to pour through the Well. Probably already is. Huge numbers. They’ll be the fighting force for him, and they’ll also be the prototypes for his new universe. Not you.”
“And you?” he came back. “Where will you be if he does this?”
She smiled grimly. “I wish I knew. One thing at a time. I’m not certain if I’ll survive to that point—and if I do, I’ll face the situation when it comes. Gedemondas, for one. I have to go there. I have to talk to them, explain the situation, see which way they will go.”
He nodded. “I’ll accept that answer. And the percentage?”
She realized he was talking about himself. “And after? Well, it would be nice to be on Brazil’s side if he reaches the Well, wouldn’t it? At least, I’d rather be on his side if he gets in than one of his enemies.”
He considered that. “One thing at a time. Gedemondas will do for now. You think they’ll talk to you?”
“I think so,” she replied. “They did before, anyway. And I’m the only one who was there who they allowed to remember exactly what happened, to remember them at all.”
“Um. Wouldn’t do much good if we went in there and I came out never remembering a thing, would it?”
She shrugged. “No guarantees. I’m surprised you believe me now. Nobody else did.”
“Ortega did,” he told her. “He couldn’t afford not to check it out completely. There were just enough tiny inconsistencies in the others’ stories to cast doubt, and he had no sign of that in you. He concluded you were telling the truth. Matter of fact, he once held your account out to me as bait for a job. Knew I couldn’t resist.”
“I need to go there,” she told him flatly. “I need to go there soon. I have other things to do. But I don’t know the hex, don’t know the trails, don’t have any guide, or credit for provisions or anything. I need your help—badly. And I’m your best shot at meeting the Gedemondans.”
He nodded agreement to that last statement. “All right, I’ll get whatever you need. You’re welcome to come with us.”
She sighed. Mission partially accomplished. “How many are you?”
“Five, counting you. All Dillians.” He put on a mock leer. “All male except for you. That bother you?”
“I can take care of myself,” she responded flatly.
He grinned and nodded approvingly. “I bet you can, too.”
Embassy of Ulik, South Zone
“The Grand Council, South, is convened,” Ortega declared solemnly from his office, but it was ritual only. It meant that all the embassies at Zone were now connected together in an elaborate communications net. The creatures who breathed water, the ones that breathed one or another mixture of air, and some who didn’t really breathe at all could now converse. Not all the hexes of the Southern hemisphere of the Well World were represented; and some, like Gedemondas, never sent anyone and their offices were empty. A fairly large number of councillors, like Ortega, were Entries—people who were originally from other places and races in the vast universe and had blundered into Markovian gates. They made good council members; such people were usually more adept at handling new Entries, having gone through the experience personally.
“This meeting was called at my request because I believe it is imperative we all understand what is going on and decide on a common policy of dealing with it,” Ortega went on. Briefly he explained the situation as he understood it, holding nothing back.
Finally, he got down to the real business. “We have several options here,” he told them. “The first is to do nothing. This will result in a temporary doubling of the Well World’s population, a severe strain on resources—but only for a short time. Unimpeded, Brazil would go to the Well, do what he has to do, then reduce the population by the same factor as he increased it in his overall restocking process. This would result in inconvenience, yes, but not anything we couldn’t handle.”
“If he used the newcomers only to do that restocking,” someone noted. “If he uses all of us, it’s the end. Or if he isn’t choosy whether there are newcomers or natives, for that matter.”
Ortega nodded in reflex toward the speaker, although there were no television circuits. “That, of course, is precisely it. I know Brazil. I know he’s a man of his word. But, in all fairness, he’s going to be doing something all by himself that the Markovians did as a race—and that’s not the way the system was designed. We don’t know if he has that kind of control or confidence. He will be doing it for the first time and can’t really know, either. He’s a Markovian for sure—I’ve seen him in his natural form. But if we trust his own story—and though I’ll take his word of honor on things, I would never believe any of his stories without proof—he himself says he was a technician on Hex 41. A technician but not the creator. Now, the fact that he also claims to be God, the Prime Mover, the supreme creator of the universe, should give you some idea as to just what to believe.”
“I’d tend to believe it,” said another alien voice. The circuits were such that the first to punch the talk bar blocked the others so only one could speak at a time. Otherwise there would be another Babel.
“That he’s God?” Ortega was shocked.
“No, of course not,” the ambassador responded. “That’s just the point, you see. His self-claims are of the most grandiose sort. He claims to be God, or thinks he is. Someone who claims that would claim almost reflexively that he was the creator of a hex and not a mere technician if he felt compelled to make something up. He didn’t, therefore I’ll go along with the idea that he was lower down. That bothers me even more, of course. We have computers here in Ramagin that are quite sophisticated. If one needed minor repair, then I’d trust a technician. But if one needed programming from the word go and there wasn’t any copy of the original program to feed in, I’d want an expert. Brazil didn’t program anything, not even Hex 41—so how can we trust him to know what he’s doing on something like the Well, something so complex that no mind I know can conceive of it?”
Ortega cut off further comment. “Good point. I see a number of you wish to speak, but if you’ll permit me, I’ll go on so that we won’t be in this meeting for the next three weeks. Time presses.”