But there was little time for such speculation. He was too busy being passed around, introduced to the politicians, and discussing the crisis.
The council met the next day. In a communal society-money wasn’t even used here, everyone drew his share-such bodies on a small scale were normal. They elected a chairman without much problem and proceeded to the business at hand.
Using maps, charts, and diagrams, the central bureaucracy explained the problem. There was a general sentiment to stay clear of it; it was none of Dasheen’s business. Yulin they regarded as a complication; it was debated, much to his chagrin, whether or not to hide him away, imprison him for the war’s duration, or perhaps kill him! None of these alternatives were seriously considered by the council as a whole, much to his relief, but he was aware of danger here. Those who proposed them were deadly serious, and some of these hotheads might easily take such solutions into their own hands.
On the third day of the conference little had been resolved, and Ben had the feeling that they just loved to argue; they would never come to any agreement unless forced to.
But on the third day a newcomer arrived who changed things. Its entrance was such that it panicked people on the streets, and the creature did little to reassure them after coming to ground. In the air it was magnificent and beautiful; a great butterfly with a two-meter wingspread, brilliantly orange and brown against a black body that still stood 150 centimeters when it landed in the street and stood on the rearmost four of its eight long tentacles. Its face was a large, black painted death’s head, with great, eerie eyes that looked like pads recessed in the hard, dark skull.
The Yaxa, however, had been expected.
Its manner, its voice, was cold, hard, sharp, and cutting. It sent chills through those who heard it. Even Ben, who had to have a running translation, felt it. Unlike the others he’d met on the Well World-the Dasheen, Ortega, the Ambreza, even the plant-creature-this one was different. Not inhuman, unhuman, as alien as those paintwash creatures of the North.
The Yaxa had a proposition.
“First,” it said, “let me summarize what the situation is to date. I have been able to keep in touch on my journey here as new developments broke, and things are breaking fast.
“One-the Makiem have effectively allied and coordinated with the Cebu and the Agitar. It is the most formidable combination of brains, opportunism, and ability this world has ever seen. Boidol will give them their part of the ship to avoid the fight. There has been no talking them out of it. The Djukasis will fight, but we have been unsuccessful in getting the Lata to come in on their side or anybody else’s. The Djukasis will take their toll, but they cannot hope to defeat such an alliance. The Klusidians will neither yield nor fight, and you know what that means. The Zhonzorp would fight if they had a chance, but they’re very much like the Makiem, mentally. They may join the alliance instead, if they’re able. Their hatred of the Klusidians will keep them from giving the aid those people need.”
The creature paused, adjusting the giant maps it was using to illustrate its talk.
“Olborn is a mystery. You know its reputation: nobody who goes in ever comes out, and they never man their embassy at Zone. A question mark, but I don’t believe that any race, whatever its powers, can stop this march alone. If we’re lucky, the Olbornians will slow them, as certainly the Alestoli will. But think of what two flying races could do with even something as basic as boiling oil. No, a sufficiently large force of them will reach Gedemondas, a hex that talks to no one, has no embassy, and contains too hostile an environment for much else. Even the Dillians on the other side, who share some mountains, have been unsuccessful in talking to them. They don’t fight-they just vanish. And that leaves four mods and the engines in the hands of the Makiem-Cebu-Agitar alliance.”
“But how will they ever get such large pieces of machinery back to their home hexes?” asked one councillor.
“The Agitar know their business,” the Yaxa told him. “They will bring along a number of good engineers. They will disassemble things, put them through the Zone Gates if they can’t haul them home, and then reassemble them in their own hex.”
“They still couldn’t fly it,” another pointed out.
“Wrong again,” replied the Yaxa. “The Makiem have had the kind of good fortune that makes one doubt free will. One of the pilot-qualified Entries, Antor Trelig, is a Makiem. He can and will fly that ship-and further, he can enter the computer complex and use it up on the satellite. You see? Our very existence is in jeopardy!”
That got to them. There was a rumble and roar, and it was several minutes before the chairman could calm them down. It was hard to tell, but the Yaxa seemed satisfied with his reception. It had come on a diplomatic mission; its object was to scare them to death.
“But what can we do?” asked one councillor. “Send our people into battle with swords and spears against the Qasada? They’d chew us to pieces!”
“They would indeed,” the Yaxa agreed. “But you will have some time and some advantages. Yaxa and Lamotien have united. The Lamotien are probably the best friends and deadliest enemies on the Well World. The planet for which they were designed must be a living hell. They are metamorphs-they can assume any shape that they can see, limited only by the fact that they cannot change their mass. Even that is not a true drawback because they are small. They combine with one another to create larger organisms. Twenty could make a Dasheen so convincing you would be unable to tell the difference. And there are ten million or more Lamotien, in a hightech hex. With them we will shortly secure the highly important bridge module of the downed ship from Teliagin. Then the Lamotien will turn into flyers, and we will fly to Nodi Island in the Sea of Storms and secure a second module. Then we shall cross the East Neck to Qasada. With Lamotien infiltration and technology, Yaxa flight and trained warriors, aided, perhaps, by bases and personnel in Dasheen, we can take the Qasada and the Xoda, our two major problems. Palim is still in doubt; they might just allow us through. That puts us in Gedemondas, a hex in which we Yaxa will be hard-pressed to operate, but one in which a Lamotien-supplemented Dasheen force will be highly effective. Need I tell you that this will give us the bridge and engines?” It turned, looked over the bovine faces assembled there. “And you have Ben Yulin, another pilot who also has access to the satellite computer.”
There was more uproar. How could the Yaxa have known? They groaned. This changed everything!
The Yaxa had no ability to smile. Even if it could, Ben Yulin thought such a gesture would shatter its face and personality. But there was evident confidence and satisfaction inside it for its presentation.
Chalk one up for Well World intrigues, anyway, Yulin thought. This world bristled with spies, plots, moves, and countermoves. The heretofore impossibility of war had diverted men of such minds to more devious means.
The debate droned on and on, but it was evident that the outcome had been decided, and a late-night formal vote made it official. Even Yulin spoke, assuring them that he could indeed pilot the ship if it had so much as one module between bridge and engines, and that he could, in fact, get into Obie. His emotions were excitement mixed with apprehension. On one hand, here was a chance, although a long shot, to gain complete mastery of New Pompeii, Obie included, and perhaps a key to the Well. On the other, he saw the dark threat of Antor Trelig in that same position. He did not paint Trelig’s evil any too lightly; by the time he was through, the very mention of Trelig inspired dread.
On the brighter side, all personal animosities were off. He was one of their own now, suddenly. They would be the weakest member of the alliance militarily, but the other monstrous partners in this coalition would have to depend entirely on a Dasheen to get there and get into the computer.
He was taken around where former enemies who had suggested his imprisonment or death only a day before were now his blood brothers.
“He must have his own herd!” one big shot insisted, and they all agreed.
“Only a small one right now. Later-anything he wants!” another stipulated.
“How about one from each of the five service guilds in town?” a third suggested. “More practical than giving him farmhands!” So he got five daughters, one each from the Metalworkers, City Service, Cooks and Waiters, Builders, and Housekeeping guilds-a perfect practical balance of skills.
The Metalworkers also gave him his own brand, distinctive ring, and collar. His herd were all young, all virgins. He found that there was a lot of tradition and ceremony associated with unions.
For one thing, daughters had numbers instead of names until they were assigned to a herd, whether farm or guide. The male, who was always called Master, would name them in the ceremony, then consummate the union, which bound her to him. She would then be branded, ringed, and collared. The whole process took five days.
He loved every minute of it.
In the meantime, subcouncils met, Yaxa came and went, and a percentage of every herd in the country was conscripted for military training. This worried some of the men, who wondered what the effect would be when so many cows were taught the art of killing. But there was much at stake here. As for the Yaxa, they didn’t seem to find anything but amusement in that worry.
The Yaxa, Ben learned, were female. After they mated, they ate their male mate. It was almost the reverse of Dasheen, and he couldn’t help but wonder if Yaxa presence might give somebody ideas.
AGITAR
Although Renard didn’t know it yet, the Well World must have a sense of humor. The shock of waking up in an alien land as something else was much greater for him; he did not really remember anything since waiting before a big plain for darkness so they could avoid the cyclopses.
He sat up and looked around. A nice looking place, he thought. Green trees here and there, nice fields growing various vegetables-even signs of hothouses and other modern conveniences. There was a small service road near him, obviously for farm vehicles going to the groves rather than for through traffic, yet it was macadam-paved. He was definitely in a rural area, but this was no primitive cyclops land.
Far off in the distance was what appeared to be the ghostly skyline of a city. It looked kind of strange, the buildings kind of twisted or pointed, but that was to be expected.
He had no doubt in his mind that he was still on this strange world where they had crashed. How he’d gotten here was a mystery; somebody must have brought him, that was for sure. Why couldn’t he remember? The sponge?
A sudden realization shot through him. He felt good. Really good. Totally clear-headed. He found he could remember things he hadn’t thought of in years-and felt no trace whatever of the sponge-longing or its effects. Almost wondrously he thought of Mavra Chang. She alone believed that somewhere on this world sponge addiction could be cured, and she was right. He knew it, deep inside. He was free!
But where?
He rose to his feet and found himself somewhat out of balance. He fell forward, breaking his fall with his hands.
It wasn’t dizziness; it was balance. Something was wrong. He looked at the arm that had broken his fall. Short, stubby fingers with nails that looked more like claws. A deep-blue skin—
He rolled over and sat up again. He felt something funny when sitting this way, and reached behind him. It was like he was sitting on a rock.
No he wasn’t. He was sitting on his short, stubby tail.
His what?
He looked down at himself. The skin was the deepest of blues, and thick and porous. At the waist a very thin curly body hair became suddenly tremendously thick. It was like sheep’s wool, dense and curly. Except for being blue-black, his sexual organ looked fairly normal, which was a relief. He was no longer taking anything for granted. But his legs, very thick in the upper calf, were queerly shaped below, coming to a thin knee joint fairly high up, then going down to-Sharp, shiny-black cloven hooves?
What the hell was going on here?
The hooves looked too small to support his thick body. That must have been why he’d fallen-no large foot support. But-how was he supposed to walk, then? Crawl on his hands and knees? Or did the knack come with practice?
For a brief moment he thought he’d become a cyclops. But, no, he had two eyes in the right places, and the feet and hair were definitely wrong, as was his odd complexion.
He felt his head, wonderingly. Sharp pointed ears close to the scalp, but at least where ears should be. Nose seemed a bit large but felt normal. Even the teeth seemed normal. He’d lost six at various points in his life and never had them put back; but they were all there now, although the front ones felt a hell of a lot sharper and maybe a little longer, top and bottom, than he remembered.
He had hair. He risked pulling a strand, and it was blue-black. It started in a V-shape in the center of his forehead, then spread out on both sides of the horns—
Horns?
Yes, they were there. Bony things, not long but sharp, and definitely a part of his skull.
Kind of a triangular face, terminating in a sharp, thick, pointed goatee.
All right, Renard, think it through logically, he told himself. But it just wouldn’t wash. There was no logic to this. Only facts.
Fact: He’d awakened in some alien land, cured of sponge, anatomically totally male, clear-minded, and in the body of some alien creature.
Fact: He didn’t know where the hell he was, what he was, or what was going on.
Well, he told himself, no matter what, the only way to find out was to find somebody and ask. There was that city out there in the distance. Even hazy smog from some factory or other.
He crawled on hands and knees over to a spindly tree a few meters away, and, grabbing it, managed to get to his feet. He was top-heavy, no doubt about it. And yet, when he calmed down and considered it, he realized that his sense of balance was tremendous. With a little practice, he could angle parts of his body differently, knowing somehow that certain combinations felt wrong, others right.
In about half an hour he managed to stand without holding on to the tree. He did it repeatedly, and the ability pleased him. He also found that the tail went flush into the rectal cavity, so, when sitting, he didn’t have to be uncomfortable.
Walking, however, was a lot harder. After repeatedly falling down he crawled back to the tree, stood up, and resolved to succeed no matter what. He stepped out, going as fast as he could from a standing start. To his surprise, he stayed up, making the weight and balance compensations automatically. When he came to a halt, though, he almost always fell over again. More practice.
The Well World gave you the means of adaptation to your new form, although Renard didn’t know that. As the afternoon progressed, he got the hang of it more easily than anyone should have.
This was, he decided, a fast-paced culture. The faster you went the better control you had. Still, he managed now to sort of half-run, and to stand still without falling on his face. It was enough. Subtleties could be gotten later. He could move on toward that city now.
He followed the farm road until it reached a dead end. He realized he’d made the wrong choice, and retraced. At the pace he ran, he arrived at a main road before he knew it. What a road! A highway, really. A highway without vehicles, but with lots of people.
And the road moved.
It was a giant moving walkway, and people holding onto moving handrails moved along in ten lanes in either direction. The middle two lanes were reserved for commercial traffic; large boxlike containers with odd symbols and sometimes graphics moved there on their own walkways, and he wondered how they got them off.
Two other things struck him immediately. One was that the people wore clothes, which caused him a real problem. The males wore shirts and sometimes light jackets, with briefs to cover the nether regions. The females-well, that was another thing. He had heard the term “opposite sex” for years, but this was the first tune the difference was graphic.
Blue-skinned all, from the waist down the females appeared roughly human. Oh, they had the little tails, too, and their feet seemed to be a bit broader and more solid than human feet, but human enough. They mostly wore pants and sandals. But from the waist up—
They were goats.
Well, not exactly, he decided. The head was a rounded triangular shape with a long lower jaw running its length, and their noses were black and located at the end of the upper jaw. Their ears were the same pointed type as his own, and their horns short and more rounded than the males. Over the entire upper torso was that thick, woolly blue hair that was his from the waist down; the female’s arms looked like a goat’s forelegs except that they terminated in long, thin, fragile-looking hands.
They all had what appeared to be very large human breasts, almost gargantuan, and covered with either brightly colored bras or tied halters. And he got erotic, sensations looking at them. Not just at the breasts, but at all of them. It amazed him. He began to realize just how much he had become this new creature.
The lack of clothing concerned him most; obviously if he stepped out into that traffic he’d cause a stir. Nowhere was there any evidence that nudity was normal or accepted.
He sat back down in what appeared to be a fruit grove to think. He was hungry; if he was going to skulk around or wait until dark to try and bargain for a pair of pants, he’d need something to sustain him. He eyed the large, orange fuzz-covered balls on the bushes around him. He’d seen peaches on New Pompeii; he knew they didn’t grow on bushes like this, but he suspected that these were close enough, and very edible, since nobody would grow the things like this to poison anyone. He reached over and picked one.
There was a crackle and a pop, and he felt some sort of release inside him that seemed to flow into his hand. The peach crackled; it was cooked solid, and suddenly very hot. He dropped it with an oath. He felt a dull burning sensation in his hand, but it wasn’t from whatever had cooked the fruit but rather from the fruit heating up.
What else? he wondered, both curious and anxious.
He carefully reached out to pick up another fruit off the bush. He felt the sensation rising within him, and fought it. It seemed to subside, go down. He picked the thing and ate it. It tasted good.
Trying to figure out what had happened, he reached over and probed the cooked peach; it was still warm. Somehow, he thought, my body contains hundreds, perhaps thousands of volts of electricity that can be discharged and renewed. He instinctively knew it, and the success he had in fighting the power the second time, when he expected it, showed that it could be contained or discharged at will.
He picked up another peach, put it down in front of him, and kind of let the sensation flow, touching the peach with his index finger. He felt the sensation rise, flow into his arm, down it, and there was a slight crackle and the peach started smouldering.
Where does that energy come from? he wondered. He considered the thick upper calves and thighs, and the tremendously dense hair there. That might well build up a static charge, he thought, particularly with all that running. A charge transferred to his body, to some sort of storage, discharging only when that body willed it.
I could possibly electrocute somebody by shaking hands with him! he thought in wonder.
He found he could feel the energy, even feel a slight loss after a discharge. It could be routed to any part of his upper body. Talk about a shocking embrace!
He was still experimenting when a sharp voice said behind bun, “If you’re all through trying to burn the field down, will you kindly get up and tell me why you’re sitting in a fruit field, stark naked, frying peaches?”
He turned with a start. It was a male-whatever else he was. There was no mistaking his manner, the club and radio on his belt.
He was a cop.
They had radioed for a lock-up cart, and it arrived. They hustled him into it, and it rolled down the moving roadway smoothly, bumping only when it reached a junction point where two belts met.
How you got off or on the roadway was simple. There was a small set of casterlike wheels attached to the underside, and they, in turn, were attached to a basic electric motor.
The cops provided their own electrical power.
They rolled to a halt inside the police garage and took him out. A female desk sergeant, her goatlike head impassive, punched information into a computer and asked him questions.
“Name?”
“Renard,” he responded.
“Odd name,” she commented. “Place and date of birth?”
“The city of Barentsk, on the planet Muscovy, August 12, 4412 N.D.,” he answered honestly.
She stopped typing and looked at him. “You trying to be funny?” she asked. The two male cops flanking him didn’t look amused.
“No,” he told her, trying to sound sincere. “Honest. Look, I crashed here in a spaceship, somewhere in a place inhabited by giant cyclopses, and then I woke up here. I don’t know anything more than you do.”
She remained impassive, that rigid face incapable of showing emotion, but she said, “Less,” cryptically, and punched something on the terminal. There was a flip-flop on the screen, and a new printout appeared, line-by-line. She nodded, looked at the two cops.
“He’s an Entry, all right. One of the drug addicts.”
“You sure,” one of the cops responded. “He just looks like a Class-One nut to me.”
Renard felt insulted, but decided not to press the matter.
“Look,” the desk clerk said. “Take my word for it. Get some clothes for him from the lockup and then take him up to Lieutenant Ama’s office. I’ll call ahead.”