Jack Chalker - Exiles at the Well of Souls

And that made them wonder. Why them? Did the Gedemondans know they were coming? Were they being helped? Or were they prisoners to be interrogated about all these invasions before being tossed over a cliff? There were no answers, only more walking.

Occasionally the great snow-beasts would pop right up out of the snow. It was unsettling at first, until they realized that there must be trap doors of some kind—whether over ice caves, natural or dug, or rock caves, or even artificial dwellings that were covered with snow they didn’t know. It was clear, though, that one of the big reasons you never saw the population was that they were living and doing whatever it is they did below the snow cover, the art of camouflage coming naturally to them.

Night came, plunging this wintry world into an eerie glowing darkness. The night sky of the Well World reflected off the snowfields in distorted, twinkling wonder. New Pompeii wasn’t visible, but it might not yet have risen, or it might have set, or it might be out of sight behind the distant mountains.

They hadn’t had time to take any supplies. The Gedemondans had been gentle but insistent; when they had protested, they had been picked up as easily as Renard picked up a bag of apples, and plopped down on top of the two best able to carry them, Tael and Doma. Tael was too overawed and a little scared to protest much; Doma seemed curiously at home and docile around the strange creatures, as if they had some mysterious power over her.

Or, they hoped, because she could perceive no threat.

Still they didn’t go hungry. Just after darkness fell they were led to a large cave they would have never known was there, and other Gedemondans brought familiar fruits and vegetables, from where they couldn’t guess, served on broad wood plates, and a fruit punch that tasted quite good.

They even seemed extra concerned about Mavra’s problems. Her dish was higher and thicker, the easier to reach it, and the punch was in a deep bowl so she could drink as she wished.

Renard had not used his electrical powers at Mavra’s suggestion; they were, after all there to contact the Gedemondans, and this was, if nothing else, contact. But he couldn’t resist it, finally, and reached over to a close relative of an apple and applied a small charge that baked it.

The Gedemondans didn’t seem impressed. Finally one who was sitting against the cave wall got up and walked over to him, then crouched down across from him, the plate in the middle. A clawed hand reached out, touched the plate. There was a blinding flash lasting only a fraction of a second, and the plate and fruit just weren’t there any more. Renard was dumbfounded; he reached over, felt the spot where it had been. It wasn’t even warm, yet there were no char marks, debris, or anything but a tiny little odor of ozone or something. The snow-creature snorted in satisfaction, patted him patronizingly on the head, and walked off.

That ended the demonstrations of power.

They were bone-tired and chilled, but they did not spend the night in the cave. Although they didn’t run, it was apparent that their captors were on some sort of schedule, and that they had a particular place for their captives to be at a certain time.

It was several more hours before they reached it, and by that point Tael was complaining to the silent leaders loudly that she couldn’t go a step farther.

It was a solid rock wall, looming ominously ahead in the near-darkness. They started for it, expecting to turn any minute, but it didn’t happen. Instead the wall opened for them.

To be precise, a huge block of stone moved slowly back, obviously on a muscle-powered pulley, and bright lights shone into the darkness. They went on, into the tunnel.

The light was from some glowing mineral that picked up torchlight and magnified it a hundredfold. It was bright as day inside.

The inside of the mountain was a honeycomb; labyrinthine passages went off in all directions, and they were quickly and completely lost. But it was warm—comfortable, in fact—inside, the heat coming from a source they never did discover, and there were strange noises of a lot of work being done—but what was going on it was impossible to see.

Finally, they were at their destination. It was a comfortable, large room. There were several big beds there, filled with soft cushions of fabric, and a large fur rug that was perfect for Mavra. There was only one entrance, and two Gedemondans stood there, conspicuous yet as unobtrusive as possible. This was it, then.

They were too tired to talk much, to even move, or worry about what was in store for them. They were sound asleep in minutes.

The next day all awoke feeling better, but with some aches and pains. Gedemondans brought more fruits, a different punch, and even a bale of hay which could be used by both Tael and Doma. Where that came from there was little mystery; it was a ration at one of the trail cabins.

Mavra stretched all four limbs and groaned. “Oh, wow!” she said. “I must have slept solid and unmoving. I’m stiff as a board.”

Renard sympathized. “I’m not feeling too great myself. Overslept, I think. But we’re the better for it.”

The two Lata, who always slept motionless on their stomachs, still had their own complaints, and Tael said she had a stiff neck. Even Doma snorted and flexed her wings, almost knocking Tael in the face.

The Gedemondans had cleared away the breakfast dishes; now only one was in the room, looking at them with a detached expression.

Vistaru looked at him. Her? No way to tell with them. “I wish they’d say something,” she muttered, as much to herself as to the others. “This strong, silent treatment gives me the creeps.”

“Most people talk too much about too little now,” said the Gedemondan, in a nice, cultured voice full of warmth. “We prefer not to unless we really have something to say.”

They all almost jumped out of their skins.

“You can talk!” Hosuru blurted, then covered, “That is, we were wondering…”

The Gedemondan nodded, then looked at Mavra, still on her side on the rug. “So you are Mavra Chang. I’ve wondered what you would look like.”

She was surprised. “You know me? Well, I’m pleased to meet you, too. I’m sorry I can’t give you my hand.”

He shrugged. “We were aware of your problem. As to knowing you, no. We were aware of you. That is different.”

She accepted that. There were lots of ways of getting information on the Well World.

Tael could not be restrained now. “Why haven’t you ever talked to us?” she asked. “I mean, we had the idea that you were some kind of animals or something.”

Her lack of subtly did not perturb the Gedemondan. “It’s not hard to explain. We work hard at our image. It is—necessary.” He sat down on the floor, facing them.

“The best way to explain it is to tell you a little of our own history. You know, all of you, of the Markovians?” That was not the word he used, but he was using a translator and that’s the way it came out.

They nodded. Renard was the most ignorant of them; even Tael had had some schooling. But Renard, at least, knew from his own area of space of the dead ruins of that mysterious civilization.

“The Markovians evolved as all plants and animals evolve, from the primitive to the complex. Most races reach a dead end somewhere along the line, but not them. They reached the heights of material attainment. Anything they wished for was theirs. Like the fabled gods, nothing was beyond them,” the Gedemondan told them. “But it wasn’t enough. When they had it all, they realized that the end of it was stagnancy, which common sense will tell you is the ultimate result of any material utopia.”