Jack Chalker - Midnight at the Well of Souls

“Do you—eat what we eat?” Hain called out to the creature.

The alien chuckled. “No, not anymore, but, don’t worry, no cannibals around, either. At least, not Type Forty-ones like you. But I think we can round up some food—some real food, maybe the first in everybody’s except Nate’s whole life.”

They rode around three belts until they came to a platform much larger than the others. Here the walls curved and twisted away from the Well. Brazil could see why the configuration hadn’t been visible from afar.

Then they followed the snakeman—no mean trick, they found, with its enormous serpentine body—down a long corridor. They saw other corridors branching off, but they traveled over a thousand meters before they took one.

It led into a very large room set up something like a reception area. Comfortable, human-style chairs with plush cushions abounded, and a plastic wall covering was decorated with flowers. Here, such amenities seemed as incongruous as the alien would seem to their worlds. The creature had a sort of desk, semicircular in shape and seemingly form-fitted for him to coil comfortably behind. It held only a very ordinary-looking pen, a small pad of paper, and a seal—hexagonal of course—seemingly solid gold cast in clear plastic. The seal featured a snake coiled around a great cross, and it had a superscription around the edges in a script unfamiliar to any of them.

The snakeman lifted up a small part of his desk top to reveal an instrument panel underneath of unfamiliar design and purpose. A large red button was most prominent, and he pushed it.

“Had to reset the Well,” he explained. “Otherwise we could get some nonoxygen breathers in and they’d be hung up in storage until somebody remembered to press the button. Let me also punch in a food order for you—you always were a steak-and-baked-potato man, Nate. So that’s what it’ll be.” He punched some buttons in sequence on the console, then closed it. “Ten or fifteen minutes and the food will be here—and it’ll be cooked right, too. Medium, wasn’t it, Nate?”

“You seem to know me better than I do,” Brazil replied. “It’s been so long since I had a steak—maybe almost a century. I’d just about forgotten what one was. Where did you know me, anyway?”

A broad yet wistful smile crept across the creature’s face. “Can you remember an old bum named Serge Ortega, Nate? Long ago?”

Brazil thought, then suddenly it came to him. “Yeah, sure, I remember him—but that was maybe a hundred years ago or so. A free-lancer—polite name for a pirate,” he explained to the others. “A real rascal. Anything for a buck, was wanted almost everywhere—but a hell of a character. But you can’t be him—he was a little guy, from Hispaniola, before they went Com and changed the place to Peace and Freedom.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” the creature responded sadly. “That means my people are dead. Who was the mold? Brassario?”

“Brassario,” Brazil confirmed. “But all this explains nothing!”

“Oh, but it does,” the snakeman replied. “Because I am Serge Ortega, Nate. This world changed me into what you see.”

“I don’t see what’s wrong with factory worlds,” Vardia interjected. They ignored her.

Brazil looked bard at the creature. The voice, the eyes—they were dimly familiar, somehow. It did remind him of Ortega, sort of. The same crazy glint to the eyes, the same quick, sharp way of talking, the underlying attitude of amused arrogance that had gotten Ortega into more bar fights than any other man alive.

But it had been so long ago.

“Look here!” Hain put in. “Enough of old home week, Ortega or not Ortega. Sir, or whatever, I should very much like to know where we are, and why we are here, and when we shall be able to return to our own ship.”

Ortega gave that evil smile. “Well, as to where you are—you’re on the Well World. There’s no other name for it, since that’s exactly what it is. As to where it is—well, damned if I know. Nobody here has ever been able to leave it. I only know that the night sky is like nothing you ever saw before. I spaced almost two hundred years, and none of the extremely prominent features look familiar. At the very least we’re on the other side of the galaxy, or maybe even in another galaxy. As to why you’re here, well, you somehow bumbled into a Markovian Gate like me and maybe thousands of others did. And here you are, stuck just like the rest of us. You’re here for good, mister. Better get used to it.”

“See here!” Hain huffed. “I have power, influence—”

“Means nothing here,” Ortega responded coldly.

“My mission!” Vardia protested. “I must perform my duties!”

“No duties, nothin’ anymore but you and here,” the snakeman said. “Understand this: you are on a world built by the Markovians—yes, I said built. The whole thing: lock, stock, and core. As far as we know, the whole damned thing is a Markovian brain in perfect working order, and preprogrammed.”

“I figured we were inside Dalgonia,” Brazil said. “It felt as if we fell down into something.”

“No,” replied Ortega, “that was no fall. The Markovians really had godlike powers. Matter transmission was a simple thing for them. Don’t ask me how it works, but it does, because we got a local version here. I wouldn’t understand it if somebody did explain it, anyway.”

“But such a thing is impossible!” Hain objected. “It is against the laws of physics!”

Ortega’s six limbs shrugged. “Who knows? At one time flying was impossible. Then it was impossible to leave a planet, then impossible to leave a solar system, then impossible for anything to go faster than light. The only thing that makes something impossible is ignorance. Here on the Well World the impossible’s a fact of life.”

At that moment the food arrived, brought in on a small cart that was obviously some sort of robot. It went up to each in turn, and offered a tray of hot food, which, when removed, revealed an identical tray beneath. Brazil removed the cover and just stared for a minute. Finally, he said, in a tone of absolute awe and reverence: “A real steak!” He hesitated a moment and looked over at Ortega. “It is real, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes,” the snakeman assured him. “It’s real enough. The potato and beans, too. Oh, not quite a cow, not quite a potato, and so forth, but so close you’ll never be able to tell the difference. Go ahead, try it!”

Hain was already greedily tearing into his, while Vardia looked at the food, bewildered.

“What’s the trouble?” Brazil managed between swallows. “Problems?”

“It’s quite safe to eat,” Ortega assured her. “There are no microorganisms that will give you any real problems here—not until you go out, anyway. The stuff’s biologically compatible.”

“No, no—it’s—” she stammered. “Well, I have never seen food like it before. How do you…?”

“Just watch me and follow my example,” Brazil laughingly replied. “See? You cut it with a knife and fork like this, then—”

They dug into the meal, Vardia getting the hang of it, although she protested several times that she thought the food tasted terrible. But they were all too hungry to protest.

Ortega’s eyes fell on Wu Julee, who just sat there staring at the food, not eating at all. “The girl—she is ill?” he asked them.

Brazil suddenly stopped eating and looked at Hain, who had already finished and was just letting out an extremely noisy belch. The captain’s face had a grave expression on it, and the fine food suddenly felt like lead in his stomach.

“She’s a spongie,” Brazil said softly. Hain’s eyebrows rose, but he said nothing.