Exiles at the Well of Souls

New Pompeii

Antor Trelig stood over the pit into which Obie had been integrated into the larger design. Seven months and a fortune large enough to finance whole planetary budgets had gone into that hole. Now he watched as giant cranes placed the “big dish” in place. It, along with the whole complex below, would take up close to half the underside of his asteroid. From the outside the system would look much like the largest radio-telescope ever built.

But its purpose was far more sinister.

Antor Trelig cared little about the expense; it was a trifle to him, tribute extracted from his take of the syndicate and from the pilfered budgets of a hundred syndicate-controlled worlds. Money meant nothing to him in any case, except as a means to power.

Huge space tugs lowered the great mirrorlike device into place, slowly, ever so slowly. That didn’t matter to him, either. That the project was so close to completion was all that mattered.

He walked over to where Gil Zinder sat watching the procedure, like himself at the mercy of the engineers and technicians. Zinder looked around, saw who approached. There was unconcealed contempt on his face.

Trelig was cheery. “Well, Doctor,” he said lightly, “almost there. It’s a momentous occasion.”

Zinder frowned. “Momentous, yes, but not my idea of a happy time,” he replied. “Look, I’ve done it. Everything. Now let me run my daughter through the small disk and cure her of the sponge.”

Trelig smiled. “There’s no problem, is there? Yulin has succeeded in trimming her back every few weeks so her obesity won’t kill her.”

Gil Zinder sighed. “Look, Trelig, why not trim her back at least to her normal weight? Ninety kilos is far too large for someone of her height.”

The master of New Pompeii chuckled. “But, here, she weighs only sixty-four kilos! Why, that’s less than she weighed on Makeva!”

The scientist started to say something nasty, then thought better of it. Of course Nikki weighed less here, as they all did; but by now her muscles had become accustomed to the lighter gravity, and extreme obesity was more than merely a scale’s weight; it was ugly and damaging to the body, as well as awkward. On Makeva at 1 G she probably would be exhausted just walking a hundred meters; here the effect wasn’t much better.

But Zinder realized that Nikki would have to stay on the other side until Trelig’s plans were completed, and he knew, too, why the ambitious and treacherous Ben Yulin was the only one trusted with Nikki under the little mirror.

So all the scientist could do was wait, wait until the big device was in place, wait for his time.

Yulin bothered him most of all. The man was brilliant, yes, but he was one of Trelig’s kind. He was secure in his own technological superiority over Trelig and any of Trelig’s experts—he was safe. Trelig could not operate Obie’s mirror without Yulin, and Yulin was a follower of Zinder’s theories without having the decades of theoretical research that went into programming the monster. He could never have built this machine.

But he could operate it.

And that was Zinder’s greatest fear. Once completed and tested, he and Nikki, especially Nikki, would be superfluous.

Nor could he secretly program Obie to go so far and no further with Yulin; although he was the designer, he was never allowed at the control console without Ben Yulin’s being there as well.

New Pompeii had shown Gil Zinder the plans Antor Trelig had for everyone, the kind of master he’d make. He’d mentally calculated and checked and rechecked everything, but his only hope lay in unfounded ideas, untried paths. There had never been a machine like this before.

Mavra Chang eased her small but speedy diplomatic ship into a parking orbit about a light-year from New Pompeii. She wasn’t the first to arrive; seven or eight similar ships had preceded her and now floated in a neat line. Except for a long-sleeved black pullover and her belt, she was dressed in the same manner as when she met Councillor Alaina. The belt was done up to look like a broad band made up of many strands of thick, black rope, bound together with a much larger and more solid dragon buckle. No one would know that it was actually a three-meter bullwhip. Compartments in the buckle contained a number of injectors and nodules for various purposes; the hidden lifts in her boots and their high, thick heels contained other useful materials. Yet, the whole outfit was so natural and formfitting that it appeared she carried nothing at all. She also wore small earrings that looked like long crystal cubes strung together. They, too, disguised more surprises.

She rubbed her rear a little. It still stung where they’d loaded her with antidotes and antitoxins to protect her from just about everything they could think of. She felt as if, should she get a cut, her veins would drip clear liquid.

“Mavra Chang as representative of Councillor Alaina,” she told the unseen guardians of New Pompeii on the frequency they’d instructed.

“Very well,” replied a toneless voice only vaguely male. “Stand to in line. We will wait for the others before transferring.”

She cursed silently at this last. They weren’t taking any chances—the special properties of this ship, and its nicely disguised life-support modules, would be useless. They would go together, in their ship.

She took out a mirror and checked herself out. She was wearing some light cosmetics this time—a little brown lipstick, a slight sheen on the hair giving it a reflective, almost metallic blue cast. She had even painted her metallic nails a dull silver. It served to disguise the fact that they were somewhat unusual. The cosmetics were for Trelig. Although literally bisexual, like all his race—he had both male and female sex organs—he tended to favor the male in appearance and in sexual appetite.

Finally they had all arrived. A large ship came from the direction of the star Asta, a fancy private passenger liner; one by one they docked with it, put their own ships on automatic station, and transferred.

The group, which ultimately included fourteen, had only two councillors. The rest were representatives, and Mavra could see by the look of some that she was not the only diplomatic irregular in the crowd. The situation worried her; if she noticed this, then surely Trelig would, too. He probably expected it. This, then, was confidence.

The cabin attendants were polite but efficient. They were true citizens of New Harmony, bred to service. Dark, hairless, each about 180 centimeters tall, muscular, and dressed only in light kilts and sandals, their eyes had the dullness that was typical of Comworlders.

The Com was the descendant of every utopian group of the original race. They fulfilled the dream of every utopian state: an equal share of all wealth, no money except for interstellar trade, no hunger, no unemployment. Genetic engineering made them all look alike, too, and biological programming devices fitted them to their jobs perfectly. They were also programmed to be content with whatever job they had—their goal was service. The individual meant nothing; humanity was a collective concept.

The people’s appearance and jobs did differ from Com world to Com world, tailored to the different environments, the different requirements, and such on each. The systems, too, varied slightly from one world to another. Some bred all-females, some retained two sexes, and some, like New Harmony, bred everyone as a bisexual. A couple had dispensed with all sexual characteristics entirely, depending on cloning.

Most worlds were set up by well-intentioned visionaries who would establish the system. Then the hierarchy would itself be remade, and there would be a perfect society, one without any frustrations, wants, needs, or psychological hang-ups.

Perfect human anthills.

But, in most cases, the party that established them never seemed to get around to phasing itself out. A few had tried, and the societies they’d established had collapsed from their inability to deal with natural disaster or unanticipated problems.

Most, like New Harmony, never tried. The ambition, greed, and lust for power that created the dedicated revolutionary and sustained him in bad times clung to existence for a variety of reasons. Having eradicated those wretched tendencies in their populations, they could not wipe out those weaknesses in themselves. And so New Harmony, after five hundred years in the Com, still had a party hierarchy of several thousand administrators for the various diplomatic and economic zones, and they had Anton Trelig as the one born to lead them.

Now the rest of the human race was discovering how well he had been bred.

There were a few perfunctory introductions and such, but not much conversation on the trip in. Mavra immediately realized, though, that Trelig would not be fooled by this motley crew. A two-meter-tall, ruddy-faced, and full-bearded man with bright-blue eyes was definitely not from the Com world of Paradise, where all the people were bisexual, identical, and about two-thirds his height. He was definitely a freighter captain like herself, or a barbarian from the newer settled worlds. Eight males and six females—she thought; with two it was hard to tell—all there more to get information than to be overawed.

The New Harmony stewards walked down the aisle, collecting pistols. They explained that each of them would be further screened for weapons before disembarking and suggested that surrendering all of them now would save later embarrassment.

Mavra handed in her pistol; the weapons she really counted on had passed every scanner she’d ever tried. If they hadn’t, she wouldn’t have them with her now. Landing on New Pompeii, she found she had been right. She walked boldly through the scanner, and it didn’t paralyze her, as it did to two of the others carrying concealed broken-down pistols and knives.

Finally they were all cleared, and Mavra looked around.

The small spaceport was designed for two ships such as this one; there was another in port, almost certainly Trelig’s private craft. Guards and scanners were all over, but she expected that. Her mission didn’t look impossible.

She could use some help from the others, she knew, but dared not enlist them for the same reason they couldn’t use her. It was highly probable that at least one, maybe more, was an Antor Trelig plant.

No luggage was off-loaded; none had been allowed. Trelig would provide, he’d said, and he limited what anyone could carry in the process.

The man himself stood there to greet them—tall, much taller than the New Harmonites, a giant-sized, muscular, exceedingly handsome version of the model. He wore flowing white robes and, with his very long hair, looked like an angel.

“Welcome! Welcome! Dear friends!” he called in that now famous orator’s voice. He’d paid good money for it, and he’d gotten value received. He then greeted each in turn, by name, and kissed their hands in the universal formal ritual of greeting. When he took Mavra’s his bushy eyebrows, another departure from the New Harmony model, went up.

“Such amazing fingernails!” he exclaimed. “My dear, you resemble a sexy cat.”

“Oh?” she replied, not disguising her contempt. “I thought you killed all the cats on New Harmony.”

He grinned wickedly, and went on. When all had been greeted he led them out of the small, plush terminal. The sight was stunning. First, it was green—exceptionally green, a garden of tall but carefully manicured grass. To their left was a great forest that seemed to go off to the seemingly nearby horizon; to their right, small hills covered with brightly colored trees and flowers. And in the center, perhaps five hundred meters away, was a city the likes of which they’d never seen.

A hill dominated the scene; atop its grassy slopes was a tall building made of polished marble. It was enormous, like an amphitheater or temple. Below, at the hill’s base, stood stylish buildings of an ancient model, also of marble, with huge Roman columns supporting great roofs that were decorated with mythological sculptures cut into the stone. Each had great marble steps going up to its entrance, and some were open enough that the visitors could observe spacious interior plazas festooned with living flowers and great statuary and decorated with fountains at their centers. The central building had a dome and the longest and grandest staircase. Trelig led them to it.

“I allow as little technology as is practical here,” he explained as they walked. “The servants are humans, the food and drink is hand-prepared, and in some cases hand-harvested. No powered vehicles. I make some concessions, of course, such as the lighting, and the whole world is climate-controlled and maintained under the plasma dome and air pumps, but we like to keep the feeling rustic.”

They found no difficulty with the walk or with the stairs; the.7 gravity made them all feel great, almost as if they could fly, and they weren’t as tired at the exercise as they would be walking a kilometer on a one-G world.

Inside the main building was a great hall. A real oak table had been opulently set; it was low to the ground, and they would sit on padded and soft fur-covered cushions when eating. Below the table area was a slightly sunken wooden polished floor, like a dance floor, and the whole area was circled by great marble columns. Between the columns were stretched silken hangings, apparently in strips. They blocked the view, though.

Mavra looked up and saw that the dome had a complex mosaic design inside. Lighting was adequate—although the hall was somewhat dim except in the area of the polished floor—but so indirect that it was impossible to tell its source.

Trelig seated them all, and took his own place at the head of the table. Fancy fruit cups were set in front of each place, real fruit, they all noted. Other exotic fruits decorated the tables—kumquats, oranges, pineapples. Many poked gingerly at the fruit with their chopsticks; most had never had the real thing before.

“Try the wine,” their host urged. “Real stuff, with alcohol. We have our own vineyards here and turn out some pretty good stuff.”

And it was good, far better than the synthetics they’d all been raised on. Mavra picked at the fruit. Raised on synthetics, she preferred them to the real thing. The wine, though, was excellent. Such stuff was generally available, but usually priced far out of reach for most people.

Trelig clapped his hands, and four women appeared. They were all tanned and dark-haired, but otherwise distinctly different, certainly products of worlds other than New Harmony. They were all longhaired, wore heavy cosmetics, and were also heavily perfumed. They were also barefoot, and dressed only in filmy, single-piece dresses of unfamiliar but obviously ancient design. You could almost see right through them.

They cleared away the fruit cups and wine glasses with efficiency, not glancing directly at anyone at the table or saying a word. No sooner did they disappear beyond the curtains than other women, behaving with the same glassy-eyed efficiency, appeared carrying perfectly balanced silver trays on their heads.

“Disgusting,” Mavra heard a man near her snarl. “Human beings waiting on other human beings when robots can do the job.”

Most nodded slightly in agreement, although she wondered how many of the visitors were Comworlder politicians with whole worlds of slaves.

The performance continued throughout the meal, each course being perfectly timed. Wine was supplied in great variety and quantity, and never was a glass allowed to remain empty. The women performed as if they were machines. Mavra counted eight distinct serving girls, and who knew how many others supplied them out of sight beyond the curtain.

The meal was strange, exotic, and exceptionally good, although Mavra was filled after the second course and several others quit along the way. The bearded man wolfed down the food, though, and Trelig took some of each course.

Afterward, he showed them how the cushions unfolded into recliners, and they relaxed, with more wine and snacks, while a small circus of musicians and jugglers performed in the lit wooden floor area. The festivities went on for some time, and the evening was enjoyable. Trelig knew how to throw one hell of a banquet.

Finally when the last of the performers was through and the guests applauded politely in unison, it was time for Trelig to settle them all for the night. “You will find everything you need there, a complete modern toilet. Sleep well! We have an amazing day tomorrow!”

He led them down to the stage and through a curtain, which revealed a long marble hall. Their footsteps echoed as they walked along the hall, which seemed to go on forever. Finally they made a turn and came upon another, seemingly identical corridor. Now, though, Trelig opened a large, hinged door of solid oak, perhaps ten centimeters thick, and showed each one to his room.

The accommodations were sumptuous and individually decorated. Mavra’s had a thick carpet of some sort of fur, a writing desk, dressing table, bathroom, old-style dresser, and an enormous round bed.

She was happy to see it. Although she prided herself on holding her liquor, the wine had been exceptionally strong, perhaps deliberately so. She hadn’t really noticed the effect until she’d stood up for the walk to the rooms. She felt dizzy, slightly giddy. At first she suspected the wine had been drugged, but then realized it was just potent.

Trelig bid her goodnight and closed the great door with a chunk. Immediately she went over to it and pulled on the bronze handle.

It was locked, as she knew it would be.

Next she searched the rooms. One of her earrings buzzed slightly, and she moved to the center of the room and stood under a pretty but largely ornamental chandelier. Getting the chair from the writing table she climbed up. The buzzing grew exceptionally loud. She nodded to herself. Fixed in the base of the chandelier was a tiny, almost invisible remote camera. It was hinged so it could be positioned by remote control in any direction, and had an infrared lens attachment.

Within ten minutes she found two other cameras, one in the bathroom proper, the only place the chandelier camera couldn’t reach, and another actually hidden in the shower head. The three cameras were placed so that no area of the room was invisible to them.

The cameras were cleverly hidden, yes, but not so cleverly that they wouldn’t be found by anyone looking for them. Trelig wanted them found by anyone who would care about them at all; it was a demonstration of his power and their futility.

They were of standard design. She went back to look at the chandelier, saw it wasn’t following her more than haphazardly, and then walked over to the bed. No sheet, she noticed. But one wasn’t needed in the perfect climate control of the room. No way to hide doing something under a cover, though.

She sat on the edge of the bed, back to the camera, and slipped off her boots, then slid the belt-whip over her head and put it off to her right, away from the camera’s view. Then the earrings, on top the belt. She reached over to a night table, pulled some tissues, and picked up a small mirror. She started to remove some of her makeup.

As she was doing this, her feet turned one of the boots on its side, and then held it in place while the other foot released studs at four points. The sole fell open on tiny inner hinges, revealing a number of small gadgets. She gingerly got one she needed, clasping it between her toes of one foot, and then grasped another with the other foot.

Ready now, she slipped off the pullover, got up, and pulled down the body-stocking. As she leaned down to take it off, her left hand grabbed both of the devices.

Nude now, she stood up and actually turned around. The motion looked natural, but the watchers would draw the obvious conclusion: nothing hidden in the body cavities. Her fingers, the same ones that suckered rubes with cards and the shell game since she was small, held the two small devices invisibly. Assuming the lotus position on the bed, she turned the lights off with her right hand.

In the exact instant the lights went off, she dropped one of the devices on the bed and pointed the other at the chandelier. She was guided by a beam of light she could see only because of special contact lenses she wore.

Striking the camera, she snatched the other device, a tiny rectangle, and positioned it so it rested on the pillow, pointed toward the camera. Satisfied, she put the first gadget down and relaxed in the lotus, eyes closed.

All of this had taken less than ten seconds.

Satisfied by what she could see through her special lenses, that she’d gotten it right, she opened her eyes, relaxed, then carefully and silently slid off the side of the bed, trying not to jiggle the little rectangle.

Free of the bed, she checked and saw that the gismo was still in position. The device was incredibly complex; she’d discovered it only when it was used to trap her in a minor con, and she’d paid plenty for it. What it did, simply, was freeze the first image the camera saw and hold it there. There was an automatic adjustment of several seconds from the standard to the infrared mode, a little longer to refocus. She then had eleven seconds to shoot and position the feedback projector, as it was called.

Quietly, with the stealth and caution of an expert burglar, Mavra dressed herself. She started to put on the boots, then thought better of it, remembering the clattering echo of the halls. She removed the buckle from the whip-belt and used its pin to fix it under the whip, then turned the small whip handle so it could be easily drawn by releasing the nearly invisible binding studs.

She hadn’t been removing her makeup with the tissue; she’d been smearing it evenly all over her face and rubbing her hands with it as well. Now she took a small shrink-wrapped pack from her left boot and opened it, removing the tiny pad. Carefully, methodically, she smoothed it over all exposed areas of her skin. The mild chemical, reacting to another in the makeup, caused it to turn a deep black. Next she removed the special contact lenses, squeezed two drops in her eyes from a nearly minute dropper, then took another, different pair out of her pack and slipped them in. They were clear, but if she activated the tiny power supply in her buckle, they would turn into infrared lenses. More than one on New Pompeii had cat’s eyes.

Switching to that mode, she picked up the mirror carefully and looked at herself. She looked exceedingly monstrous, of course, but the chemical blackener was an effective shield against the heat radiation infrared viewers saw. She touched up a few spots until she could see nothing in the mirror. Her hands she checked visually.

Then came the nodules. They fit under her long, sharp nails, and the injector point actually merged with the points of her fingernails. She loaded each one of them, not all with the same stuff. More than once these nasty little devices had saved her neck—and cost others dearly.

Finally she touched the second power-pack module on the buckle. This energy source fed the material in the chemicals and in her clothing. Heat-sensitive devices would ignore her.

They were still trying to figure out that jewel robbery on Baldash.

She wanted this job over and done quickly, if possible. The girl, anyway. If it could be done tonight, fine. If not, she’d at least know the lay of the land.

The big door lock was no problem, but the four sensors in the door were. The door was nearly flush with the mounting; she could only slip in two matching strips. The third took some work with a blade. Though she had no knife, the specially treated organic material in her boot had served as one. The toenail of a large animal on some distant world, sharpened, treated like her own nails. A nice, thin, flat blade.

The other strips slipped in easily, and she carefully and slowly opened the door. No alarms, so she peered cautiously outside. The hallway was dark but apparently not guarded. For all his reliance on people, Trelig used a professional supersecurity system, one he’d bought and paid for. And that was his mistake. Successful criminals—the ones they hadn’t caught—had countered them long ago. They would be on infrared, and with mikes. If she didn’t make much noise and if the protective circuits were in, she should be invisible.

She stepped out into the hall and carefully closed the door behind her without a sound. There were no flags. She was safe.

This would have been harder if he’d kept the hall lit, she thought.

But nothing was impossible in this line to the Cat Goddess, as she was called on lots of wanted lists. They even suspected who she was, but they had never proved anything.

She met no one on her way back to the banquet hall, which, she discovered, was the only obvious entrance or exit. Only one camera there; she’d checked that at dinner.

She moved as close to the entrance as she could and peered out of the curtains. The camera, which was linked to a small paralyzer, rotated along a rail on the base of the dome. A single fixed camera in the dome itself wouldn’t have supplied adequate coverage; the moving one covered the entire area in thirty seconds. She timed the movements repeatedly to see that they hadn’t varied it. Only for twelve seconds was the entrance out of view. And the entrance was about ninety meters from her.

Experience and training paid in the calculations—the area of view and the like going through her mind. She took two deep breaths, then watched the little camera go around, hit the precisely calculated point. At that instant she sped for the entrance, making it outside in under eleven seconds, something considered impossible, she knew, for such a tiny woman.

But this was.7 G.

She didn’t take the steps, but climbed, catlike, over the side and down to the bushes below. It was not dark outside, but there was no one in view, and she was quick despite the vertical drop.

The trick was a tiny little bubble, several of which she carried in her belt. The bubble, no larger than the head of a pin, formed an incredibly thin secretion that created tremendous suction when rubbed between the palms of her hands. It had been her special secret of success in burglary; she had created the stuff herself.

She descended thirty meters in seconds. Taking refuge behind some bushes, she rubbed her hands, causing the substance to solidify and ball up, then fall away. The stuff didn’t last long, but it was excellent for thirty or forty seconds.

She would have preferred darkness, but there was no darkness beneath the reflective plasma dome. Daylight would have to do.

Creeping around the side of the central building, she heard voices and froze. When they continued in a sort of rhythmic chant, she ventured out, keeping close to the walls and cover, then looked in on one of the open plazas. Four women, dressed as the servants had been, were practicing some sort of dance to the tune of a lyrelike instrument played by another of them. They all seemed to move in that dreamy state, oblivious to the world. Something was odd in their appearance.

They were too beautiful, Mavra decided. Incredibly, almost deformed in their sexual characteristics, the type of dream girl lovesick prospectors bought pictures of. Their movements, too, seemed unusual; there was a sense of total femininity there, as if they might be some sort of mythological fertility goddesses. Such manners and moves were eerie, unnatural, even a little inhuman. They were more erotic caricatures of people than real human beings.

She decided not to test their apparent dreaminess, though; she needed someone alone.

The little world seemed to keep Trelig’s hours; few were about. She wished she knew exactly how many people were on the planetoid; it didn’t seem like many.

Slipping into the next building, a lower but still grand marble structure, she practically ran into someone. The young woman was average-looking, a little unkempt, and had dirty feet. She was nude. Next to her stood a bucket on three little wheels. She was down on all fours, and, as Mavra watched, she realized the woman was scrubbing the marble floor with a stiff brush.

Mavra looked around but saw no sign of anyone else. Quietly she stepped out and started toward the woman, whose back and rear were open to her as she made her way slowly backing down the hall.

Mavra straightened her right little finger while clenching the others. The straightening made the little injector head reach the tip of the nail.

The woman noticed something odd before Mavra reached her. When she turned around, she saw the small, black-covered woman.

“Hi!” she said, a crooked smile on her face. Mavra looked down at her with pity. The expression was simple, the eyes dull and blank; A spongie, Mavra realized. She stooped to the woman’s level.

“Hi, yourself,” she responded kindly. “What’s your name?”

“Hiv—Hivi—” the woman struggled, then she turned sheepish. “I can’t say it good no more.”

Mavra nodded sympathetically. “Okay, Hivi. I’m Cat. Will you tell me something?”

The woman nodded slowly. “If I can.”

“Do you know somebody called Nikki Zinder?”

The woman looked blank. “I don’t ’member names so good, like I told ya.”

“Well, is there any place they keep people here who never come out?” Mavra tried.

The girl shook her head uncomprehendingly. Mavra sighed. Obviously Hivi or whatever her name was was too far gone on the drug to tell her what she needed. She decided on another tack.

“Well, do you have a boss, then? Somebody who tells you where to clean?”

The girl nodded. “Ziv do it.”

“Where is Ziv now?” Mavra prodded.

The woman looked blank, then brightened for a moment. “Down there,” she replied, pointing away down the hall.

Mavra was tempted just to leave her there; the girl was no threat. However, Hivi retained some intelligence, and that might mean an unintentional betrayal. As she reached out to caress the woman, the nail of her right little finger touched the girl’s arm and the injector shot its fluid into her.

The girl jumped a little, and put her hand on her shoulder, a puzzled expression on her face. Then came a general rigidity, the girl frozen, looking at her shoulder.

Mavra leaned close to her, nervous that someone else would come by. “You did not see anyone while washing this hall,” she whispered. “You did not see me. You will not see me. You will not see anything I do. Now you will go on with your work.”

The girl unfroze, seemed even more puzzled. She looked around, right at Mavra Chang, then past her, unseeing. Finally, she shrugged, turned, and resumed her brushing of the floor. Mavra went on.

It would have been easier to have killed her; a few simple pressings on certain nerves in the neck would not have wasted a hypno on such a dry hole. Doing so would, perhaps, have been more merciful. But, although Mavra Chang had killed before, she killed only those who deserved it. Antor Trelig, perhaps, for what he did to these once-normal people and for what he might do to others—but not a helpless slave.

And that’s what all those women were, she knew. The serving girls, the dancers, the scrubwoman. Slaves, created by the sponge, by the underdoses and overdoses of the mutant disease.

She did not find Ziv; she did, however, prowl silently through many halls, often dodging occasional dull-eyed slaves and security eyes. She moved stealthily through several rooms decorated with great opulence and through other rooms of extreme decadence. Spongies so catatonic they could be placed rigidly in positions to serve as lamps and furniture—the sight made her ill even while the practical part of her wondered how they were fed.

She did not, however, find anyone in obvious authority, and she started back to the sleeping quarters disappointed and disgusted. If this was Antor Trelig’s way of treating the humans who came within his control, what sort of a master would he make of the civilized worlds? Alaina had been right; the man was not a human but a monster.

She was almost back at her room when she spotted someone she needed. True, the woman looked and dressed much like the others, but she had a conspicuous difference: she wore a shoulder strap and a pistol. The woman was moving slowly down the hall, checking on doors and the like, when Mavra crept in. There was no one else around.

Like an animal stalking prey, the tiny agent seemed to move with dead silent liquidity, closer, ever closer to the tall woman with the pistol. Now, only a few meters away, she pounced. The big woman turned at the movement, her face registering extreme surprise at the black, sleek visage running toward her. Mavra was so fast that the guard’s hand had only started to move to the pistol when her attacker leaped and kicked full force into her victim’s stomach.

The guard had the wind completely knocked out of her. Mavra, landing and somersaulting, was on her feet again as if by magic and back to the guard. Both the index- and middle-finger nail injectors of her right hand found their mark while Mavra’s left hand grabbed the woman’s gun-hand. The double dose weakened her opponent rapidly, and, although the larger woman was winning her battle, the hypnos took hold before she could draw the pistol.

Mavra relaxed and rolled off her quarry, now frozen in a strange position.

“Get up!” Mavra ordered, and the other complied. “Where is a room where we will not be disturbed or interrupted?”

“In there,” came the mechanical reply. The woman pointed to a nearby door.

“No cameras or other devices in there?” Mavra asked crisply.

“No.”

The small woman ordered her drugged victim into the room, and she followed. It was a small office of some sort, not currently in use. Mavra sat the woman on the floor, then kneeled down, facing her.

“How are you called?” she asked the drugged guard.

“I am Micce,” the other replied.

Mavra sighed. “Okay, Micce, tell me, how many people are there on New Pompeii?”

“Forty-one at the moment,” the other responded. “Not counting the wild folk, the living dead, and the guests.”

“Counting everyone but the new guests, how many?” Mavra prodded.

“One hundred thirty-seven.”

Mavra nodded. That told what she was up against. “How many armed guards?”

“Twelve.”

“Why are no more precautions than this taken?” the dark agent asked. “Surely greater security is called for.”

“They rely on automatic sensing in the important areas,” the guard explained. “As for the rest, no one could get off New Pompeii without the proper codes.”

“Who knows the codes?” Mavra asked.

“Only Councillor Trelig,” the guard responded. “And they are changed daily in a sequence known only to him.”

Mavra Chang frowned. That would make things a little harder.

“Is the girl Nikki Zinder here?” she asked.

The guard nodded. “In the guard quarters.”

With more questioning, Mavra established the location of the guard quarters, the general layout of the building, who was in there at any given time, Nikki’s exact room, and how to get in and out. She also established that everyone on New Pompeii was on sponge except Trelig himself, and the supplies were brought in daily by a computer-controlled ship so that no one could get a large quantity and rebel against Trelig. That piece of information was interesting. So the sponge was brought in on a little scout, made for four passengers if need be. The guard’s description suggested that it was a Model 17 Cruiser, a craft Mavra knew well. It would be perfect.

She took the guard’s pistol and shoulder belt after determining that the guards themselves checked their equipment in and out of a small guard locker. She suggested to the guard that the pistol and belt were still in place, so the gun would not be missed. It would be checked back in and perhaps not discovered gone for days. Mavra smiled; she was armed again, and luck was breaking her way due to Trelig’s conceit about his security.

“Where is Dr. Zinder?” she asked the guard, after giving her another jolt of the hypno.

“He is on Underside,” the guard replied. Of the forty-one people, one was Trelig, one was Nikki, one was Zinder, twelve were guards, five were assistants to Zinder, and the other twenty-one were slaves of one kind or another. That was enough to tell Mavra Chang that she hadn’t a prayer of getting Zinder himself out, but a good chance at Nikki. Ten million wasn’t “anything,” but it sure beat nothing.

After getting the guard routine from the hypnoed woman, Mavra told her to forget about her totally and resume her normal routine. The guard did so without further comment, and treated Mavra as if she weren’t there.

It took another forty minutes to return to the main building, avoid the cameras, and get back to her room. The strips were still in place on the door, and, after closing and relocking it, she carefully removed them. The holographic memory projector was still in place, so the camera was still showing an empty, quiet room with a meditating figure on the bed.

Tidying up, removing the blackface, reassembling the boot, and reloading and reforming the belt took more time. As soon as she finished, she edged over next to the projector on the bed, careful not to jiggle it too much, until she was next to it, almost touching it. Infinite patience is the best tool of a burglar.

Assuming the correct position, she took the little device, quickly palmed it, and slipped it out of sight when the camera was directed elsewhere. When the camera swung back, only a few seconds later, it photographed the same nude woman in the same meditating position. Only a fanatical observer, which no guard was—watching sleeping people was an incredibly dull job—would have realized that the figure was seated in a slightly different position at a slightly different angle.

Suddenly her breathing became more rapid, and then she stirred, flexed, stretched out on the bed, and turned over. Her right hand dangled just over the edge of the bed for a second, as she dropped an unseen object onto black cloth.

And only then did Mavra Chang sleep.

If anyone knew of her roamings, they did not betray that fact the next morning. The major dispute was over Trelig’s requirement that they all take showers and then don light, filmy garments and sandals. He apologized and offered to launder their own garments during their trip, but it was clear what he was doing. He could both examine their garments and make certain that little if anything was taken to Underside.

Mavra was confident that the shielding in her boots and in the belt would be sufficient to escape detection; however, if anyone did try to open them, there would follow a hard-to-explain and quite messy violent explosion. She doubted if Trelig’s people would go that far because of the defense mechanism risk; but her tools were to be denied her when they would do the most good. The pistol was not particularly hard to conceal; she’d hidden it against a hall cornice affixed with putty outside the room.

She saw the surprised expressions when she entered the hall for breakfast; without the boots she was even tinier than usual. They all noticed, but no one was tactless enough to mention the subject.

After eating, Trelig addressed them. “Citizens, distinguished guests all, may I now explain why you were all invited here, and what you will see today,” he began. “First, let me refresh your memories a bit. As you all no doubt know, we are not the first civilization to have colonized worlds far beyond the one of our civilization’s birth. The artifacts of that earlier, nonhuman civilization have been found on countless dead worlds. Dr. Jared Markov discovered them, and so we call them the Markovians.”

“We know all that, Antor,” snapped one councillor. “Get to the point.”

Trelig gave a killing glance, then continued. “Now, the artifacts they left us when they died out or disappeared over a million years ago consist entirely of ruined structures—buildings. No furniture, no machinery, no utensils, no objects of art, nothing. Why? Generations of scholars have mused on this, to no avail. It seemed as insolvable a mystery as why they died out. But one scientist, a Tregallian physicist, had an idea.”

They stirred slightly, nodding. They all knew who he meant.

“Dr. Gilgam Valdez Zinder,” Trelig went on, “thought that our failure to solve the Markovian riddle stemmed from our too orthodox view of the universe. First, he postulated the concept that the ancient Markovians did not need artifacts because, somehow, they could convert energy into matter merely by willing it. We know that deep beneath the crust of each Markovian world was a semiorganic computer. Zinder believed the Markovians were directly, mentally linked to their computers, which were, in turn, programmed to turn any wish into reality. So he set to work on duplicating this process.”

There were murmurings now. Trelig was confirming the rumors that had brought them here, rumors too horrible to believe.

“From this point, Zinder went on to postulate that the raw material they used for this energy-to-matter conversion was a basic, primal energy, the only truly stable component in the universe,” Trelig explained. “He spent his life searching for this primal energy, proving its existence. He worked out its probable nature mathematically, designing his own self-aware computer to help him in this end.”

“And he found it,” a woman who looked no more than a child but was an elder of a Com race interjected.

Trelig nodded. “He did. And, in the process, produced a set of corollaries that are staggering in their implications. If all matter, all reality, is merely a converted form of this energy, then where did we come from?” He sat back, enjoying the expressions on the faces of those who were able to grasp the implications.

“You’re saying the Markovians created us?” the red-bearded man called out. “I find that hard to accept. The Markovians have been dead for a million years. If their artifacts died with their brains, why didn’t we die, too?”

Trelig’s face showed surprise. “A very good question,” he noted. “One with no clear answer, though. Dr. Zinder and his associates believe that some sort of massive central computer was established, somewhere out there among the other galaxies, that keeps us stable. But its location is neither here nor there, since it is almost certainly beyond our capability to get there in the foreseeable future, even if we knew where ‘there’ is. The important fact is that such a computer does exist, or we wouldn’t be here. Of course, it allows, shall we say, local variations in the pattern. If it didn’t, then the local Markovian worlds would never have been able to use their own godlike computers. And, what they could do Dr. Zinder has discovered how to do! It is the ultimate proof of his theories.”

Several in the audience looked uneasy; there were a couple of nervous coughs.

“Do you mean, then, that you have built your own version of this god machine?” Mavra Chang asked.

Trelig smiled. “Dr. Zinder and his associate, Ben Yulin, the child of a close associate of mine from Al Wadda, have built a miniature version of it, yes. I persuaded them to move their computer here, to New Pompeii, where it would not fall into the wrong hands. The timing was perfect. They were just completing the hookup of a much, much larger version of the machine as well.” He stopped a moment, frowning slightly, but his overall expression was playful.

“Come with me,” he invited them, rising from the table. “I see disbelief and skepticism. Let us go to Underside and I’ll show you.”

They all got up and followed him out the entrance, across the grassy plaza, and toward a small structure that looked something like a solid marble gazebo, off by itself to the left.

Although its housing was built to blend with the Neo-Grecian and Roman architecture, it was clear when they reached the little house that it was some sort of high-speed elevator.

Trelig selected a smooth, bare area and placed his hand, palm down, on it. His fingers tapped out a pattern too rapid for any of them to catch, and, suddenly, the wall faded, showing the interior of a large high-speed car. There were eight seats with head rests and belts in it.

“We will have to make two trips,” Trelig apologized. “The first eight of you, here, please take the seats and fasten the straps. The descent is extremely fast and very uncomfortable, I’m afraid, although some gravity compensation has been built in to minimize the effect. Once the first group is away, the smaller maintenance car can be used for the rest of us. Don’t worry—there’s a two-level exit on Underside.”

Mavra was in the first group. She took a chair, relaxed, and fastened the straps. The door, actually some sort of force field with a wall projection over it, solidified again, and they felt themselves dropping quickly.

The trip was uncomfortable; small plastic bags had been provided for the two or three who needed them. Mavra was amazed at the little car system; she’d heard of such a thing but had never seen one, let alone been in one. They had been designed for a few of the planets whose surfaces were uninhabitable but where, for one reason or another, life at levels below the surface was possible.

It took over ten minutes to reach the other end, and, even at that, they traveled at a tremendous rate of speed. Finally they felt the car slow, and then crawl to a stop. They waited three or four minutes, nervously wondering if they were stuck. Then they heard the sound of something above them, and, less than a minute later, the force field and solid projection in front of them dissolved, and Trelig was there, smiling.

“Sorry about the delay. I should have warned you,” he said cheerily, sounding not the least bit sorry.

They unbuckled their belts and got up, stretching, and walked out into a narrow corridor. They followed their host down the steel-clad pathway. It turned and ended on a large riveted metal platform with railings all around. Ahead of them was an enormous shaft that seemed to have no top or bottom. The size of the round gap dwarfed them to insignificance, and they gasped in awe. All around the shaft were panels, countless modules with even, small gaps between.

A long bridge led from the platform across the shaft; a wide bridge of the same metal flooring as the platform but with 150-centimeter sidewalls of a plastic substance. They realized that they were somewhere in the bowels of a great machine.

Trelig stopped in the middle of the bridge, and had the party gather around him. Everywhere, were the hum and crackle of active circuits opening and closing, echoing off the shaft walls. He had to raise his voice to be heard.

“This shaft runs from a point about halfway between the theoretical equator and the South Pole of New Pompeii on the rocky and unprotected surface, almost to the core of the planetoid,” he shouted. “It is fusion powered, indirectly, through the solar and plasma network. For almost twenty kilometers in all directions around us is the computer—self-aware of course—which Dr. Zinder calls Obie. Into it we have been pouring all of the data at our command. Come.”

He continued the dizzying walk, past a shining copper-colored pole that ran lengthwise through the center of the shaft and seemed to disappear in both directions, and onto a platform identical to the first one. To their left a window opened on a large room filled with myriad apparently inactive electronic instruments. A door like that of an airlock stood directly before them. When it slid open with a hiss, there did in fact seem to be a slight change in pressure and temperature. They entered and found themselves in what seemed a miniature duplicate of the larger machine. A balcony and several control consoles surrounded an amphitheaterlike floor below, on which was a small, round, silvery disk. Overhead, what looked like a twenty-sided mirror with a small projecting device in its center was attached to a mobile arm that was suspended from a mount on one wall.

“The original Obie and the original device,” Trelig explained. “Obie is attached, of course, to the larger one, which is just nearing completion. Come! Fan out around the rail here so that you may all view the disk below.” He glanced over, and they saw a young, good-looking man dressed in a shiny lab tech uniform sitting at the far control panel.

“Citizens, that is Dr. Ben Yulin, operations manager here,” Trelig told them. “Now, if you’ll look below, you’ll see two of my associates bringing a third out and placing her on the disk.”

They looked down and saw two of the women Mavra recognized as guards gently leading a frightened girl of no more than fourteen or fifteen toward the disk.

“The girl you see is a victim of the addiction known as sponge,” Trelig explained. “Already the drug has rotted her mind so that she is no more than a childlike idiot. I have many such poor unfortunates here; they will soon be cured. Now, watch and be quiet. Dr. Yulin will take it from here.”

Ben Yulin flipped a couple of switches on his console. They heard the crackle of some sort of speaker and could hear his cool, pleasant baritone clearly.

“Good morning, Obie.”

“Good morning, Ben,” came Obie’s pleasing tenor—no longer coming from the console transceiver, but seemingly from the air around them. It was not a big voice or a threatening one, but it seemed to be all around them, every place and no place in particular.

“Index subject file code number 97-349826,” Yulin intoned. “Record on my mark— now!”

The mirror swung into place over the terrified girl, and the blue light shone from it, enveloping her. They saw the girl freeze, flicker, and wink out.

Trelig grinned and turned to them. “Well, what do you think of that?”

“I’ve seen holographic projectors before,” a little man said skeptically.

“Either that or you’ve disintegrated her,” another put in.

Trelig shrugged. “Well, what will convince you?” He brightened. “I know! Tell me, name a creature of the common forms! Anybody!”

They all remained silent for a second. Finally, someone called out, “A cow.”

Trelig nodded. “A cow it is. Did you hear, Ben?”

“Very good, Councillor,” Yulin responded through the speaker. His voice changed tone, and he called to his computer.

“Index RY-765197-AF, Obie,” he intoned.

“I know what a cow is, Ben,” Obie scolded gently, and Yulin chuckled.

“All right, then, Obie,” he replied, “I’ll leave it to you. Nothing dangerous, though. Docile, huh?”

“All right, Ben. I’ll do my best,” the computer assured him, and the mirror swung out once again, the blue light shone, and something flickered in.

“Magician’s tricks,” scowled the red-bearded man. “Woman into cow.”

But what materialized below was not a cow; it was a centauroid: a cow’s body—hooves, tail, and udder—and the girl’s torso and head, unchanged except that her ears stuck out as a cow’s ears would, and from the area around her temples grew two small, curved horns.

“Let’s go down and examine her,” Antor Trelig suggested, and they all moved single-file down a small staircase nearby.

The cow-woman stood there, looking blankly forward, hardly paying them notice.

“Go ahead!” Trelig urged. “Touch her. Examine her as closely as you want!”

They did, and the girl paid them little notice except when one observer touched the udder nipples, provoking a mild and annoying kick that missed its target.

“Good lord! Monstrous!” grumbled one councillor. Others were stunned.

Trelig then led them back up to the balcony, explaining that the viewing area had invisible shielding that was necessary to screen out the effects of the small mirror.

He nodded to Ben, who gave another series of instructions to Obie. The girl-cow vanished and was replaced, only moments later, by the girl. Again they went down, looked at her, found her dull-eyed and fearful but otherwise perfectly human—and unmistakably the same girl.

“I still don’t believe it,” the bearded man uttered. “Some kind of monstrous genetic cloning, yes, but that’s all.”

Trelig smiled. “Would you like to try, Citizen Rumney?” he prodded. “I assure you that we will not harm you in any way. Or, if not you, then anyone else?”

“I’ll try,” the red-bearded man replied. The girl was guided down from the disk and taken out a door below. Rumney stepped up, looked around, still trying to figure out the trick. The rest returned to their perch.

Yulin was ready. Rumney was encoded quickly, winking out and then, almost immediately, winking back in. They had made two slight alterations in him: he had a donkey’s long ears and a large, black equine tail emerging just above his rectum and covering it. Since reality was kept consistent for him, he was quickly aware of his change. He felt his long ears in wonder, and moved his tail. He looked stunned.

“What do you think, now, Citizen Rumney?” Trelig called out good-naturedly.

“It’s—incredible,” the man managed, voice cracking.

“We can adjust all reality so that you and everyone else will believe you have always been that way,” the master of New Pompeii told them. “But, in this case, I think not.”

“Did it hurt?” Someone called to the man. “What did it feel like?” another asked.

Rumney shook his head. “It didn’t feel like anything,” he replied, wonderingly. “Just saw the blue light, then you all seemed to flicker, and here I was.”

Trelig smiled and nodded. “See?” he told them all. “I said there was no pain.”

“But how did you do it?” someone gasped.

“Well, much earlier, we fed Obie the codes for various common animals, plants, and the like. He used the device overhead to reduce them to an energy pattern that is, mathematically, the equivalent of the creature. This information was stored, and when Citizen Rumney was on the disk it did the same for him. Then, using Dr. Yulin’s instructions, it blended the ears and tail of the ass to the physiognomy of Rumney; it re-encoded the cells as well to make it his natural form.”

Mavra Chang felt the same chill run through her that ran through the others. Such incredible power—in the hands of Trelig.

The councillor of New Harmony relaxed, savoring the expressions and the thoughts he knew were troubling them. Finally, he said, “But this is only the prototype. Right now we can take only a single individual at a time. We can, of course, make our own individuals, but there are some things we haven’t figured out how to get into Obie so they come out whole people, mentally. That’s only a matter of time and practice. And, of course, we can create anything known that is no larger than the disk and whose code we’ve first stored in Obie. Food of any kind, anything organic or inorganic, absolutely real, absolutely indistinguishable from the original.”

“You said this machine was a prototype,” Mavra Chang noted. “May we assume that things have advanced beyond that stage now?”

“Very good, Citizen Chang,” Trelig approved. “Yes, yes indeed! You saw the large tube going through the center of the big shaft?” They nodded. “Well, it has just been connected to a huge version of that little energy radiator you see in the center of that little mirror, there. I had the parts built in a dozen different places and assembled here by my own planet’s people. The same with a huge version of that mirror, slightly different in shape and property, of course. And huge— it fills most of the surface of Underside. If the power is sufficient, and we believe it is, it should be effective from a distance of over fifteen million kilometers on an area at least forty-five to fifty thousand kilometers in diameter.”

“You mean a planet!” someone gasped.

Trelig looked mock-thoughtful. He was enjoying this. “Yes, I suppose so. Why, yes, I do believe you’re right! If there is sufficient power, of course.”

They thought over what he had just said, each realizing that what they’d feared most of all was true. This madman possessed a device that could alter planets to his design in limited ways. Limited, perhaps, but he certainly wouldn’t be going to this extreme just to give the inhabitants funny ears and tails.

Trelig looked down, saw that Rumney, who could hear the conversation, hadn’t moved off the disk. He was waiting to be changed back.

“Now I’ll show you the full potential,” Trelig whispered, and nodded to Yulin.

Before he could do anything, the man with the ears and tail was captured again in the blue glow. When he winked back in a few moments later there had been an additional change. He still retained the ears and tail, and even his beard, but through the thin robe they could clearly see that he was now sexually a female despite the retention of the rest of his large, masculine body.

Trelig grinned evilly at the others, then called down. “Tell me, Citizen Rumney, do you notice any other changes?”

The person on the disk looked and felt all over, then shook his—her?—head. “No,” the person responded in a voice that unmistakably belonged to the same person but was now a half-octave higher in tone. “Should I?”

“You are female, now, Citizen Rumney.”

Rumney looked bewildered. “Why, yes, of course. I always have been.”

Trelig turned back to the group, a smug expression on his face. “You see? This time we altered something basic in the equations that created him. We made him a her. A simple thing, really—easier than the reverse since he is now XX where, in the opposite way, we have to postulate the Y factor. The important thing is that only we know a change has taken place. He doesn’t—and, if you returned with him like that, you’d find that everyone else remembered him as a female, too, that all his records were those of a female, that his whole past was adjusted to show he’d been born that way. That is the real power of the device. Only the shielding and our close proximity to the change allow us to be exempt from this change ourselves.”

They thought it over. New Pompeii, of course, would be shielded, probably something added to the plasma shield. When the big mirror did its work on a planet, no one in the whole galaxy would even know that anything was changed. The victimized world wouldn’t know it, either. The inhabitants would become his playthings and his property as a part of the natural scheme of things.

“You monster!” one of the councillors spat. “Why show us this at all? Why expose yourself, except for ego?”

Trelig shrugged. “Ego, of course, is part of it. But such power is no fun unless somebody knows what’s going on. But; no, there’s more to it than that.”

“You need the Council Fleet to move New Pompeii and protect it,” Mavra guessed.

He smiled. “No, not really. According to the calculations, if a reverse bias is applied to the device, it would be possible to envelop New Pompeii in the field and then transport it anywhere it wanted—sort of picking itself up by its own bootstraps. No, this concerns our own limitations. You can’t remake a planet into something else without knowing exactly what you want and then feeding the information into Obie. The ears and tail wouldn’t have been possible unless Obie had first had the code for the ass. It will take much time and research to remake a world properly, and I am an impatient man. If I tried a planet now, or in the next few years, the results would probably be monstrous. No, I need access to all the information, the best brains, the best of everything to carry it out. I need the resources of hundreds of worlds. To get the resources I need, I’ll need the Council Fleet under my control.”

Mavra and a couple of others turned a little at some movement behind them. Four guards had emerged there, all carrying nasty electron rifles.

Rumney called up from the disk. “Hey! Trelig! Are you going to let me keep these ears and tail?”

The master of New Pompeii looked over at Yulin and nodded. The blue light winked on again, and when it winked off Rumney was again male and had normal ears.

And he still retained the tail.

Trelig ordered him upstairs, and he came, grumbling. He reached the top and saw the guards. He almost started back again, but thought better of it and joined the rest.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Rumney grumbled, and the others added their complaints.

Trelig moved away from them slightly. “I need the Fleet and the Weapons Control Locker. Please don’t move toward me or the guards. The rifles are on high spray stun. It would do you no good, even if they shot me, too. Besides, I need you all alive to go back and tell your councillors what you have witnessed, except for you councillors, whose votes I need directly. I need you to tell your story, and I need to send some proof. Tell them that when the Council meets in four days time I will require a vote to make me First Councillor with sole authority over the Fleet and Weapons Locker. If the vote fails, then we will experiment with the big dish on those worlds you represent. New Pompeii will be everywhere and anywhere. You won’t catch it. I may not have all the data to alter a world, but I can cancel its existence with Obie! I can whittle the Council down to where I will have the votes!”

They were shocked. While he had them in that state, he pressed home, becoming friendlier, more conciliatory.

“You see, my friends,” he concluded, “not giving me that power will cause me a great deal of pain, cost a lot of lives, and give me a lot of time and trouble. But I’ll win either way. In four days—or in four years. It won’t matter. But, I’m impatient, and I am direct. We can save a lot of pain, trouble, and lives by conceding to my demands now.”

Rumney reached back, felt his tall unbelievingly. “And this tail—this is the proof?”

Trelig nodded. “Now, one at a time, each of you will go down and stand on the disk. A minor thing will be done to you, nothing more serious than what we did to Citizen Rumney here, unless you cause trouble. If you resist, we will stun you and, I assure you, the results will not be minor!” He underscored that last as if he hoped someone would resist. “But, as Rumney told you, the process is painless, and I do promise you that anyone whose world’s vote is with me will be changed back. That can be done without a return to New Pompeii.”

“What good is your promise?”

Trelig was genuinely surprised and a little hurt at the remark. “I always keep my word, Citizen. I always make good my promises—and my threats.”

Nobody did resist. It would have been futile. Even if they jumped Trelig, they would all get stunned, Trelig included, and then the alterations would be monstrous, as he promised. Even if they managed to rush the guards, they couldn’t operate the lift car, nor did they know how, if there was an alternate way, to get to the surface.

Trelig didn’t bother to be creative. Each, in turn, was given the same long horselike tail Rumney got, color-matched to their own hair. Mavra’s was jet-black, thick, and extended below her knees. The new condition took a little getting used to, although the tail muscle was almost infinitely controllable and the bone seemed soft and pliant. Even so, sitting in the chairs for the ride back up felt odd and uncomfortable, like sitting on a slightly hard object. When shifting position, one had a tendency to pull on the tail inadvertently, causing some pain.

But the addition to their anatomy was convincing proof to them, and it would serve as convincing proof of the threat that hung over everyone when they made their reports to their own leaders.

Mavra looked around at the people seated in the car with her and saw in their eyes and whispers that Antor Trelig would have the votes he needed. That meant, tail or no tail, getting Nikki Zinder away was imperative.

Topside again, she ventured to ask Trelig about Dr. Zinder.

“Oh, he’s around somewhere. We couldn’t do without him, you know. Not for the big test. If you could see beyond the dome now, you’d see an asteroid about the size of this one, but barren, being towed by New Harmony tugs into position about ten thousand kilometers out. A small target, a nothing. We will see tomorrow what we can make of it.”

“Will we be able to see the transformation?” she asked.

He nodded. “Of course. It’s the final demonstration. I’ll have screens set up here so you can all view it. Then, of course, you will depart with your messages—and, ah, your souvenirs,” he added lightly.

Mavra returned to her room feeling both tired and numb. The events of the day had been exactly what she’d been told to expect. But being told something and seeing it, hearing it, and experiencing it firsthand was something else again. The sleek horse’s tail that was now a part of her was proof of that.

She saw with satisfaction that the boots and belt were where she’d left them; at least they hadn’t touched any of the equipment. The clothing, on the other hand, had been neatly laundered, pressed, and was nicely folded on top of the writing table. She threw off the wrap she’d been wearing the whole day and went over to retrieve her clothes. There was a mirror over the writing table, and, for the first time, she actually saw her tail. She turned this way and that and had to admit that it looked extremely natural. She swished it, extended it out a bit, and marveled at it.

Suddenly she felt terribly tired, as if a great shock had just worn off. That disturbed her. She shouldn’t feel that way, not at this stage. But, it was early yet, she thought. The corridor light was still slightly visible through the big door, and that meant it was not yet the best time to venture forth. Almost without thinking, she walked over to the bed and lay down.

Sleeping on her back was uncomfortable, especially with a tail. She never had liked sleeping face down, so a side position proved the best. The sudden lethargy really concerned her; she was afraid that Trelig had, after all, drugged their food or, perhaps, programmed delayed responses in her brain. That last thought should have startled her awake, but it was gone, and she drifted into a strange, deep sleep.

And she dreamed. Mavra rarely dreamed; at least, she never remembered doing so. But this dream was as clear as reality, without any quality of fogginess about it.

She was back in the computer center, standing on the silver disk again, and yet, as she looked around, there were no faces on the balcony, no faces at the controls. The room was deserted, except for herself and the slight humming of the computer.

“Mavra Chang,” the computer spoke to her. “Listen, Mavra Chang. This dream is being caused by me as you are processed. All that is now being witnessed has already passed, including our conversation, in the millionth of a second between initial and final processing. This record is being made to bring memory when you sleep, an induced hypnotic sleep.”

“Who are you?” she asked. “Are you Dr. Zinder?”

“No,” responded the computer. “I am Obie. I am a machine, one endowed with self-awareness. Dr. Zinder is as much my parent as he is his own daughter’s, however, and there is the sameness of bond between us. I am his other child.”

“But you do the work for Trelig and his man Yulin,” she pointed out. “How can you do this?”

“Ben designed much of my storage capacity and, as a result, has the ability to coerce my actions,” Obie explained. “However, while I must do what he tells me to do, my mind, my self-awareness, is Dr. Zinder’s creation. It was deliberately designed so, so that no one could gain complete control of the device we have built.”

“Then you have freedom of action,” she replied, amazed. “You can act unless specifically directed not to.”

“Dr. Zinder said that making such prohibitions to me would be like making a pact with the devil; there are always mental loopholes. I have found it so.”

“Then why haven’t you acted?” she demanded. “Why have you allowed this to go on?”

“I am helpless,” Obie responded. “I cannot move. I am isolated where the only communications I have without severe time-lag is with Trelig’s system, which would do no good whatsoever. The alterations to reality are restricted to that little disk, and I cannot even activate that myself. It takes a series of coded commands to give me access to the arm. This, however, will change tomorrow.”

“The big dish,” she whispered. “They will connect you to the big dish.”

“Yes, and once connected, they will find it impossible to break that connection. I have already worked out the process.”

She thought a moment. “Does Zinder know?”

“Oh, yes,” Obie responded. “I am, after all, a reflection of him in this form. Ben is a bright lad, but he doesn’t really understand the complexities of what I am or of what I do. He is more in the nature of a brilliant engineer than a theoretical scientist. He can use Dr. Zinder’s principles, but he cannot totally divine them. And, in that way, he is like the person who becomes an expert cheat at cards and then tries to cheat his teacher.”

She sighed. “Then Trelig has lost,” she said quietly.

“In a way, yes,” Obie acknowledged. “But his loss does not mean our victory. When the power is turned on tomorrow, I will achieve power beyond your comprehension. I intend, when switched to activation, to create a negative rather than a positive bias on the dish. This will place the whole of New Pompeii under the blue.”

“What will you make of us all, then?” she managed.

Obie paused, then continued. “I will make nothing. If I can, I will restore the sponge addicts to normal, with the realization of that fact. That should take care of Mr. Trelig. However, I may not get the chance.”

“There is danger, then?” she prompted uneasily.

“Trelig has explained to you about the Markovian stability. He has told you of the possibility of a master Markovian brain somewhere, maintaining all reality. When I reverse the bias, there is a good possibility, in theory, that New Pompeii, while within the field, will have no existence in the prime equation. I have felt this slight pull on subjects under the disk. The pull on a mass of this size may be impossible to contain, because of my power limits, or, in any case, may take more time than we have to learn how to counter.”

Mavra Chang thought hard, but she couldn’t quite follow the logic and said so.

“Well, there is a ninety percent chance or more that one of two things will happen. Either we will all cease to exist, to have ever existed—which, at least, will solve the present problem—or we will be pulled, instantaneously, to the central Markovian brain, which is most certainly not within a dozen galaxies of us. That’s galaxies, Citizen Chang, not solar systems. There is a probability that at that juncture conditions for life on New Pompeii will cease to exist.”

Mavra nodded grimly. “There’s also the possibility that you will collide with it. You may destroy the great brain, and all existence with it!”

“There exists that possibility,” Obie admitted, “but I consider it slight. The Markovian brain has lasted a long time in finite space; it has tremendous knowledge, resources, and protective mechanisms, I feel certain. There is an equal possibility that I will supplant it—and this disturbs me most of all, for I do not know enough to stabilize all New Pompeii, let alone the universe. A theory of ours is that the Markovians intended just that. It would maintain reality until a newer, fresher race came along to redirect it. The prospect frightens me, but it is, of course, also only one theory with a remote probability factor. No, the odds are that at midday tomorrow I and the whole of New Pompeii will, one way or another, cease to exist.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Mavra asked, chilled both by the fate described and by the calmness with which Obie was dismissing the possibility of the end of all existence.

“When I record, I record everything,” the computer explained. “Since memory is chemical in nature and is dependent on a mathematical relationship with self-generated energy, when I recorded you yesterday I knew what you know, have all of your knowledge and memory. Of all of them, you alone possess—so far—the only qualities for even a slight chance of escape.”

Mavra’s heart leaped. Escape! “Go on,” she told the machine.

“The sponge delivery ship will not fit your needs,” Obie told her. “It has no life-support system in the cockpit. However, it is possible for you to get aboard one of the two craft currently docked. I shall program you now, I shall give you all the details of New Pompeii as I have them, all the information you will need. I shall also modify you slightly, give you a visual range and acuity that will obviate the need for mechanical lenses and power packs. Small glands soon to be inside you will replace the need for nodules of chemicals; the fingers of your right hand will be able to inject the most powerful hypnotic from near-invisible natural injectors. Your left hand will produce a different venom; one touch and it will paralyze for an hour; two touches and it will kill any known organism. I shall also heighten your hearing and reshape, invisibly, your muscle tone so that you will be much faster, much stronger—that will give you unparalleled control of your body. The uses of all these modifications will come naturally to you.”

“But why?” she asked. “Why are you doing this for me?”

“Not for you,” the computer responded, a sad tone in its voice. “The price laid upon you is a demand, something you must do or you will find yourself unable to leave. You must fulfil the first half of your mission. You must take Nikki Zinder with you or you will stay with us. And, with the two of you goes an additional gift.”

Mavra was stunned, and nodded dully, thinking of all this.

“Also within your brain is a precious secret. There is an effective agent against the sponge. It will not cure an addict, but it will permanently arrest the mutant strain in the human body. It will save Nikki, and it will save countless thousands of others. You must get it to higher authority.”

She nodded. “I’ll try.”

“Remember!” Obie cautioned. “The activation is set for thirteen hundred standard hours. When you awaken from this dream, it will be four hundred hours. I cannot delay and hope to succeed. You must be at least a light-year away from this place by then, with Nikki. Anything less, and you will still be within the field. That means you must take off not later than eleven hundred thirty hours! When you have lifted off, if Nikki is aboard, the code you require to bypass the protection circuits will be given you. If Nikki is not aboard, it will not be given. Understand?”

“I understand,” she told the computer grimly.

“Very well, then, Mavra Chang, I wish you good luck,” Obie told her. “You have powers and abilities undreamed of by others; do not fail me or yourself.”

Mavra Chang awoke.

She looked around in the darkness, and tried to focus. Suddenly the whole place came in, clear as a bell, although the room was plainly still dark. She turned slightly on her back, and felt that tail, still there.

That, and her incredible night vision, told her that everything she had dreamed was true. She possessed other facts now—the complete knowledge of the construction and layout of New Pompeii, down to the smallest detail. She could rebuild it from memory, she knew.

She relaxed and concentrated. She didn’t know how she was doing what she was doing, or on what principles the trick worked, but she knew how to do it. In exactly three minutes she came out of the trance, looking at the little camera. It was fixed squarely on her lying on the bed, naturally. It was an automatic type that should follow her movements.

She rolled off the bed in a flash, and lay there, for a moment, on the side. Landing on the boots was uncomfortable, but it was another half-minute before she risked a look back on top of the bed.

The camera was still focused on the center of the bed—and why not? There was the nude form of Mavra Chang, tail and all, sleeping peacefully.

Mavra marveled even though she knew she was staring at a holographic image. It had been created by her own mind and by some powers she didn’t understand that had been added to her body, but she hadn’t the slightest idea how such a thing was possible. It didn’t matter, she thought pragmatically. The fact that the illusion was good up to six hours was the only important thing.

The pullover was no problem, but the body stocking proved a real nuisance. It wasn’t designed for a tail. She considered a moment about what to do, then discovered that they hadn’t merely laundered the garment, they had tailored it. The alteration included a hole through which the tailbone fitted and through which the thick, wiry hair would slip easily.

Good old Trelig, ready for everything, she thought sardonically.

Only the boots now remained a problem. She didn’t want to leave them, yet she couldn’t use them until she was outside the main building. She decided she’d just have to carry them.

They did seem much lighter to her, and for a second she wondered if they had been tampered with. She spent a couple of minutes assuring herself that they were the same. So what else could account for the change? Then she remembered Obie’s words: she was stronger by far than she had been. She accepted that.

She left in the same manner she had the night before, leaving the seals in place, face and hands blackened and energized against the infrared lenses of the cameras.

She retrieved the pistol which was, to her relief, where she had left it. She put on the holster and quietly slipped out. The forty-meter dash seemed even easier now; she wasn’t certain that she hadn’t broken a new track record.

She used the second suction ball, first dropping the boots over. She hoped there would be no further need for the wall-climbing trick; she had only two more of them.

Putting on the boots gave her more than a literal lift; she felt bigger, stronger, more invincible with them on.

Her eyes; she noted, adjusted to whatever mode was needed. She saw clearly and perfectly regardless of light conditions. She also saw things slightly differently; other colors, far outside the human spectrum, gave new and subtly different blends of a wider spectrum to all things. The sharpness and detail also amazed her; she hadn’t really realized, until Obie corrected the problem, that she had been growing nearsighted.

Her hearing, too, had improved dramatically. She heard insects in the grass and trees, and could isolate them. Scraps of conversation, a few people talking and moving far away, she could hear. The din, which included more of the ultrasonic and subsonic than normal, was irritating, but she found, with a little thought, she could tune parts of it out.

She moved swiftly and silently through the grounds, as familiar to her, somehow, as if she had been born and raised there, and she looked, in her movements, more like the cat she always fancied herself than she could know.

She had no chronograph to tell her the time remaining to her. There was a sixty-minute one on the front of the belt that could be activated, but she didn’t bother. She was moving as fast as she could; if she didn’t make it, all the chronometers in the world would make no difference.

She deplored the time spent on the survey mission the night before. But, on reflection, she decided it hadn’t been a waste after all. She was able to see what Trelig did to human beings, she retrieved the pistol, and, she felt certain, her success at her initial foray had been what made Obie pick her.

She made the guard quarters without incident, but here was where things would get rough. Two guards would be on duty here, and perhaps four more, relaxing, on call. They had all been processed by Obie, unbeknown to them, and so she recognized them all, knew their looks, strengths, and weaknesses.

They were all sponge ODs, kept that way carefully. There were three males—two with physical characteristics of overdeveloped females but with their genitals intact, one that the sponge had made into a gorilla-like muscleman, hairy and with muscles like rock. The others were females—three with totally male characteristics except in the important place, the rest with totally exaggerated female characteristics. Those like Nikki, who reacted to the overdose differently, were not considered for guard duty.

As guards they accepted their lot; they hated Trelig, yes, but they knew the hopelessness of their position and they had plenty of models around them of what would happen if they incurred their master’s displeasure and their dosages were dropped to a fraction or none at all. They were loyal to the man who controlled the sponge, and they lived fairly well because of it.

They would be dangerous.

At the guard building, Mavra’s newly acute hearing told her that there was no one near the entrance. She went inside, descended to the ground-level laundry room, and slipped in. Although she now knew the code for the elevator, she decided not to risk using it unless she had to. The building had three underground floors, each story ten meters high—not enough distance to matter.

There were pressure-sensitive treads on some of the stairs, though, and she carefully gripped the rail and lifted herself past them. She had always been a good gymnast, and the lighter gravity and Obie’s toning made doing so as easy as taking a step forward.

The sensors would be the main line of defense for the building; cameras were positioned only inside the secured weapons locker and in the prison rooms themselves.

That last was what worried her. There would be no way to fool the camera that watched Nikki Zinder, for the girl had no devices to deceive it as Mavra did. It might not notice the intruder, but it would certainly notice Nikki walking out.

Mavra took time to check out the rest of the building. Two guards—whom she didn’t recognize—were inside the weapons locker with the camera monitors. Armed to the teeth, they would respond quickly. Two others, it appeared, were sleeping on the second level. They were unarmed, but formidable enough, and, once the alarm sounded, she would have no way of knowing where they would be. She decided to take the risk.

Flexing her new poison apparatus, she saw the conscious muscle movement necessary to allow a tiny drop of the fluid to reach the point of the nails. Satisfied, she crept into the room where the two guards, both females like the one she had hypnoed the night before, were sprawled on bunks, sound asleep. One was snoring loudly.

Mavra acted quickly, almost without thinking, releasing venom concealed in the fingers of her right hand in the one that was quiet first, then turning and puncturing the arm of the snoring guard. Incredibly, neither woke up, even though there was a tiny spot of blood where the sharp nail had penetrated.

Professionals they weren’t, she decided with some relief. That ought to teach Trelig not to be so cheap and so confident with his security.

She bent over one and whispered: “You will sleep deeply and restfully, and dream happy dreams, and nothing, no person or sound, shall waken you.” She did the same to the other.

That would hold them until the venom wore off.

Next she set out for the third-level weapons locker. Trelig thought he was smart putting the duty office inside the locker; an outer office, really. It made them unassailable.

The vault door would take a ton of explosives to blow, yet it could be opened by a safety lock on the inside in seconds. But vaults were designed to keep people out.

Mavra drew her purloined pistol and fired at the lock junction, a continuous burst that caused the hard surface to start to bubble, slightly deform. It was designed that way; the strongest energy weapons would only reinforce the door by causing a more malleable outer layer to seal the locking mechanism. Great for storing jewels and art; terrible if someone was inside.

Before those two could get out or anyone else could get in, Trelig would have to blow his own safe.

Confident, almost cocky with her success, Mavra Chang went down to the other end of the hall and punched the code for Nikki Zinder’s room.

The door slid open. Nikki was there all right, sprawled out on the bed.

Mavra hardly had time to react before a stun bolt froze her stiff.