01. Midnight At the Well of Souls (12 page)

"How'd the Worthy get out of it?" the first one asked.

"Mudiul got a virus and it got the Elder quarantined for nine years," chortled the other. "By the time the Worthy got out the Board had closed down the project and redistributed the staff. The Old One's got off on whether rocks have souls, and that ought to keep the Worthy out of harm's way until rot wipes the Worthy."

They went on like that for some time, and the conversation did little to clear up anything in Vardia's mind. About the only useful fact that came out of the discussion was the obvious limits of third-person-singular pronouns in the language.

She noticed that both wore gold chains around their necks as their only adornment of any kind, but, trying not to be conspicuous, she couldn't see what was fastened to them.

They had been walking for some time now, and several other things came into her mind. First, the locals seemed to live in communities. She passed groups of them here and there, their numbers ranging from three or four to several dozen. Yet there were no signs of buildings. The groupings seemed to be like camp circles, but without the fire. Occasionally she could glimpse mysterious artifacts here and there in the midst of the groups, but nothing large enough to stand out. Some groups seemed to be singing, some dancing, some both, while others were engaged in animated conversations so complex and esoteric that they melded into a tuneful chatter like a blending of insects.

Also, she was aware very suddenly, she felt neither tired nor hungry. That was a good thing, she reflected, since she had no idea what these people ate.

She continued to think in her own, old language, but had no trouble understanding others with their singsong chirping so alien to her.

The two she had been following took a side path down toward a large grouping that was gathered in a particularly attractive spot. It was a pastoral setting of multicolored flowers and bushes alongside a fast-flowing stream.

She stopped at the junction of the main road and the access trail to the lake, partially blocking the side trail. Someone came up behind her and brushed past her, making her conscious of her blocking.

"I'm sorry," she said automatically and stepped to one side.

"That's all right," the other replied and continued on.

It was almost a full minute before she realized that she had spoken and been understood!

She hurried after the being who had spoken, now far ahead.

"Wait! Please!" she called after the creature. "I need your help!"

The other stopped and turned, a puzzled expression on it.

"What seems to be the trouble?" the creature asked as she came up to him.

"I—I am lost and confused," she blurted out to the other. "I have just—just become one of you, and I don't know where I am or what I'm supposed to do."

Realization hit the other. "A new Entry! Well, well! We haven't had an Entry in Czill in my lifetime! Well, of course you're confused. Come! You shall sleep with us tonight and you will tell us of your origin and we'll tell you of Czill," it said eagerly, like a child with a new toy. "Come!"

She followed the creature down to the grove. It moved very quickly, and eagerly gathered its companions as fast as possible, excitedly telling them that they had an Entry in Riverbend, as the camp was apparently called.

Vardia took all the attention nervously, still bashful and unsure of herself.

They gathered around asking questions by the hundreds, all at once, each one canceling out the others in the general din. Finally, one with a particularly strong voice appealed for quiet over the noise, and after some work, got it.

"Take it easy!" it shouted, making calming gestures. "Can't you see the poor one's scared to death? Wouldn't you be if, say, you went to sleep this night and woke up a Pia?" Satisfied, it turned to Vardia and said gently, "How long have you been in Czill?"

"I—I have just arrived," she told them. "You are the first persons I've talked to. I wasn't even—well, I wasn't sure
how."
 

"Well, you've fallen into the worst pack of jabbering conversationalists," the one with the loud voice said, amusement in its tone. "I am Brouder, and I will not try to introduce everyone else here. We'll likely draw a bigger and bigger crowd as word of you gets around."

It was interesting, she thought, that such weird whistlings and clickings should be instantly translated in her mind to their Confederacy equivalents. The creature's name was
not
Brouder, of course—it was a short whistle, five clicks, a long whistle, and a descending series of clicks. Yet that was what the name said in her mind, and it seemed to work in reverse as well.

"I am Vardia Diplo Twelve Sixty-one," she told them, "from Nueva Albion."

"A Comworlder!" someone's voice exclaimed. "No wonder it wound up here!"

"Pay the critics no mind, Vardia," Brouder told her. "They're just showing off their education." That last was said with a great deal of mysterious sarcasm.

"What did you do before you came here?" someone asked.

"My job?" Vardia responded. "Why, I was a diplomatic courier between Nueva Albion and Coriolanus."

"See?" Brouder snorted. "An educated one!"

"I'll still bet the Apprentice can't read!" called out that one in the back.

"Forget the comments," Brouder urged her with a wave of its tentacle. "We're really a friendly group. I was—is something the matter?" it asked suddenly.

"Feeling dizzy," she replied, the ground and crowd suddenly reeling a bit. She reached out to steady herself on Brouder. "Funny," she muttered. "So sudden."

"It comes on like that," Brouder replied. "I should have thought of it. Come on, I'll help you down to the stream."

It took her down to the rushing water, which had a strangely soothing effect on her. It walked her into the water.

"Just stand here a few minutes," the Czillian told her. "Come back up when you feel better."

Automatically, she found, something like tendrils were coming out of small cavities in her feet and were digging into the shallow riverbed. She drank in the cool water through them, and the dizziness and faintness seemed to evaporate.

She looked at the riverbank and saw that they were all watching her, a line of fifteen or twenty light-green, sexless creatures with staring eyes and floppy leaves on their heads. Feeling suddenly excellent once more, she retracted her tendrils and walked stiffly back to the bank.

"Feel all right now?" Brouder asked. "It was stupid of us—you naturally wouldn't have had much water in you. You're the first Entry in some time, and the first one ever for us. Please, if you feel in the least bit strange or ill, let us know. We take so much for granted."

The concern in its voice was genuine, she knew, and she took comfort from it.
All
of them had looked concerned when she had been out in the river.

She really felt she was among friends now.

"Will you answer some of my questions, then?" she asked them.

"Go ahead," Brouder told her.

"Well—these will sound stupid to you all, of course, but this whole business is entirely new to me," she began. "First off, what am I? That is, what are we?"

"I'm Gringer," another approached. "Perhaps I can answer that one. You are a Czillian. The land is called Czill, and while that explains nothing, it at least gives you a label."

"What does the name mean?" she asked.

Gringer gave the Czillian equivalent of a shrug. "Nothing, really. Most names don't mean anything these days. They probably all did once, but nobody knows anymore.

"Anyway, we are unusual in these parts because we are plants rather than animals of some sort. There are other sentient plant-beings on the Well World, eleven in the South here and nine in the North, although I'm not sure those are really plants as we understand them. We're a distinct minority here, anyway. But there are great advantages to being in the vegetable kingdom."

"Like what?" she asked, fascinated in spite of herself.

"Well, we are not dependent on any sort of food. Our bodies make it by converting light from the sun, as most plants do. Just get a few hours of real or artificial sun a day and you will never starve. You do need some minerals from the soil, but these are common to much of the Well World, so there are few places you can't get along. Water is your only need, and you need it only once every few days. Your body will tell you when—as it did just now. If you get into a regular routine of drinking, you will never feel dizzy or faint nor will you risk your health from its lack. There is also no sex here, none of those primal drives that get the animals in such a neurotic jumble."

"Such things have been minimized on my home planet," she responded. "It would appear from what you say that I will not find this place that far from my own social concepts. But, if you have no sexes, do you reproduce by some artificial means?"

The crowd chuckled at this.

"No," Gringer responded, "all races on the Well World are self-contained biological units that could survive, given certain ecological conditions, without any aids. We reproduce slowly, for we are among the oldest-lived folk on the planet. When something happens to require additional population, then we plant ourselves for an extended period and produce another of ourselves by fission. This is far more practical than the other way, for everything that we are is duplicated, cell for cell, so that the new growth is an exact copy that contains even the same memories and personalities. Thus, even though you will wear out in a few centuries, you will also live forever—for the growths are so identical that not even we are certain which one is which."

Vardia looked around, studying the crowd. "Are there any such twins here?" she asked.

"No," Gringer replied. "We tend to split up, stay far apart, until the years make us into different folk by the variety of experiences. We live in small camps, like this one, drawn from different occupations and interests, so that the camps provide a wide range of folk and keep things from getting too dull."

"What do you do for work?" Vardia asked. "I mean, most—ah, animal civilizations are devoted to food production, building and maintaining shelters, educating the young, and manufacturing. You don't seem to need any of those things."

"This is true," Brouder acknowledged. "Freed from the animal demands of food, clothing, shelter, and sex, we are able to turn ourselves to those pursuits to which other races must, because of the primacy of those needs, devote only a small part of their endeavors."

Vardia was more puzzled than ever. "What sort of activities do you mean?" she asked.

"We think," Brouder replied.

"What Brouder means," Gringer cut in, seeing her uncomprehending look, "is that we are researchers into almost every area. You may think of us as a giant university. We collect knowledge, sort it, play with problems both practical and theoretical, and add to the greater body of knowledge. Had you followed the main road in the other direction, you would have come upon the Center, which is where those of us who need lab facilities and technical tools work and where people following similar lines meet to discuss their findings and their problems."

Vardia's mind tried to grasp it, and could not. "Why?" she asked.

Brouder and Gringer both showed expressions of surprise. "Why what?" Gringer asked.

"Why do you do such work? To what goal?"

This disturbed them, and there were animated conversations through the gathered crowd. Vardia was equally disturbed by the reaction to her question, which she had considered very straightforward. She thought perhaps she had been misunderstood.

"I mean," she said, "to what end is all of this research? You do not seem to use it yourself, so who is it for?"

Gringer seemed about to have a fit of some kind. "But the quest for knowledge is the only thing that separates sentient beings from the most common grasses or lowest animals!" the Czillian said a bit shrilly.

Brouder's tone was almost patronizing, as if addressing a small child. "Look," the researcher said to her, "what do
you
think is the end result for civilization? What is the goal of your people?"

"Why, to exist in happiness and harmony with all others for all times," she replied as if reciting a liturgy—which is what it was, taught from the day she was produced at the Birth Factory.

Gringer's long tentacles showed agitation. Its right one reached down and pulled up a single blade of the yellowish grass that grew for kilometers in all directions. It pushed the long stalk in front of her, waving it like a pointer. "This blade of grass is happy," Gringer stated flatly. "It gets what it needs to survive. It doesn't think or need to think. It remains happy even though I've pulled it up and it will die. It doesn't know that, and won't even know it when it's dead. Its relatives out there on the plains are the same. They fit your definition of the ultimate goal of civilized society. It knows nothing, and in perfect ignorance is its total perfection and its harmony with its surroundings. Shall we, then, create a way to turn all sentient beings into blades of field grass? Shall we, then, have achieved the ultimate in evolution?"

Vardia's mind spun. This sort of logic and these kinds of questions were outside her experience and her orderly, programmed universe. She had no answers for these—heresies, were they? Cornered but as yet unwilling to give up the true faith, she regressed.

"I want to go back to my own world," she wailed plaintively.

Brouder's expression was sad, and pity swept the crowd, pity not only at her philosophical dilemma but also for her people, the billions blindly devoted to such a hollow goal. Its rubbery tentacle wrapped itself around hers, and pulled her back into the reddish-brown, upturned soil of the camp.

"Any other questions or problems can wait," it said gently. "You will have time to learn and to fit here. It is getting dark now, and you need rest."

The shadows were getting long, and the distant sun had become an orange ball on the horizon. For the first time since waking up, she
did
feel tired, and a slight chill went through her.