[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
fellow-I used to teach, you know-but I can already tell that something is happening. I'm ten
percent dumber than yesterday, but that doesn't really mean much if you start reasonably high.
But if you have an IQ of around 150, well, figure out the time."
Mavra did. If Renard had been a 150 capacity yesterday, he was a 135 today. Okay, not really
noticeable. But that meant 122 tomorrow, 110 the day after, putting him at about average ability.
Then the deterioration really started, though. 110 would become 99, and 99 would be 89. That was
slow-what was that, four more days? Then 80 in five, 72 in six-a low-grade moron. 65 in a week,
about the mental and motor levels of a three-year-old child. After that- perhaps an automaton, or
some sort of animalistic type, since memory would still be there, it was ability that was being
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attacked.
"Nikki?" she wondered.
"Less time, I'm sure. Maybe a day or two less to the critical point," Renard responded.
Mavra thought for a moment. A week, no more, maybe less. She wondered what it was like, living
with the knowledge of an inevitable, creeping death sentence. Did Renard really believe such a
thing could happen to him? No one could conceive realistically of their own death, she once read.
But as the process continued, and you knew it continued, the frustration and fear would mount.
She reached over, gently took his arm. He moved next to her. Suddenly, with her lightning
speed, she pricked his arm with some of the hypnotic fluid and injected a full load. He started
hi surprise, then seemed to go limp.
"Renard, listen to me," she commanded.
"Yes, Mavra," he responded, sounding something like a little child.
"Now, you will trust me completely. You will believe in me and my abilities completely, and do
what I say without question," she told him. "You will feel strong and good and well, and you will
not feel any pain, longing, ache, or agony from the sponge. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, Mavra," he repeated dully.
"Furthermore, you will not think of the sponge. You will not think you are going to die, or
fall apart. The thoughts just will not enter your mind. When you wake up each morning, you will
not notice yourself as being any different than you have ever been, nor will you notice any
difference in Nikki. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mavra," he agreed.
"Okay, then. Now you will go over to your place and lie down and get a really good, deep,
dreamless sleep, and wake up feeling wonderful with no memory of this conversation, but you will
do as I have told you. Now-go!"
He broke free from her and went back over to where his clothing was spread out, lay down, and
in seconds was sound asleep.
The suggestion wouldn't last, of course. She knew that. She would have to renew it every once
in a while, and now she'd have to try the same thing on Nikki, also putting thoughts of her
consuming hunger out of her mind.
But it would only make her problem easier, not theirs. They would continue to deteriorate, to
disintegrate, until she would no longer be able to control them or influence them.
Six days maximum to that point.
Emotion welled up in her. Somewhere, someone on this crazy world knew how to help them, could
help them, would help them. She had to believe that. Had to.
Six days.
She moved silently over to Nikki Zinder.
SOUTH POLAR ZONE, THE WELL WORLD
It looked like any major businessman's office. There were maps, charts, and diagrams all
over the walls, some strange-looking furniture, and a massive U-shaped desk that concealed large
numbers of controls and also contained writing implements, communications devices, and the like.
There was even a pistol of a strange sort in the upper left-hand desk drawer.
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file:///F|/rah/Jack%20L.%20Chalker/Chalker,%20Jack%20L%20-%20W...f%20Souls%2002%20-%20Exiles%20at%20the%20Well%20of%20Souls.TXT
But the creature who sat behind that great desk, looking at a series of maps spread out before
him, was not a human being in any sense of the word, although he definitely was strictly
business.
He had a chocolate-brown human torso, incredibly broad and ribbed so that the chest muscles
seemed to form squarish plates. A head, oval-shaped, was equally brown and hairless except for a
huge white walrus mustache under a broad, flat nose. Six arms, arranged in threes, were spaced
evenly in pairs down that torso and attached, except for the top pair, on ball sockets like those
of a crab. Below that strange torso it all melted into an enormous brown-and-yellow striped
series of scales leading to a huge, coiled serpentine lower half. If outstretched, the snakelike
body would easily cover over five meters.
The creature used his lower pair of arms to spread out what proved to be a map of the southern
and eastern hemisphere of the Well World. It looked like an odd assembly of perfectly equal
hexagrams printed in black, with surprinting hi a variety of colors to show topography and water
areas. While the lower arms kept the map spread wide, the upper left arm ticked off various hexes
with a broad pencil, while the upper right hand jotted down notations on a pad with a different
pencil.
The middle left hand punched an intercom to one side.
"Yes, sir?" a female voice asked politely.
"I'll need close-ups of hexes twelve, twenty-six, forty-four, sixty-eight, and two hundred
forty-nine," he told the secretary in a deep, rich bass voice. "Also, kindly ask the Czillian
ambassador to call on me as soon as possible." He switched off without waiting for
acknowledgment.
The creature studied the map again and tried to think. Nine sections total. Nine. Why did that
strike a bell?
A buzzer sounded. He flipped a switch on a different intercom to his right. "Serge Ortega," he
answered curtly.
"Ortega? Gol Miter, Shamozan," came a thin, reedy voice Ortega knew was coming from a
translator device.
"Yes, Gol? What is it?" He glanced quickly at his map. Oh, yes, the three-meter-diameter
tarantulas. Memory is the first thing to go, he told himself sourly.
"We have a plot on the new satellite. It's definitely artificial; some of the shots from the
North Zone telescopes have been fantastic. We did some spectroanalysis. The atmosphere is a
pretty standard Southern Hemisphere mix, heavy on the nitrogen and oxygen, lots of water vapor.
The pictures and our stuff match up pretty good. The thing is divided hi half, with some sort of
physical-not energy-bubble over it about two or three kilometers from the surface. That's why we
can't get much surface detail. Too much distortion. Definitely green stuff all over, though, like
somebody's garden, and some really vague stuff that could be buildings. As if somebody's got
their own little private city-world there."
Serge Ortega thought a moment. "What about the other half?"
"Not much. Raw rock, mostly standard metamor-phic stuff. Probably the only part of the
original natural object left. Except about halfway between equator and south pole, where there's
some kind of huge, shiny disk-shaped object practically built into the thing."
Ortega frowned. "Propulsion unit?"
"I doubt it," replied the giant spider. "This thing doesn't seem to have been built for
travel. That bubble is supported by an atmospheric renewal unit for sure. It undulates. Anything
other than regular oribital movement would collapse it. There's a point near the edge on one side [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl chiara76.opx.pl
fellow-I used to teach, you know-but I can already tell that something is happening. I'm ten
percent dumber than yesterday, but that doesn't really mean much if you start reasonably high.
But if you have an IQ of around 150, well, figure out the time."
Mavra did. If Renard had been a 150 capacity yesterday, he was a 135 today. Okay, not really
noticeable. But that meant 122 tomorrow, 110 the day after, putting him at about average ability.
Then the deterioration really started, though. 110 would become 99, and 99 would be 89. That was
slow-what was that, four more days? Then 80 in five, 72 in six-a low-grade moron. 65 in a week,
about the mental and motor levels of a three-year-old child. After that- perhaps an automaton, or
some sort of animalistic type, since memory would still be there, it was ability that was being
file:///F|/rah/Jack%20L.%20Chalker/Chalker,%20...0-%20Exiles%20at%20the%20Well%20of%20Souls.TXT (70 of 183) [7/1/03 1:17:05 AM]
file:///F|/rah/Jack%20L.%20Chalker/Chalker,%20Jack%20L%20-%20W...f%20Souls%2002%20-%20Exiles%20at%20the%20Well%20of%20Souls.TXT
attacked.
"Nikki?" she wondered.
"Less time, I'm sure. Maybe a day or two less to the critical point," Renard responded.
Mavra thought for a moment. A week, no more, maybe less. She wondered what it was like, living
with the knowledge of an inevitable, creeping death sentence. Did Renard really believe such a
thing could happen to him? No one could conceive realistically of their own death, she once read.
But as the process continued, and you knew it continued, the frustration and fear would mount.
She reached over, gently took his arm. He moved next to her. Suddenly, with her lightning
speed, she pricked his arm with some of the hypnotic fluid and injected a full load. He started
hi surprise, then seemed to go limp.
"Renard, listen to me," she commanded.
"Yes, Mavra," he responded, sounding something like a little child.
"Now, you will trust me completely. You will believe in me and my abilities completely, and do
what I say without question," she told him. "You will feel strong and good and well, and you will
not feel any pain, longing, ache, or agony from the sponge. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, Mavra," he repeated dully.
"Furthermore, you will not think of the sponge. You will not think you are going to die, or
fall apart. The thoughts just will not enter your mind. When you wake up each morning, you will
not notice yourself as being any different than you have ever been, nor will you notice any
difference in Nikki. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mavra," he agreed.
"Okay, then. Now you will go over to your place and lie down and get a really good, deep,
dreamless sleep, and wake up feeling wonderful with no memory of this conversation, but you will
do as I have told you. Now-go!"
He broke free from her and went back over to where his clothing was spread out, lay down, and
in seconds was sound asleep.
The suggestion wouldn't last, of course. She knew that. She would have to renew it every once
in a while, and now she'd have to try the same thing on Nikki, also putting thoughts of her
consuming hunger out of her mind.
But it would only make her problem easier, not theirs. They would continue to deteriorate, to
disintegrate, until she would no longer be able to control them or influence them.
Six days maximum to that point.
Emotion welled up in her. Somewhere, someone on this crazy world knew how to help them, could
help them, would help them. She had to believe that. Had to.
Six days.
She moved silently over to Nikki Zinder.
SOUTH POLAR ZONE, THE WELL WORLD
It looked like any major businessman's office. There were maps, charts, and diagrams all
over the walls, some strange-looking furniture, and a massive U-shaped desk that concealed large
numbers of controls and also contained writing implements, communications devices, and the like.
There was even a pistol of a strange sort in the upper left-hand desk drawer.
file:///F|/rah/Jack%20L.%20Chalker/Chalker,%20...0-%20Exiles%20at%20the%20Well%20of%20Souls.TXT (71 of 183) [7/1/03 1:17:06 AM]
file:///F|/rah/Jack%20L.%20Chalker/Chalker,%20Jack%20L%20-%20W...f%20Souls%2002%20-%20Exiles%20at%20the%20Well%20of%20Souls.TXT
But the creature who sat behind that great desk, looking at a series of maps spread out before
him, was not a human being in any sense of the word, although he definitely was strictly
business.
He had a chocolate-brown human torso, incredibly broad and ribbed so that the chest muscles
seemed to form squarish plates. A head, oval-shaped, was equally brown and hairless except for a
huge white walrus mustache under a broad, flat nose. Six arms, arranged in threes, were spaced
evenly in pairs down that torso and attached, except for the top pair, on ball sockets like those
of a crab. Below that strange torso it all melted into an enormous brown-and-yellow striped
series of scales leading to a huge, coiled serpentine lower half. If outstretched, the snakelike
body would easily cover over five meters.
The creature used his lower pair of arms to spread out what proved to be a map of the southern
and eastern hemisphere of the Well World. It looked like an odd assembly of perfectly equal
hexagrams printed in black, with surprinting hi a variety of colors to show topography and water
areas. While the lower arms kept the map spread wide, the upper left arm ticked off various hexes
with a broad pencil, while the upper right hand jotted down notations on a pad with a different
pencil.
The middle left hand punched an intercom to one side.
"Yes, sir?" a female voice asked politely.
"I'll need close-ups of hexes twelve, twenty-six, forty-four, sixty-eight, and two hundred
forty-nine," he told the secretary in a deep, rich bass voice. "Also, kindly ask the Czillian
ambassador to call on me as soon as possible." He switched off without waiting for
acknowledgment.
The creature studied the map again and tried to think. Nine sections total. Nine. Why did that
strike a bell?
A buzzer sounded. He flipped a switch on a different intercom to his right. "Serge Ortega," he
answered curtly.
"Ortega? Gol Miter, Shamozan," came a thin, reedy voice Ortega knew was coming from a
translator device.
"Yes, Gol? What is it?" He glanced quickly at his map. Oh, yes, the three-meter-diameter
tarantulas. Memory is the first thing to go, he told himself sourly.
"We have a plot on the new satellite. It's definitely artificial; some of the shots from the
North Zone telescopes have been fantastic. We did some spectroanalysis. The atmosphere is a
pretty standard Southern Hemisphere mix, heavy on the nitrogen and oxygen, lots of water vapor.
The pictures and our stuff match up pretty good. The thing is divided hi half, with some sort of
physical-not energy-bubble over it about two or three kilometers from the surface. That's why we
can't get much surface detail. Too much distortion. Definitely green stuff all over, though, like
somebody's garden, and some really vague stuff that could be buildings. As if somebody's got
their own little private city-world there."
Serge Ortega thought a moment. "What about the other half?"
"Not much. Raw rock, mostly standard metamor-phic stuff. Probably the only part of the
original natural object left. Except about halfway between equator and south pole, where there's
some kind of huge, shiny disk-shaped object practically built into the thing."
Ortega frowned. "Propulsion unit?"
"I doubt it," replied the giant spider. "This thing doesn't seem to have been built for
travel. That bubble is supported by an atmospheric renewal unit for sure. It undulates. Anything
other than regular oribital movement would collapse it. There's a point near the edge on one side [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]