The Czillian appeared surprised. “Is the North necessary?”

“It is. It’s their fight, too, remember. And consider this. I have reports of a large number of Entries winding up as Northerners.”

“But that’s impossible!”

“Uh uh. We have only 780 hexes here in the South, all in careful balance. The population’s maintained, stablilized by the Well so it never exceeds the available resources. It’s overloaded already. We’re doubling the population, you realize that? And there’s no end to them! So the Well’s kicked in its emergency system—it’s started filling in Northern Hexes as well to distribute the flood tide. And that means Brazil now has loads of Northern followers as well.”

“But he can’t get past North Zone,” the Czillian pointed out. “You know the Well Gates don’t work that way.”

“I only know that centuries ago a whole shitload of Southerners, Chang included, went North. We can’t afford to overlook anything. It’d be just like the son of a bitch to come back to Zone, go to North Zone, then into an Avenue from the other side. Who’d expect it?”

“I’ll set the Council session up,” the plant-creature responded meekly. “Anything else?”

“Yeah. As quickly as possible, I want reports on Chang and the other two who came in with her. I want to know what they are, where they are, and what they are doing now. Let’s move!”

The Czillian left hurriedly, and the door to the Ulik Embassy at South Zone hissed closed. Serge Ortega leaned back wearily on his massive, coiled serpentine tail and sighed, then turned silent, his six arms folded contemplatively. He rocked back and forth, slowly, as if meditating, although actually he was deep in thought. The silence was absolute.

And then, quite suddenly, it was broken by the sound of someone clearing its throat.

Ortega jumped and whirled, shocked by the sound, then stopped, staring wide-eyed at the intruder, who was lounging quite comfortably on a cotlike couch.