The chills were back, although Ortega couldn’t say why he believed this man. “That’s impossible,” he retorted. “The Well doesn’t work that way.”

“I know it doesn’t,” the newcomer responded, unperturbed. “If you say so.”

“Maybe you had better explain yourself,” the ambassador said warily.

Gypsy laughed. “No, I don’t think so. Not right now, anyway. But I found your conversation with the Czillian fascinating. You took a lot longer to catch on than we’d figured, you know.”

That was the most irritating comment so far, mostly because Ortega had to agree with Gypsy. He didn’t like being suckered. He liked to be, and usually was, in control.

“Anyway,” Gypsy continued, “I’m here to talk to you. Just talk. As an ambassador, you might say, from the newcomers.”

“From Brazil, you mean.”

“Him, too,” Gypsy admitted. “Mostly you got it doped out right now and we want to know what you’re gonna do next.”

Suspicion creeped into Ortega. “You’re not another Markovian, like Brazil?” he suggested. “I kind of figured if there was one, there were more.”

Gypsy laughed. “No, not another Markovian. I’m not even as old as you are, Ortega. And Brazil—well, I’m not sure what he is, but I don’t think he’s a Markovian.”

“He claims to be God,” Ortega pointed out.

Gypsy laughed again. “Well, maybe he is. I don’t know. And you know what? I don’t really give a damn. All I know, all anybody knows, is that he’s the only guy around who knows how to work the Well of Souls. That’s all that really matters, isn’t it? Not who or what he is, or you are, or I am. But, no, that’s wrong. What you are counts a little, I think. That’s why I’m here.”

Ortega’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Why?”

“Why don’t you let ’em get in there, Ortega? Make it easy on them. You know he ain’t gonna do anything to louse up your little empire here. He doesn’t give a damn.”