PRIEST-KINGSOF GOR

Volume three of theChronicles of Counter-

Earthby John Norman

Published Dec, 1968, byBallantine

Cover art by Boris Vallejo

This ePub edition byDead^Man Dec, 2010

Once Tarl Cabot had been the mighestwarrior of Gor, the strange world ofcounter earth. But now on all the planet,he had no friends except the tarn, themighty bird on which he flew.

He was a out cast, with every handaganist him. His home city had beendestroyed, his loved ones scattered orkilled. And that was at the orders of thePriest-Kings, those mysterious beingswho ruled absolutely over Gor.

No man had ever seen a Priest-King.They where said to dwell somewhere inthe mountians of Sardar. And none whoentered that forbidden land ever returnedalive.

Nonetheless, Tarl Cabot head into themountians of Sardar!

CONTENTSChapter One THE FAIR OF

EN’KARAChapter Two IN THE SARDARChapter Three PARPChapter Four THE HALL OF

PRIEST-KINGSChapter Five VIKAChapter Six WHEN PRIEST-

KINGS WALKChapter Seven I HUNT FOR

PRIEST-KINGSChapter Eight VIKA LEAVES

THE CHAMBERChapter Nine THE PRIEST-

KINGChapter Ten MISK THE

PRIEST-KINGChapter Eleven SARM THE

PRIEST-KINGChapter Twelve THE TWO

MULSChapter Thirteen THE SLIME

WORMChapter Fourteen THE SECRET

CHAMBER OF MISKChapter Fifteen IN THE

SECRET CHAMBERChapter Sixteen THE PLOT OF

MISKChapter Seventeen THE

SCANNING ROOMChapter Eighteen I SPEAK

WITH SARM

Chapter Nineteen DIE, TARLCABOT

Chapter Twenty COLLAR 708Chapter Twenty-One I FIND

MISKChapter Twenty-Two TO THE

TUNNELS OF THE GOLDENBEETLE

Chapter Twenty-Three I FINDVIKA

Chapter Twenty-Four THEGOLDEN BEETLE

Chapter Twenty-Five THEVIVARIUM

Chapter Twenty-Six THESAFEKEEPING OF VIKA OFTREVE

Chapter Twenty-Seven IN THECHAMBER OF THE MOTHER

Chapter Twenty-EightGRAVITATIONAL DISRUPTION

Chapter Twenty-NineANETHESITIZATION

Chapter Thirty SARM’S PLANChapter Thirty-One SARM’S

REVENGEChapter Thirty Two TO THE

SURFACEChapter Thirty Three OUT OF

THE SARDARChapter Thirty Four MEN OF

KO-RO-BAChapter Thirty Five THE NIGHT

OF THE PRIEST-KING

Chapter OneTHE FAIR OF EN’KARA

I, Tarl Cabot, formerly of Earth,am one who is known to the Priest-Kings of Gor.

It came about late in the month ofEn’Kara in the year 10,117 from thefounding of the City of Ar that Icame to the Hall of Priest-Kings inthe Sardar Mountains on the planetGor, our Counter-Earth.

I had arrived four days before ontarnback at the black palisade thatencircles the dreaded Sardar, those

dark mountains, crowned with ice,consecrated to the Priest-Kings,forbidden to me, to mortals, to allcreatures of flesh and blood.

The tarn, my gigantic, hawklikemount, had been unsaddled andfreed, for it could not accompanyme into the Sardar. Once it hadtried to carry me over the palisadeinto the mountains, but never againwould I have essayed that flight. Ithad been caught in the shield of thePri1est-Kings, invisible, not to beevaded, undoubtedly a field ofsome sort, which had so acted onthe bird, perhaps affecting themechanism of the inner ear, that the

creature had become incapable ofcontrolling itself and had fallendisoriented and confused to theearth below. None of the animals ofGor, as far as I knew, could enterthe Sardar. Only men could enter,and they did not return.

I regretted freeing the tarn, for itwas a fine bird, powerful,intelligent, fierce, courageous,loyal. And, strangely, I think itcared for me. At least I cared for it.

And only with harsh words couldI drive it away, and when itdisappeared in the distance,puzzled, perhaps hurt, I wept.

It was not far to the fair of

En’Kara, one of the four great fairsheld in the shadow of the Sardarduring the Gorean year, and I soonwalked slowly down the longcentral avenue between the tents,the booths and stalls, the pavilionsand stockades of the fair, towardthe high, brassbound timber gate,formed of black logs, beyond whichlies the Sardar itself, the sanctuaryof this world’s gods, known to themen below the mountains, themortals, only as Priest-Kings.

I would stop briefly at the fair,for I must purchase food for thejourney into the Sardar and I mustentrust a leather – bound package to

some member of the Caste ofScribes, a package which containedan account of what had occurred atthe City of Tharna in the pastmonths, a short history of eventswhich I thought should be recorded.

I wished that I had had longer tovisit the fair for on anotheroccasion at another time I shouldhave sought eagerly to examine itswares, drink at its taverns, talk withits merchants and attend its contests,for these fairs are free ground forthe many competitive, hostileGorean cities, and provide almostthe sole opportunity for the citizensof various cities to meet peaceably

with one another.It is little wonder that the cities

of Gor support and welcome thefairs. Sometimes they provide acommon ground on which territorialand commercial dispute may beamicably resolved without loss ofhonour, plenipotentiaries of warringcities having apparently met byaccident among the silkenpavilions.

Further, members of castes suchas the Physicians and Builders usethe fairs for the dissemination ofinformation and techniques amongCaste Brothers, as is prescribed intheir codes in spite of the fact that

their respective cities may behostile. And as might be expectedmembers of the Caste of Scribesgather here to enter into dispute andexamine and trade manuscripts.

My small friend, Torm of Ko-ro-ba, of the Caste of Scribes, hadbeen to the fairs four times in hislife. He informed me that in thistime he had refuted seven hundredand eight scribes from fifty-sevencities, but I will not vouch for theaccuracy of this report, as Isometimes suspect that Torm, likemost members of his caste, andmine, tends to be a bit too sanguinein recounting his numerous

victories. Moreover I have neverbeen too clear as to the grounds onwhich the disputes of scribes are tobe adjudicated, and it is not tooinfrequently that both disputantsleave the field each fully convincedthat he has the best of the contest. Indifferences among member of myown caste, that of the Warriors, it iseasier to tell who has carried theday, for the defeated one often lieswounded or slain at the victor’sfeet. In the contests of scribes, onthe other hand, the blood that isspilled is invisible and the valiantfoemen retire in good order,reviling their enemies and

recouping their forces for the nextday’s campaign. I do not hold thisagainst the contests of scribes;rather I commend it to the membersof my 1own caste.

I missed Torm and wondered if Iwould ever see him again, boundingabout excoriating the authors ofdusty scrolls, knocking the inkwellfrom his desk with an imperialsweep of his blue robe, leaping onthe table in birdlike fury denouncingone scribe or another forindependently rediscovering anidea that had already appeared in acentury – old manuscript known toTorm of course but not to the

luckless scribe in question, rubbinghis nose, shivering, leaping down tothrust his feet against theeverpresentm overloaded charcoalbrazier that invariably burned underhis table, amid the litter of hisscraps and parchments, regardlessof whatever the outside temperaturemight be.

I supposed Torm might beanywhere, for those of Ko-ro-bahad been scattered by the Priest-Kings. I would not search the fairfor him, nor if he were here would Imake my presence known, for bythe will of the Priest-Kings no twomen of Ko – ro-ba might stand

together, and I had no wish tojeopardise the little scribe. Gorwould be the poorer were it not forhis furious eccentricities; theCounter-Earth would simply not bethe same without belligerent,exasperated little Torm.

I smiled to myself. if I shouldmeet him I knew he would thrusthimself upon me and insist uponbeing taken into the Sardar, thoughhe would known it would mean hisdeath, and I would have to bundlehim in his blue robes, hurl him intoa rain barrel and make my escape.Perhaps it would be safer to drophim into a well. Torm had stumbled

into more than one well in his lifeand no one who knew him wouldthink it strange to find himsputtering about at the bottom ofone.

The fairs incidentally aregoverned by Merchant Law andsupported by booth rents and taxeslevied on the items exchanged. Thecommercial facilities of these fairs,from money changing to generalbanking, are the finest I know of onGor, save those in Ar’s Street ofCoins, and letters of credit areaccepted and loans negotiated,though often at usurious rates, withwhat seems reckless indifference.

Yet perhaps this is not so puzzling,for the Gorean cities will, withintheir own walls, enforce theMerchant Law when pertinent, evenagainst their own citizens. If theydid not, of course, the fairs wouldbe closed to the citizens of that city.

The contests I mentioned whichtake place at the fairs are, as wouldbe expected, peaceable, or I shouldsay, at least do not involve contestsof arms. Indeed it is considered acrime against the Priest-Kings tobloody one’s weapons at the fairs.The Priest-Kings, I might note,seem to be more tolerant ofbloodshed in other localities.

Contests of arms, fought to thedeath, whereas they may not takeplace at the fairs are not unknownon Gor, and are popular in somecities. Contests of this sort, mostoften involving criminals andimpoverished soldiers of fortune,offer prizes of amnesty or gold andare customarily sponsored by richmen to win the approval of thepopulace of their cities. Sometimesthese men are merchants who wishthereby to secure goodwill for theirproducts; sometimes they arepractitioners of law, who hope tosway the votes of jury men;sometimes they are Ubars or High

Initiates who find it in theirinterests to keep the crowdsamused. Such contests, in which lifeis lost, used to be popular at Ar, forexample, being sponsored in thatcity by the Caste of Initiates, whoregard themselves as being theintermediaries between Priest –Kings and men, though I suspectthat, at least on the whole, theyknow as little about the Priest-Kings as do other men. Thesecontests, it might be mentioned,were banned in Ar when Kazrak ofPort Kar became administrator ofthat city. It was not an action whichwas popular with the powerful

Caste of Initiates.The contests at the fairs,

however, I am pleased to say, offernothing more dangerous thanwrestling, with no holds to thedeath permitted. Most of thecontests involve such things asracing, feats of strength, and skillwith bow and spear. Other contestsof interest pit choruses and poetsand players of various cities againstone another in the several theatresof the fair. I had a friend once,Andreas of the desert city of Tor, ofthe Caste of Poets, who had oncesung at the fair and won a cap filledwith gold. And perhaps it is hardly

necessary to add that the streets ofthe fair abound with jugglers,puppeteers, musicians and acrobatswho, far from the theatres, competein their ancient fashions for thecopper tarn disks of the broiling,turbulent crowds.

Many are the objects for sale atthe fair. I passed among wines andtextiles and raw wool, silks, andbrocades, copperware and glazedpottery, carpets and tapestries,lumber, furs, hides, salt, arms andarrows, saddles and harness, ringsand bracelets and necklaces, beltsand sandals, lamps and oils,medicines and meats and grains,

animals such as the fierce tarns,Gor’s winged mounts, andtharlarions, her domesticatedlizards, and long chains ofmiserable slaves, both male andfemale.

Although no one may be enslavedat the fair, slaves may be boughtand sold within its precincts, andslavers do a thriving business,exceeded perhaps only by that ofAr’s Street of Brands. The reasonfor this is not simply that here is afine market for such wares, sincemen from various cities pass freelyto and fro at the fair, but that eachGorean, whether male or female, is

expected to see the SardarMountains, in honour of the Priest-Kings, at least once in his life, priorto his twenty-fifth year.Accordingly the pirates and outlawswho beset the trade routes toambush and attack the caravans onthe way to the fair, if successful,often have more than inanimatemetals and cloths to reward theirvicious labours.

This pilgrimage to the Sardar,enjoyed by the Priest-Kingsaccording to the Caste of theInitiates, undoubtedly plays its rolein the distribution of beauty amongthe hostile cities of Gor. Whereas

the males who accompany acaravan are often killed in itsdefence or driven off, this fate,fortunate or not, is seldom that ofthe caravan’s women. It will betheir sad lot to be stripped andfitted with the collars and chains ofslave girls and forced to follow thewagons on foot to the fair, or if thecaravan’s tharlarions have beenkilled or driven off, they will carryits goods on their backs. Thus onepractical effect of the edict of thePriest-Kings is that each Goreangirl must, at least once in her life,leave her walls and take the veryserious risk of becoming a slave

girl, perhaps the prize of a pirate oroutlaw.

The expeditions sent out from thecities are of course extremely wellguarded, but pirates and outlawstoo can band together in largenumbers and sometimes, even moredangerously, one city’s warriors, inforce, will prey upon another city’scaravans. This, incidentally, is oneof the more frequent causes of waramong these cities. The fact thatwarriors of one city sometimeswear the insignia of cities hostile totheir own when they make theseattacks further compounds thesuspicions and internecine strife

which afflicts the Gorean cities.This chain of reflections was

occasioned in my mind by sight ofsome men of Port Kar, a savage,coastal city on the Tamber Gulf,who were displaying a sullen chainof twenty freshly branded girls,many of them beautiful. They werefrom the island city of Cos and hadundoubtedly been captured at sea,their vessel burned and sunk. Theirconsiderable charms were fullyrevealed to the eye of appraisingbuyers who passed down the line.The girls were chained t1hroat tothroat, their wrists locked behindthe small of their backs with slave

bracelets, and the knelt in thecustomary position of PleasureSlaves. When a possible buyerwould stop in front of one, one ofthe bearded scoundrels from PortKar would poke her with a slavewhip and she would lift her headand numbly repeat the ritual phraseof the inspected slave girl, Buy Me,Master. They had thought to come tothe Sardar as free women,discharging their obligation to thePriest-Kings.

They would leave as slave girls.I turned away.

My business was with the Priest-Kings of Gor.

Indeed, I had come to the Sardarto encounter the fabled Priest-Kings, whose incomparable powerso inextricably influences thedestinies of the cities and men ofthe Counter-Earth.

It is said that the Priest-Kingsknow whatever transpires on theirworld and that the mere lifting oftheir hand can summon all thepowers of the universe. I myselfhad seen the power of Priest-Kingsand knew that such beings existed. Imyself had traveled in a ship of thePriest-Kings which had twicecarried me to this world; I had seentheir power so subtly exercised as

to alter the movements of a compassneedle, so grossly demonstrated asto destroy a city, leaving behind noteven the stones of what had oncebeen a dwelling place of men.

It is said that neither the physicalintricacies of the cosmos nor theemotions of human beings arebeyond the scope of their power,that the feelings of men and themotions of atoms and stars are asone to them, that they can controlthe very forces of gravity andinvisibly sway the hearts of humanbeings, but of this latter claim Iwonder, for once on a road to Ko-ro-ba, my city, I met one who had

been a messenger of Priest-Kings,one who had been capable ofdisobeying them, one from theshards of whose burnt and blastedskull I had removed a handful ofgolden wire.

He had been destroyed by Priest-Kings as casually as one might jerkloose the thong of a sandal. He haddisobeyed and he had beendestroyed, immediately and withgrotesque dispatch, but theimportant thing was, I told myself,that he had disobeyed, that he coulddisobey, that he had been able todisobey and choose the ignominiousdeath he knew must follow. He had

won his freedom though it had, asthe Goreans say, led him to theCities of Dust, where, I think, noteven Priest-Kings care to follow.He had, as a man, lifted his fistagainst the might of Priest-Kingsand so he had died, defiantly,though horribly, with great nobility.

I am of the Caste of Warriors,and it is in our codes that the onlydeath fit for a man is that in battle,but I can no longer believe that thisis true, for the man I met once on theroad to Ko-ro-ba died well, andtaught me that all wisdom and truthdoes not lie in my own codes.

My business with the Priest-

Kings is simple, as are most mattersof honour and blood. For somereason unbeknown to me they havedestroyed my city, Ko-ro-ba, andscattered its peoples. I have beenunable to learn the fate of my father,my friends, my warriorcompanions, and my belovedTalena, she who was the daughterof Marlenus, who had once beenUbar of Ar – my sweet, fierce,wild, gentle, savage, beautiful love,she who is my Free Companion, myTalena, forever the Ubara of myheart, she who burns forever in thesweet, lonely darkness of mydreams. Yes, I have business with

the Priest-Kings.

Chapter TwoIN THE SARDAR

I looked down the long, broadavenue to the huge tim1ber gate atits end, and beyond the gate to theblack crags of the inhospitableSardar Range.

It took not much time to purchasea small bundle of supplies to takeinto the Sardar, nor was it difficultto find a scribe to whom I mightentrust the history of the events atTharna. I did not ask his name norhe mine. I knew his caste, and he

knew mine, and it was enough. Hecould not read the manuscript as itwas written in English, a languageas foreign to him as Gorean wouldbe to most of you, but yet he wouldtreasure the manuscript and guard itas though it were a most preciouspossession, for he was a scribe andit is the way of scribes to love thewritten word and keep it from harm,and if he could not read themanuscript, what did it matter –perhaps someone could someday,and then the words which had kepttheir secret for so long would at lastenkindle the mystery ofcommunication and what had been

written would be heard andunderstood.

At last I stood before thetowering gate of black logs, boundwith its wide bands of brass. Thefair lay behind me and the Sardarbefore. My garments and my shieldbore no insignia, for my city hadbeen destroyed. I wore my helmet.None would know who entered theSardar.

At the gate I was met by one ofthe Caste of Initiates, a dour, thin-lipped, drawn man woth deepsunken eyes, clad in the pure whiterobes of his caste.

“Do you wish to speak to Priest-

Kings?” he asked.“Yes,” I said.“Do you know what you do?”“Yes,” I said.The Initiate and I gazed evenly at

one another, and then he steppedaside, as he must have done manytimes. I would not be the first, ofcourse, to enter the Sardar. Manymen and sometimes women hadentered these mountains but it is notknown what they found. Sometimesthese individuals are youngidealists, rebels and champions oflost causes, who wish to protest toPriest-Kings; sometimes they areindividuals who are old or diseased

and are tired of life and wish to die;sometimes they are piteous orcunning or frightened wretches whothink to find the secret ofimmortality in those barren crags;and sometimes they are outlawsfleeing from Gor’s harsh justice,hoping to find at least briefsanctuary in the cruel, mysteriousdomain of Priest-Kings, a countryinto which they may be assured nomortal magistrate or vengeful bandof human warriors will penetrate. Isuppose the Initiate might accountme noe of the latter, for myhabiliments bore no insignia.

He turned away from me and

went to a small pedestal at oneside. On the pedestal there was asilver bowl, filled with water, avial of oil and a towel. He dippedhis fingers in the bowl, poured a bitof oil on his hands, dipped hisfingers again and then wiped hishands dry.

On each side of the huge gatethere stood a great windlass andchain, and to each windlass a gangof blinded slaves was manacled.

The Initiate folded the towelcarefully and replaced it on thepedestal.

“Let the gate be opened,” he said.The slaves obediently pressed

their weight against the timberspokes of the two windlasses andthey creaked and the chainstightened. Their naked feet slippedin the dirt and they pressed evermore tightly against the heavy,obdurate bars. Now their bodieshumped with pain, clenchingthemselves against the spokes.Their blind eyes were fixed onnothing. The blood vessels in theirnecks and legs and arms began todistend until I feared they mightburst open through the torturedflesh; th1e agonised miscles of theirstraining knotted bodies, likeswollen leather, seemed to fill with

pain as if pain were a fluid; theirflesh seemed to fuse with the woodof the bars; the backs of theirgarments discoloured with a scarletsweat. Men had broken their ownbones on the timber spokes of theSardar windlasses.

At last there was a great creakand the vast portal parted a hand’sbreadth and then the width of ashoulder and the width of a man’sbody.

“It is enough,” I said.I entered immediately.As I entered I heard the mournful

tolling of the huge, hollow metalbar which stands some way from

the gate. I had heard the tollingbefore, and knew that it signifiedthat yet another mortal had enteredthe Sardar. It was a depressingsound, and not made less so by myrealisation that in this case it was Iwho had entered the mountains. As Ilistened it occurred to me that thepurpose of the bar might not besimply to inform the men of the fairthat the Sardar had been entered butto inform the Priest-Kings as well.

I looked behind myself in time tosee the great gate close. It shutwithout a sound.

The journey to the Hall of Priest-Kings was not as difficult as I had

anticipated. At places there werewell-worn paths, at others evenstairs had been cut in the sides ofmountains, stairs worn smooth inthe millennia by the passage ofcountless feet.

Here and there bones littered thepath, human bones. Whether thesewere the remains of men who hadstarved or frozen in the barrenSardar, or had been destroyed byPriest-Kings, I did not know. Uponoccasion some message would befound scratched in the cliffs alongthe path. Some of these wereobscene, cursing the Priest-Kings;others were paeans in their praise;

some were cheerful, if in a ratherpessimistic way. One I rememberwas: “Eat, drink and be happy. Therest is nothing.” Others were rathersimple, and sometimes sad, such as“No food,” “I’m cold,” “I’mafraid.” One such read, “Themountains are empty. Rena I loveyou.” I wondered who had writtenit, and when. The inscription wasworn. It had been scratched out inthe old Gorean script. It hadweathered for perhaps better than athousand years. But I knew that themountains were not empty, for I hadevidence of Priest-Kings. Icontinued my journey.

I encountered no animals, nor anygrowing thing, nothing save theendless black rocks, the blackcliffs, and the path cut before me inthe dark stone. Gradually the airgrew more chill and wisps of snowblew about me; frost began toappear on the steps and I trudgedpast crevices filled with ice,deposits which had perhaps lain asthey were without melting forhundreds of years. I wrapped mycloak more firmly about myself andusing my spear as a staff I forcedmy way upward.

Some four days into themountains I heard for the first time

in my journey the sound of a thingother than the wind, the sighing ofsnow and the groaning of ice; it wasthe sound of a living thing; thesound of a mountain larl.

The larl is a predator, clawedand fanged, quite large, oftenstanding seven feet at the shoulder. Ithink it would be fair to say that it issubstantially feline; at any rate itsgrace and sinuous power remind meof the smaller but similarlyfearsome jungle cats of my oldworld.

The resemblance is, I suppose,due to the mechanics of convergentevolution, both animals having been

shaped by the exigencies of thechase, the stealth of the approachand the sudden charge, and by therequirement of the swift anddevastating kill. If there is anoptim1um configuration for a landpredator, I suppose on my oldworld the palm must go to theBengal tiger; but on Gor the prizebelongs indisputably to themountain larl; and I cannot butbelieve that the structuralsimilarities between the twoanimals, though of different worlds,are more than a matter of accident.

The larl’s head is broad,sometimes more than two feet

across, and shaped roughly like atriangle, giving its skull somethingof the cast of a viper’s save that ofcourse it is furred and the pupils ofthe eyes like the cat’s and unlike theviper’s, can range from knifelikeslits in the broad daylight to dark,inquisitive moons in the night.

The pelt of the larl is normally atawny red or a sable black. Theblack larl, which is predominantlynocturnal, is maned, both male andfemale. The red larl, which huntswhenever hungry, regardless of thehour, and is the more commonvariety, possesses no mane.Females of both varieties tend

generally to be slightly smaller thanthe males, but are quite asaggressive and sometimes evenmore dangerous, particularly in thelate fall and winter of the year whenthey are likely to be hunting fortheir cubs. I had once killed a malered larl in the Voltai Range withinpasangs of the city of Ar.

Now hearing the growl of such abeast I threw back my cloak, liftedmy shield and held my spear ready.I was puzzled that I might encountera larl in the Sardar. How could ithave entered the mountains?Perhaps it was native. But on whatcould it live among these barren

crags? For I had seen nothing onwhich it might prey, unless onemight count the men who hadentered the mountains, but theirbones, scattered, white and frozen,were unsplintered and unfurrowed;they showed no evidence of havingsuffered the molestation of a larl’sgnawing jaws. I then understoodthat the larl I had heard must be alarl of Priest-Kings, for no animaland no man enters or exists in theSardar without the consent ofPriest-Kings and if it was fed itmust be at the hand of Priest-Kingsor their servants.

In spite of my hatred of Priest-

Kings I could not help but admirethem. None of the men below themountains, the mortals, had eversucceeded in taming a larl. Evenlarl cubs when found and raised bymen would, on reaching theirmajority, on some night, in a suddenburst of atavistic fury slay theirmasters and under the three hurtlingmoons of Gor lope from thedwellings of men, driven by whatinstincts I know not, to seek themountains where they were born. Acase is known of a larl whotraveled more then twenty-fivehundred pasangs to seek a certainshallow crevice in the Voltai in

which he had been whelped. Hewas slain at its mouth. Hunters hadfollowed him. One among them, anold man who had originally beenone of the party that had capturedthe animal, identified the place.

I advanced, my spear ready forits cast, my shield ready to bethrown over my body to protect itfrom the death throes of thethrashing beast should the cast besuccessful. My life was in my ownhands and I was content that thisshould be so.

I would have it no other way.I smiled to myself. I was First

Spear, for there were no others.

In the Voltai Range bands ofhunters, usually from Ar, stalk thelarl with the mighty Gorean spear.Normally they so this in single fileand he who leads the file is calledFirst Spear, for his will be the firstspear cast. As soon as he casts hisweapon he throws himself to theground and covers his body with hisshield, as does each mansuccessively behind him. Thisallows each man to have a cleancast at the beast and provides someprotection once the spear is thrown.

The mos1t significant reason,however, becomes clear when therole of the last man on the file, who

is spoken of as Last Spear, isunderstood. Once Last Spear castshis weapon he may not throwhimself to the ground. If he should,and any of his comrades survive,they will slay him. But this seldomoccurs for the Gorean hunters fearcowardice more than the clwas andfangs of larls. Last Spear mustremain standing, and if the beaststill lives, receive its charge withonly his drawn sword. He does nothurl himself to the ground in orderthat he will remain conspicuously inthe larl’s field of vision and thus bethe object of its wounded,maddened onslaught. It is thus that,

should the spears miss their mark,he sacrifices his life for hiscompanions who will, while thelarl attacks him, make good theirescape. This may seem cruel but inthe long run it tends to beconservative of human life; it isbetter, as the Goreans say, fro oneman to die than many.

First Spear is normally the bestof the spearmen because if the larlis not slain or seriously woundedwith the first strike, the lives of all,and not simply that of Last Spear,stand in considerable jeopardy.Paradoxically, perhaps, Last Spearis normally the weakest of the

spearmen, the least skilled. Whetherthis is because Gorean huntingtradition favours the weak,protecting him with the strongerspears, or tradition scorns theweak, regarding him as the mostexpendable member of the party, Ido not know. The origin of thishunting practice is lost in antiquity,being as old perhaps as men andweapons and larls.

I once asked a Gorean hunterwhom I met in Ar why the larl washunted at all. I have never forgottenhis reply. “Because it is beautiful,”he said, “and dangerous, andbecause we are Goreans.”

I had not yet seen the beastwhose growl I had heard. The pathon which I trod turned a few yardsahead. It was about a yard wide andhugged the side of a cliff, and to myleft there was a sheer precipice.The drop to its base must have beenat least a full pasang. I rememberedthat the boulders below were hugebut from my present height theylooked like grains of black sand. Iwished the cliff were on my leftrather than my right in order to havea freer cast of my spear.

The path was steep but its ascent,here and there, was lightened byhigh steps. I have never cared to

have an enemy above me, nor did Inow, but I told myself that my spearmight more easily find a vulnerablespot if the larl leapt downwardstoward me than if I were above andhad only the base of its neck as mybest target. From above I would tryto sever the vertebrae. The larl’sskull is an even more difficult cast,for its head is almost continually inmotion.

Moreover, it possesses anunobtrusive bony ridge which runsfrom its four nasal slits to thebeginnings of the backbone. Thisridge can be penetrated by the spearbut anything less than a perfect cast

will result in the weapon’s beingdeflected through the cheek of theanimal, inflicting a cruel butunimportant wound. On the otherhand if I were under the larl Iwould have a brief but clean strikeat the great, pounding, eight-valvedheart that lies in the centre of itsbreast.

My heart sank for I heard anothergrowl, that of a second beast.

I had but one spear.I might kill one larl, but then I

should almost certainly die underthe jaws of its mate.

For some reason I did not feardeath but felt only anger that these

beasts might prevent me fromkeeping my rendezvous with thePriest-Kings of Gor.

I wondered how many men mighthave turned back at this point, and Iremembered t1he innumerablewhite, frozen bones on the cliffbelow. It occurred to me that Imight retreat, and return when thebeasts had gone. It seemed possiblethat they might not yet havediscovered me. I smiled as I thoughtof the foolishness of this, for thesebeasts before me must be the larlsof Priest-Kings, guardians of thestronghold of Gor’s gods.

I loosened my sword in its sheath

and continued upwards.At last I came to the bend in the

path and braced myself for thesudden bolt about that corner inwhich I must cry aloud to startlethem and in the same instant cast myspear at the nearest larl and setupon the other with my drawnsword.

I hesitated for a moment and thenthe fierce war cry of Ko – ro-baburst from my lips in the clear, chillair of the Sardar and I threw myselfinto the open, my spear arm back,my shield high.

Chapter Three

PARP

There was a sudden startledrattle of chains and I saw two huge,white larls frozen in the momentaryparalysis of registering mypresence, and then with but aninstant’s fleeting passage bothbeasts turned upon me and hurledthemselves enraged to the lengths oftheir chains.

My spear had not left my hand.Both animals were jerked up

short as mighty chains, fastened tosteel and bejeweled collars,terminated their vicious charge.One was thrown on its back, so

violent was its rush, and the otherstood wildly for a moment toweringover me like a rearing giantstallion, its huge claws slashing theair, fighting the collar that held itfrom me.

Then at the length of their chainsthey crouched, snarling, regardingme balefully, occasionally lashingout with a clawed paw as if tosweep me into range of theirfearsome jaws.

I was struck with wonder, thoughI was careful to keep beyond therange of their chains, for I hadnever seen white larls before.

They were gigantic beasts,

superb specimens, perhaps eightfeet at the shoulder.

Their upper canine fangs, likedaggers mounted in their jaws, musthave been at least a foot in lengthand extended well below their jawsin the manner of ancient sabre-toothed tigers. The four nostril slitsof each animal were flared andtheir great chests lifted and fell withthe intensity of their excitement.Their tails, long and tufted at theend, lashed back and forth.

The larger of them unaccountablyseemed to lose interest in me. Herose to his feet and sniffed the air,turning his side to me, and seemed

ready to abandon any intentions ofdoing me harm. Only an instant laterdid I understand what washappening for suddenly turning hethrew himself on his side and hishead facing in the other directionhurled his hind legs at me. I liftedthe shield for to my horror inreversing his position on the chainhe had suddenly added some twentyfeet to the fearful perimeter of thespace allotted to him by that hatedimpediment. Two great clawedpaws smote my shield and hurledme twenty feet against the cliff. Irolled and scrambled back furtherfor the stroke of the larl had dashed

me into the radius of its mate. Mycloak and garments were torn frommy back by the stroke of the secondlarl’s claws.

I struggled to my feet.“Well done,” I said to the larl.I had barely escaped with my

life.Now the two beasts were filled

with a rage which dwarfed theirprevious fury, for they sensed that Iwould not again approach closelyenough to permit them a repetitionof their primitive stratagem. Iadmired the larls, for they seemedto me intelligent beasts. Yes, I saidto myself, it was well done.

I examined my shield and saw tenwide furrows torn across itsbrassbound hide surface. My backfelt wet with the blood from thesecond larl’s claws. It should havefelt warm, but it felt cold. I knew itwas freezing on my back. Therewas no choice now but to go on,somehow, if I could. Without thesmall homely necessities of aneedle and thread I should probablyfreeze. There was no wood in theSardar with which to build a fire.

Yes, I repeated grimly to myself,glaring at the larls, though smiling,it was well done, too well done.

Then I heard the movement of

chains and I saw that the two chainswhich fastened the larls were nothooked to rings in the stone butvanished within circular apertures.Now the chains were being slowlydrawn in, much to the obviousfrustration of the beasts.

The place in which I foundmyself was considerably wider thanthe path on which I had trod, for thepath had given suddenly onto afairly large circular area in which Ihad found the chained larls. Oneside of this area was formed by thesheer cliff which had been on myright and now curved about makinga sort of cup of stone; the other

side, on my left, lay partly open tothe frightful drop below, but waspartly enclosed by another cliff, theside of a second mountain, whichimpinged on the one I had beenclimbing. The circular aperturesinto which the larls’ chains werebeing drawn were located in thesetwo cliffs. As the chains weredrawn back, the protesting larlswere dragged to different sides.Thus a passage of sorts was clearedbetween them, but the passage ledonly, as far as I could see, to ablank wall of stone. Yet I supposedthis seemingly impervious wallmust house the portal of the Hall of

Priest-Kings.As the beasts had felt the tug of

the chains they had slunk snarlingback against the cliffs, and now theycrouched down, their chains littlemore than massive leashes. Ithought the snowy whiteness of theirpelts was beautiful. Throaty growlsmenaced me, and an occasionalpaw, the claws extended, waslifted, but the beasts made no effortnow to pull against the grim, jewel-set collars which bound them.

I had not long to wait for only afew moments later, perhaps nomore than ten Gorean Ihn, a sectionof stone rolled silently back and

upward revealing a rock passagebeyond of perhaps some eight feetsquare.

I hesitated, for how did I knowbut that the chains of the larls mightbe loosed once I was between them.How did I know what might liebefore me in that dark, quietpassage? As I hesitated thatmoment, I became aware of amotion inside the passage, whichgradually became a white-cladrather short, rotund figure.

To my amazement a man steppedfrom the passage, blinking in thesun. He was clad in a white robe,somewhat resembling those of the

Initiates. He wore sandals. Hischeeks were red and his head bald.He had long whiskery sideburnswhich flared merrily from hismuffinlike face. Small bright eyestwinkled under heavy whiteeyebrows. Most was I surprised tofind him holding a tiny, round pipefrom which curled a bright wisp ofsmoke. Tobacco is unknown onGor, though there are certain vicesor habits to take its place, inparticular the stimulation affordedby chewing on the leaves of theKanda plant, the roots of which,oddly enough, when ground anddried, constitute an extremely

deadly poison.I carefully regarded the small,

rotund gentleman who stood framedso incongruously in the massivestone portal. I found it impossibleto believe that he could bedangerous, that he could in any waybe associated with the dreadedPriest-Kings of Gor. He was simplytoo cheerful, too open andingenious, too frank, and only tooobviously pleased to see andwelcome me. It was impossible notto be drawn to him; I found that Iliked him, though I had just met him;and that I wanted him to like me,and that I felt he did, and that this

pleased me.If I had seen this man in my own

world, this small, rotund, merrygentleman with his florid colouringand cheerful manner I would havethought him necessarily English,and of a sort one seldom encountersnowadays. If one had encounteredhim in the Eighteenth Century onemight take him for a jolly, snuff-sniffing, roisterous country squire,knowing himself the salt of theearth, not above twitting the parsonnor pinching the serving girls; in theNineteenth Century he would haveowned an old book shop andworked at a high desk, quite

outdated, kept his money in a sock,distributed it indiscriminately to allwho asked him for it, and publiclyread Chaucer and Darwin toscandalise lady customers and thelocal clergy; in my own time such aman could only be a collegeprofessor, for there are few otherrefuges save wealth left in myworld for men such as he; one couldimagine him ensconced in auniversity chair, perhaps affluentenough for gout, reposing in histenure, puffing on his pipe, aconnoisseur of ales and castles, agusty aficionado of bawdyElizabethan drinking songs, which

he would feel it his duty tobequeath, piously, as a portion oftheir rich literary heritage, togenerations of recent, propergraduates of Eton and Harrow. Thesmall eyes regarded me, twinkling.

With a start I noticed that thepupils of his eyes were red.

When I started a momentaryflicker of annoyance crossed hisfeatures, but in an instant he wasagain his chuckling, affable,bubbling self.

“Come, come,” he said. “Comealong, Cabot. We have been waitingfor you.”

He knew my name.

Who was waiting?But of course he would know my

name, and those who would bewaiting would be the Priest-Kingsof Gor.

I forgot about his eyes, for it didnot seem important at the time, forsome reason. I suppose that Ithought that I had been mistaken. Ihad not been. He now stepped backinto the shadows of the passage.

“You are coming, aren’t you?” heasked.

“Yes,” I said.“My name is Parp,” he said,

standing back in the passage. Hepuffed once on his pipe. “Parp,” he

repeated, puffing once again.He had not extended his hand.I looked at him without speaking.It seemed a strange name for a

Priest-King. I do not know what Iexpected. He seemed to sense mypuzzlement.

“Yes,” said the man, “Parp.” Heshrugged. “It’s not much of a namefor a Priest-King, but then I’m notmuch of a Priest – King.” Hechuckled.

“Are you a Priest-King?” Iasked.

Again a momentary flicker ofannoyance crossed his features. “Ofcourse,” he said.

It seemed that my heart stoppedbeating.

At that moment one of the larlsga1ve a sudden roar. I shivered, butto my surprise the man who calledhimself Parp clutched his pipe inhis white hand and seemed to give astart of terror. In a moment he wasquite recovered. I found it strangethat a Priest-King should fear a larl.

Without waiting to see if I wouldfollow him he turned suddenly andwent back down the passage.

I gathered my weapons andfollowed him. Only the rumblinggrowl of the now sullen mountainlarls as I passed between them

convinced me that I could not bedreaming, that I had come at last tothe Hall of Priest-Kings.

Chapter FourTHE HALL OF PRIEST-

KINGS

As I followed the man whocalled himself Parp down the stonepassage the portal behind meclosed. I remember one last glimpseof the Sardar Range, the path I hadclimbed, the cold, blue sky and twosnowy larls, one chained on eitherside of the entrance.

My host did not speak but led theway with a merry stride, an almostconstant curl of smoke from hislittle round pipe encircling his baldpate and muttonchop whiskers anddrifting back down the passage.

The passage was lit with energybulbs, of the sort which I hadencountered in the tunnel ofMarlenus which led beneath thewalls of Ar. There was nothing inthe lighting of the passage, or itsconstruction, to suggest that thePriest – Kings’ Caste of Builders, ifthey had one, was any moreadvanced than that of the menbelow the mountains. Too, the

passage was devoid of ornament,lacking the mosaics and tapestrieswith which the beauty-lovingGoreans below the mountains arewont to glorify the places of theirown habitation. The Priest-Kings,as far as I could tell, had no art.Perhaps they would regard it as auseless excrescence detracting fromthe more sobre values of life, suchas, I supposed, study, meditationand the manipulation of the lives ofmen.

I noted that the passage which Itrod was well worn. It had beenpolished by the sandals of countlessmen and women who had walked

before where I now walked,perhaps thousands of years ago,perhaps yesterday, perhaps thismorning.

Then we came to a large hall. Itwas plain, but in its sheer size itpossessed a severe, lofty grandeur.

At the entrance to this room, orchamber, I stopped, overcome witha certain sense of awe.

I found myself on the brink ofentering what appeared to be agreat and perfect dome, having adiameter I am sure of at least athousand yards. I was pleased tosee that its top was a sparklingcurvature of some transparent

substance, perhaps a special glassor plastic, for no glass or plasticwith which I was familiar would belikely to withstand the stressesgenerated by such a structure.Beyond the dome I could see thewelcome blue sky.

“Come, come, Cabot,”remonstrated Parp.

I followed him.In this great dome there was

nothing save that at its very centrethere was a high dais and on thisdais there was a large thronecarved from a single block of stone.

It seemed to take us a long timeto reach the dais. Our footsteps

echoed hollowly across the greatstone floor. At last we arrived.

“Wait here,” said Parp, whopointed to an area outside a tiledring which surrounded the dais.

I did not stand precisel1y wherehe asked but several feet away, butI did remain outside the tiled ring.

Parp puffed his way up the ninesteps of the dais and climbed ontothe stone throne. He was a strangecontrast to the sever regality of themajestic seat on which he perched.His sandaled feet did not reach thefloor, and he made a slight grimaceas he settled himself on the throne.

“Frankly,” said Parp, “I think we

made a mistake in sacrificingcertain creature comforts in theSardar.” He tried to find someposition that would satisfy him.“For example, a cushion would notbe out of place on such a throne, doyou think, Cabot?”

“On such a throne it would be outof place,” I said.

“Ah yes,” sighed Parp, “Isuppose so.”

Then, smartly, Parp cracked hispipe a few times against the side ofthe throne, scattering ashes andunsmoked tobacco about on thefloor of the dais.

I regarded him without moving.

Then he bagan to fumble with thewallet which was slung from hisbelt, and removed a plasticenvelope. I watched him closely,following every move. A frowncrossed my face as I saw him take apinch of tobacco from the bag andrefill his pipe. Then he fumbledabout a bit more and emerged witha narrow cylindrical, silverishobect. For an instant it seemed topoint at me.

I lifted my shield.“Please, Cabot!” said Parp, with

something of impatience, and usedthe silverish object to light his pipe.

I felt foolish.

Parp began to puff awaycontentedly on a new supply oftobacco. He had to turn slightly onthe throne to look at me, as I had notchosen to stand directly where hehad suggested.

“I do wish you would be morecooperative,” he said.

Tapping the floor with the butt ofmy spear, I finally stood where hehad directed.

Parp chuckled and puffed away.I did not speak and he smoked

one pipe. Then he cleaned it asbefore, knocking it against the sideof the throne, and refilled it. He litit again with the small, silverish

object, and leaned back against thethrone. He gazed up at the dome, sohihh above, and watched the smokecurl slowly upward.

“Did you have a good trip to theSardar?” asked Parp.

“Where is my father?” I asked.“What of the city of Ko-ro – ba?”My voice choked. “What of the girlTalena, who was my FreeCompanion?”

“I hope you had a good trip,”said Parp.

Then I began to feel ragecreeping like hot, red vines throughmy blood.

Parp did not seem concerned.

“Not everyone has a good trip,”said Parp.

My hand clenched on the spear.I began to feel the hatred of all

the years I had nursed against thePriest-Kings now uncontrollably,slowly, violently growing in mybody, wild, fierce, those foliatingscarlet vines of my fury that nowseemed to encircle me, to enfoldme, to engulf me, swelling,steaming, now writhing aflameabout my body and before my eyesin the turbulent, burned air thatseparated me from the creature Parpand I cried, “Tell me what I want toknow!”

“Th1e primary difficultybesetting the traveler in the Sardar,”continued Parp, “is probably thegeneral harshness of theenvironment – for example, theinclemencies of the weather,particularly in the winter.”

I lifted the spear and my eyeswhich must have been terrible in theapertures of my helmet were fixedon the heart of the man who satupon the throne.

“Tell me!” I cried.“The larls also,” Parp went on,

“are a not unformidable obstacle.”I cried with rage and strode

forward to loose my spear but I

wept and retained the weapon. Icould not do murder.

Parp puffed away, smiling. “Thatwas wise of you,” he said.

I looked at him sullenly, my rageabated. I felt helpless.

“You could not have injured me,you know,” said Parp.

I looked at him with wonder.“No,” he said. “Go ahead, if you

wish, cast your spear.”I took the weapon and tossed it

toward the foot of the dais. Therewas a sudden splintering burst ofheat and I fell back, staggering. Ishook my head to drive out thescarlet stars that seemed to race

before my eyes.At the foot of the dais there was a

bit of soot and some droplets ofmelted bronze.

“You see,” said Parp, “it wouldnot have reached me.”

I now understood the purpose ofthe tiled circle which surroundedthe throne.

I removed my helmet and threwmy shield to the floor.

“I am your prisoner,” I said.“Nonsense,” said Parp, “you are

my guest.”“I shall keep my sword,” I said.

“If you want it, you must take itfrom me.”

Parp laughed merrily, his smallround frame shaking on the heavythrone. “I assure you,” he said, “Ihave no use for it.” He looked atme, chuckling. “Nor have you,” headded.

“Where are the others?” I asked.“What others?” asked he.“The other Priest-Kings,” I said.“I am afraid,” said Parp, “that I

am the Priest-Kings. All of them.”“But you said before “We are

waiting”,” I protested.“Did I?” asked Parp.“Yes,” I said.“Then it was merely a manner of

speaking.”

“I see,” I said.Parp seemed troubled. He

seemed distracted.He glanced up at the dome. It

was getting late. He seemed a bitnervous. His hands fumbled morewith the pipe; a bit of tobaccospilled.

“Will you speak to me of myfather, of my city, and of my love?”I asked.

“Perhaps,” said Parp, “but nowyou are undoubtedly tired from yourjourney.”

It was true that I was tired, andhungry.

“No,” I said, “I would speak

now.”For so1me reason Parp now

seemed visibly uneasy. The skyabove the dome was now grey anddarkening. The Gorean night above,often black and beautiful with stars,now seemed to be approaching withswift stealth.

In the far distance, perhaps fromsome passage leading away fromthe Hall of Priest-Kings, I heard theroar of a larl.

Parp seemed to shiver on thethrone.

“Is a Priest-King frightened of alarl?” I asked.

Parp chuckled, but not quite so

merrily as usual. I could notunderstand his perturbation. “Donot be afraid,” he said, “they arewell secured.”

“I am not afraid,” I said, lookingat him evenly.

“Myself,” he said, “I’m forced toadmit I’ve never quite gotten usedto that awful racket they make.”

“You are a Priest-King,” I said,“why do you not simply lift yourhand and destroy it?”

“Of what use is a dead larl?”asked Parp.

I did not reply.I wondered why I had been

allowed to reach the Sardar, to find

the Hall of Priest-Kings, to standbefore this throne.

Suddenly there was the sound ofa distant, reverberating gong, a dullbut penetrating sound which carriedfrom somewhere even into the Hallof Priest-Kings.

Abruptly Parp stood up, his facewhite. “This interview,” he said,“is at an end.” He glanced abouthimself with ill – concealed terror.

“But what of me,” I asked, “yourprisoner?”

“My guest,” insisted Parpirritably, nearly dropping his pipe.He pounded it once sharply againstthe throne and thrust it into the

wallet he wore at his side.“Your guest?” I asked.“Yes,” snapped Parp, darting his

eyes from right to left, “– at leastuntil it is time for you to bedestroyed.”

I stood without speaking.“Yes,” he repeated, looking

down at me, “until it is time for youto be destroyed.”

Then it seemed in the impendingdarkness in the Hall of Priest-Kingsas he looked down on me that thepupils of his eyes for an instantglowed briefly, fiercely, like twotiny fiery disks of molten copper. Iknew then that I had not been

mistaken before. His eyes wereunlike mine, or those of a humanbeing. I knew then that Parp,whatever he might be, was not aman.

Then again came the sound of thatgreat unseen gong, that distantsound, dull, penetrating,reverberating even in the vastnessof the great hall in which we stood.

With a cry of terror Parp cast onelast wild glance about the Hall ofPriest-Kings and stumbled behindthe great throne.

“Wait!” I cried.But he had gone.Wary of the tiled circle I traced

its perimeter until I stood behind thethrone. There was no sign of Parp. Iwalked the full ambit of the circleuntil I stood once more before thethrone. I picked up my helmet andtossed it toward the dais.

It clattered noisily against thefirst step. I followed it across thetiled circle which seemed harmlessnow that Parp had left.

Once more 1the distant andunseen gong rang out, and oncemore the Hall of Priest-Kingsseemed filled with its ominousvibrations. It was the third stroke. Iwondered why Parp had seemed tofear the coming of night, the sound

of the gong.

* * *

I examined the throne and foundno trace of a door behind it, but Iknew that one must exist. Parp was,I was sure, though I had not touchedhim, as palpable as you or I. Hecould not simply have vanished.

It was now night outside.Through the dome I could see the

three moons of Gor and the brightstars above them.

They were very beautiful.Then seized by an impulse I sat

myself down on the great throne in

the Hall of Priest-Kings, drew mysword and placed it across myknees.

I recalled Parp’s words, “until itis time for you to be destroyed.”

For some reason I laughed andmy laugh was the laugh of a warriorof Gor, full and mighty, unafraid,and it roared in the dark and lonelyHall of Priest-Kings.

Chapter FiveVIKA

I awakened to the soothing touchof a small sponge that bathed my

forehead.I grasped the hand that held the

sponge and found that I held a girl’swrist.

“Who are you?” I asked.I lay on my back on a large stone

platform, some twelve feet square.Beneath me, twisted and tangled,lay heavy sleeping pelts, thickrobes of fur, numerous sheets ofscarlet silk. A cushion or two ofyellow silk lay randomly on theplatform.

The room in which I lay waslarge, perhaps forty feet square, andthe sleeping platform lay at one endof the room but not touching the

wall. The walls were of plain darkstone with energy bulbs fixed inthem; the furnishings seemed toconsist mostly of two or three largechests against one wall. There werenow windows. The entire aspectwas one of severity. There was nodoo on the room but there was agreat portal, perhaps twelve feetwide and eighteen feet high. I couldsee a large passageway beyond.

“Please,” said the girl.I released her wrist.She was comely to look on. Her

hair was very light, the colour ofsummer straw; it was straight andbound simply behind the back of her

neck with a small fillet of whitewool. Her eyes were blue, andsullen. Her full, red lips, whichcould have torn the heart of a man,seemed to pout; they were sensuous,unobtrusively rebellious, perhapssubtly contemptuous.

She knelt beside the platform.Beside her, on the floor, rested a

laver of polished bronze, filledwith water, a towel and a straight-bladed Gorean shaving knife.

I rubbed my chin.She had shaved me as I slept.I shivered, thinking of the blade

and my throat. “Your touch is light,”I said.

She bowed her head.She wore a long, simple

sleeveless white robe, which fellgracefully about her in dignifiedclassic folds. About her throat shehad gracefully wrapped a scarf ofwhit1e silk.

“I am Vika,” she responded,“your slave.”

I sat upright, cross-legged in theGorean fashion, on the stoneplatform. I shook my head to clear itof sleep.

The girl rose and carried thebronze laver to a drain in onecorner of the room and emptied it.

She walked well.

She then moved her hand past aglass disk in the wall and wateremerged from a concealed apertureand curved into the shallow bowl.She rinsed the bowl and refilled it,and then took another towel of softlinen from a carved chest againstthe wall. She then again approachedthe stone platform and knwlt beforeme, lifting the bowl. I took it andfirst drank from it and then set it onthe stone platform before me, andwashed. I wiped my face with thetowel. She then gathered up theshaving knife, the towels I had used,and the bowl and went again to oneside of the room.

She was very graceful, verylovely.

She rinsed the bowl again and setit against the wall to drain dry. Shethen rinsed and dried the shavingknife and put it into one of thechests. Then with a motion of herhand, which did not touch the wall,she opened a small, circular panelinto which she dropped the twotowels which I had used. When theyhad disappeared the circular panelclosed.

She then returned into the vicinityof the stone platform, and kneltagain before me, though some feetaway.

We studied one another.Neither spoke.Her back was very straight and,

kneeling, she rested back on herheels. In her eyes there seemed toburn an irritable fury of helplessrage. I smiled at her, but she did notsmile back but looked away,angrily.

When she looked again my eyesfixed on hers and we looked intoone another’s eyes for a long timeuntil her lip trembled and her eyesfell before mine.

When she raised her head again Icurtly gestured her nearer.

A look of angry defiance flashed

in her eyes, but she rose to her feetand slowly approached me, andknelt beside the stone platform. I,still remaining cross-legged on theplatform, reached forward and tookher head in my hands, drawing it tomine. She knelt now but no longeron her heels and her face wasbrought forward and lifted to mine.The sensuous lips parted slightlyand I became acutely conscious ofher breathing, which seemed todeepen and quicken. I removed muhands from her head but she left itwhere I had placed it. I slowlyunwrapped the white, silken scarffrom her throat.

Her eyes seemed to cloud withangry tears.

As I had expected about herwhite throat there was fastened,graceful and gleaming, the slender,close-fitting collar of a Goreanslave girl.

It was a collar like most others,of steel, secured with a small,heavy lock which closed behind thegirl’s neck.

“You see,” said the girl, “I didnot lie to you.”

“Your demeanour,” I said, “doesnot suggest that of a slave girl.”

She rose to her feet and backedaway, her hands at the shoulders of

her robe. “Nonetheless,” she said,“I am a slave girl.” She turnedaway. “Do you wish to see mybrand?” she asked, contemptuously.

“No,” I said.So she was a slave girl.But on her collar there was not

written the name of her owner andhis city, as I would have expected.Instead I had read there only theGorean numeral which wouldcorrespond to “708”.

“You may do with me what youplease,” said the girl, turning toface me. “As long as you are in thisroom I belong to you.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“I am a Chamber Slave,” shesaid.

“I don’t understand,” I said.“It means,” she said, irritably,

“that I am confined to this room,and that I am the slave of whoeverenters the room.”

“But surely you can leave,” Iprotested.

I gestured to the massive portalwhich, empty of a door or gate, ledonly too clearly into the corridorbeyond.

“No,” she said bitterly, “I cannotleave.”

I arose and walked through theportal and found myself in a long

stone passageway beyond it whichstretched as far as I could see ineither direction. It was lit withenergy bulbs.

In this passageway, placedregularly but staggered from oneanother, about fifty yards apart,were numerous portals like the oneI had just passed through. Fromwithin any given room, one couldnot look into any other. None ofthese portals were hung with doorsor gates, nor as far as I could seehad they ever been hinged.

Standing in the passagewayoutside the room I extended myhand to the girl. “Come,” I said,

“there is no danger.”She ran to the far wall and

crouched against it. “No,” shecried.

I laughed and leaped into theroom.

She crawled and stumbled away,for some reason terrified, until shefound herself in the stone corner ofthe chamber.

She shrieked and clawed at thestone.

I gathered her in my arms and shefought like a she-larl, screaming. Iwanted to convince her that therewas no danger, that her fears weregroundless. Her fingernails clawed

across my face.I was angered and I swept her

from her feet so that she washelpless in my arms.

I began to carry her toward theportal.

“Please,” she whispered, hervoice hoarse with terror. “Please,Master, no, no, Master!”

She sounded so piteous that Iabandoned my plan and releasedher, though I was irritated by herfear.

She collapsed at my feet, shakingand whimpering, and put her headto my knee.

“Please, no, Master,” she

begged.“Very well,” I said.“Look!” she said, pointing to the

great threshold.I looked but I saw nothing other

than the stone sides of the portaland on each side three rounded reddomes, of perhaps four incheswidth apiece.

“They are harmless,” I said, for Ihad passed them with safety. Todemonstrate this I again left thechamber.

Outside the chamber, carvedover the portal, I saw something Ihad not noted before. In Goreannotation, the num1eral “708” was

carved above the door. I nowunderstood the meaning of thenumeral on the girl’s collar. I re-entered the chamber. “You see,” Isaid, “they are harmless.”

“For you,” she said, “not forme.”

“Why not?” I asked.She turned away.“Tell me,” I said.She shook her head.“Tell me,” I repeated, more

sternly.She looked at me. “Am I

commanded?” she asked.I did not wish to command her.

“No,” I said.

“Then,” said she, “I shall not tellyou.”

“Very well,” I said, “then you arecommanded.”

She looked at me through hertears and fear, with suddendefiance.

“Speak, Slave,” I said.She bit her lip with anger.“Obey,” I said.“Perhaps,” she said.Angrily I strode to her and seized

her by the arms. She looked up intomy eyes and shivered. She saw thatshe must speak. She lowered herhead in submission. “I obey,” shesaid, “– Master.”

I released her.Again she turned away, going to

the far wall.“Long ago,” she said, “when I

first came to the Sardar and foundthe Hall of Priest-Kings, I was ayoung and foolish girl. I thought thatthe Priest-Kings possessed greatwealth and that I, with my beauty-”she turned and looked at me andthrew back her head – “for I ambeautiful, am I not?”

I looked at her. And though herface was stained with the tears ofher recent terror and her hair androbes were disarranged, she wasbeautiful, perhaps the more so

because of her distress, which hadat least shattered the icy aloofnesswith which she had originallyregarded me. I knew that she nowfeared me, but for what reason Iwas uncertain. It had something todo with the door, with her fear that Imight force her from the room.

“Yes,” I said to her, “you arebeautiful.”

She laughed bitterly.“Yes,” she continued, “I, armed

with my beauty, would come to theSardar and wrest the riches andpower of the Priest-Kings fromthem, for men had always sought toserve me, to give me what I wanted,

and were the Priest-Kings notmen?”

People had strange reasons forentering the Sardar, but the reasonof the girl who called herself Vikaseemed to me one of the mostincredible. It was a plot whichcould have occurred only to a wild,spoiled, ambitious, arrogant girl,and perhaps as she had said, to onewho was also young and foolish.

“I would be Ubara of all Gor,”she laughed, “with Priest – Kings atmy beck and call, at my commandall their riches and their untoldpowers!”

I said nothing.

“But when I came to the Sardar-”She shuddered. Her lips moved, butshe seemed unable to speak.

I went to her and placed my armsabout her shoulders, and she did notresist.

“There,” she said, pointing 1tothe small rounded domes set in thesides of the portal.

“I don’t understand,” I said.She moved from my arms and

approached the portal. When shewas within perhaps a yard of theexit the small red domes began toglow.

“Here in the Sardar,” she said,turning to face me, trembling, “they

took me into the tunnels and lockedover my head a hideous metal globewith lights and wires and when theyfreed me they showed me a metalplate and told me that the patterns ofmy brain, of my oldest and mostprimitive memories, were recordedon that plate …”

I listened intently, knowing thatthe girl could, even if of HighCaste, understand little of what hadhappened to her. Those of the HighCastes of Gor are permitted by thePriest – Kings only the SecondKnowledge, and those of the lowercastes are premitted only the morerudimentary First Knowledge. I had

speculated that there would be aThird Knowledge, that reserved forPriest-Kings, and the girl’s accountseemed to justify this conjecture. Imyself would not understand theintricate processes involved in themachine of which she spoke but thepurpose of the machine and thetheoretical principles thatfacilitated its purpose werereasonably clear. The machine shespoke of would be a brain –scanner of some sort which wouldrecord three-dimensionally themicrostates of her brain, inparticular those of the deeper, lessalterable layers. If well done, the

resulting plate would be moreindividual than her fingerprints; itwould be as unique and personal asher own history; indeed, in a sense,it would be a physical model of thatsame history, an isomorphicanalogue of her past as she hadexperienced it.

“That plate,” she said, “is kept inthe tunnels of the Priest-Kings, butthese-” and she shivered andindicated the rounded domes, whichwere undoubtedly sensors of sometype, “are its eyes.”

“There is a connection of somesort, though perhaps only a beam ofsome type, between the plate and

these cells,” I said, going to themand examining them.

“You speak strangely,” she said.“What would happen if you were

to pass between them?” I asked.“They showed me,” she said, her

eyes filled with horror, “by sendinga girl between them who had notdone her duty as they thought sheshould.”

Suddenly I started. “They?” Iasked.

“The Priest-Kings,” she repliedsimply.

“But there is only one Priest-King,” I said, “who calls himself

Parp.”She smiled but did not respond to

me. She shook her head sadly. “Ah,yes, Parp,” she said.

I supposed at another time theremight have been more Priest –Kings. Perhaps Parp was the last ofthe Priest-Kings? Surely it seemedlikely that such massive structuresas the Hall of Priest-Kings musthave been the product of more thanone being.

“What happened to the girl?” Iasked.

Vika flinched. “It was like knivesand fire,” she said.

I now understood why she so

feared to leave the room.“Have you tried shielding

yourself?” I asked, looking at thebronze laver which was dryingagainst the wall.

“Yes,” she said, “but the eyeknows.” She smiled ruefully. “It cansee through metal.”1

I looked puzzled.She went to the side of the room

and picked up the bronze laver.Holding it before her as though toshield her face she approached theportal. Once more the roundeddomes began to glow.

“You see,” she said, “it knows. It

can see through metal.”“I see,” I said.I silently congratulated the

Priest-Kings on the efficacy of theirdevices. Apparently the rays whichmust emanate from the sensors, raysnot within that portion of thespectrum visible to the human eye,must possess the power to penetrateat least common molecularstructures, something like an X-raypierces flesh.

Vika glared at me sullenly. “Ihave been a prisoner in this roomfor nine years,” she said.

“I am sorry,” I said.“I came to the Sardar,” she

laughed, “to conquer the Priest –Kings and rob them of their richesand power!”

She ran to the far wall, suddenlybreaking into tears. Facing it shepounded on it weeping.

She spun to face me.“And instead,” she cried, “I have

only these walls of stone and thesteel collar of a slave girl!”

She helplessly, enraged, tried totear the slender, graceful, obdurateband from her white throat. Herfingers tore at it in fenzy, in fury,and she wept with frustration, andat last she desisted. Of course shestill wore the badge of her

servitude. The steel of a Goreanslave collar is not made to beremoved at a girl’s pleasure.

She was quiet now.She looked at me, curiously. “At

one time,” she said, “men sought toplease me but now it is I who mustplease them.”

I said nothing.Her eyes regarded me, rather

boldly I thought, as though invitingme to exercise my authority overher, to address to her any commandI might see fit, a command whichshe of course would have no choicebut to obey.

There was a long silence I did

not feel I should break. Vika’s life,in its way, had been hard, and Iwished her no harm.

Her lips curled slightly in scorn.I was well aware of the taunt of

her flesh, the obvious challenge ofher eyes and carriage.

She seemed to say to me, youcannot master me.

I wondered how many men hadfailed.

With a shrug she went to the sideof the sleeping platform and pickedup the white, silken scarf I hadremoved from her throat. Shewrapped it again about her throat,concealing the collar.

“Do not wear the scarf,” I saidgently.

Her eyes sparkled with anger.“You wish to see the collar,” she

hissed.“You may wear the scarf if you

wish,” I said.Her eyes clouded with

bewilderment.“But I do not think you should,” I

said.“Why?” she asked.“Because I think that you are

more beautiful without it,” I said,“but more importantly to hide acolla1r is not to remove it.”

Rebellious fire flared in her

eyes, and then she smiled. “No,”she said, “I suppose not.” Sheturned away bitterly. “When I amalone,” she said, “I pretend that Iam free, that I am a great lady, theUbara of a great city, even of Ar –but when a man enters my chamber,then again I am only a slave.” Sheslowly pulled the scarf from herthroat and dropped it to the floor,and turned to face me. She lifted herhead arrogantly and I saw that thecollar was very beautiful on herthroat.

“With me,” I said gently, “youare free.”

She looked at me scornfully.

“There have been a hundred men inthis chamber before you,” she said,“and they have taught me – andtaught me well – that I wear acollar.”

“Nonetheless,” I said, “with meyou are free.”

“And there will be a hundredafter you,” she said.

I supposed she spoke the truth. Ismiled. “In the meantime,” I said, “Igrant you freedom.”

She laughed. “To hide a collar,”she said, in a mocking tone, “is notto remove it.”

I laughed. She had had the best ofthe exchange. “Very well,” I

conceded, “you are a slave girl.”When I said this, though I spoke

in jest, she stiffened as though Imight have lashed her mouth withthe back of my hand.

Her old insolence had returned.“Then use me,” she said bitterly.“Teach me the meaning of thecollar.”

I marveled. Vika, in spite of hernine years of captivity, herconfinement in this chamber, wasstill a headstrong, spoiled, arrogantgirl, and one fully aware of her yetunconquered flesh, and the sinuouspower which her beauty mightexercise over men, its capacity to

torture them and drive them wild, tobend them in the search for itssmallest favours compliantly to herwill. There stood before meinsolently the beautiful, predatorygirl who had come so long ago tothe Sardar to exploit Priest-Kings.

“Later,” I said.She choked with fury.I bore her no ill will but I found

her as irritating as she wasbeautiful. I could understand thatshe, a proud, intelligent girl, couldnot but resent the indignities of herposition, being forced to serve withthe full offices of the slave girlwhomsoever the Priest-Kings might

see fit to send to her chamber, butyet I found in these grievances,great though they might be, noexcuse for the deep hostilitytowards myself which seemed tosuffuse her graceful being. After all,I, too, was a prisoner of Priest-Kings and I had not chosen to cometo her chamber.

“How did I come to thischamber?” I asked.

“They brought you,” she said.“Priest-Kings?” I asked.“Yes,” she said.“Parp?” I asked.For answer she only laughed.“How long did I sleep?” I asked.

“Long,” she said.“How long?” I asked.“Fifteen Ahn,” she said.I whistled to myself. The Gorean

day is divided into twenty Ahn. Ihad nearly slept around the clock.1

“Well, Vika,” I said, “I think I amnow ready to make use of you.”

“Very well, Master,” said thegirl, and the expression by whichshe had addressed me seemeddipped in irony. Her hand loosenedthe clasp by which her garment wassecured over her left shoulder.

“Can you cook?” I asked.She looked at me. “Yes,” she

snapped. She fumbled irritably with

the clasp of her robe, but her fingerswere clumsy with rage. She wasunable to fasten the clasp.

I fastened it for her.She looked up at me, her eyes

blazing. “I will prepare food,” shesaid.

“Be quick, Slave Girl,” I said.Her shoulders shook with rage.“I see,” I said, “that I must teach

you the meaning of your collar.” Itook a step toward her and sheturned stumbling with a cry and ranto the corner of the room.

My laugh was loud.Almost instantly, reddening, Vika

regained her composure and

straightened herself, tossing herhead and brushing back a melody ofblond hair which had fallen acrossher forehead. The wool fillet shehad worn to bind her hair hadloosened. She fixed on me a look ofthe most lofty disdain and, standingagainst the wall, lifting her armsbehind the back of her neck, sheprepared to replace the fillet.

“No,” I said.I had decided I liked her better

with her hair loose.Deliberately, testing me, she

continued to tie the fillet.My eyes met hers.Angrily she pulled the fillet from

her hair and threw it to the floor,and turned away to busy herselfwith the preparation of my meal.

Her hair was very beautiful.

Chapter SixWHEN PRIEST-KINGS

WALK

Vika could cook well and Ienjoyed the meal she prepared.

Stores of food were kept inconcealed cabinets at one side ofthe room, which were opened in thesame fashion as the other apertures

I had observed earlier.At my command Vika

demonstrated for me the manner ofopening and closing the storage anddisposal areas in her unusualkitchen.

The temperature of the waterwhich sprang from the wall tap, Ilearned, was regulated by thedirection in which the shadow of ahand fell across a light-sensitivecell above the tap; the amount ofwater was correlated with thespeed with which the hand passedbefore the sensor. I was interestedto note that one received cold waterby a shadow passing from right to

left and hot water by a shadowpassing from left to right.

This reminded me of faucets onEarth, in which the hot water tap ison the left and the cold on the right.Undoubtedly there is a commonreason underlying these similararrangements on Gor and Earth.More cold water is used than hot,and most individuals using thewater are right-handed.

The food which Vika withdrewfrom the storage apertures was notrefrigerated but was protected bysomething resembling a foil of blueplastic. It was fresh andappetisi1ng.

First she boiled and simmered akettle of Sullage, a common Goreansoup consisting of three standardingredients and, as it is said,whatever else may be found, savingonly the rocks of the field. Theprincipal ingredients of Sullage arethe golden Sul, the starchy, golden-brown vine-borne fruit of thegolden-leaved Sul plant; the curled,red, ovate leaves of the Tur-Pah, atree parasite, cultivated in hostorchards of Tur trees; and the salty,blue secondary roots of the KesShrub, a small, deeply rooted plantwhich grows best in sandy soil.

The meat was a steak, cut from

the loin of a bosk, a huge, shaggy,long-horned, ill-tempered bovinewhich shambles in large, slow-moving herds across the prairies ofGor. Vika seared this meat, as thickas the forearm of a warrior, on asmall iron grill over a kindling ofcharcoal cylinders, so that the thinmargin of the outside was black,crisp and flaky and sealed within bythe touch of the fire was the blood-rich flesh, hot and fat with juice.

Beyond the Sullage and the bosksteak there was the inevitable flat,rounded loaf of the yellow Sa-Tarna bread. The meal wascompleted by a handful of grapes

and a draught of water from thewall tap. The grapes were purpleand, I suppose, Ta grapes from thelower vineyards of the terracedisland of Cos some four hundredpasangs from Port Kar. I had tastedsome only once before, having beenintroduced to them in a feast givenin my honour by Lara, who wasTatrix of the city of Tharna. If theywere indeed Ta grapes I supposedthey must have come by galley fromCos to Port Kar, and from Port Karto the Fair of En’Kara. Port Kar andCos are hereditary enemies, butsuch traditions would not be likelyto preclude some profitable

smuggling. But perhaps they werenot Ta grapes for Cos was fardistant, and even if carried by tarns,the grapes would probably not seemso fresh. I dismissed the matterfrom my mind. I wondered whythere was only water to drink, andnone of the fermented beverages ofGor, such as Paga, Ka-la-na wineor Kal-da. I was sure that if thesewere available Vika would have setthem before me.

I looked at her.She had not prepared herself a

portion but, after I had been served,had knelt silently to one side, backon her heels in the position of a

Tower Slave, a slave to whomlargely domestic duties would beallotted in the Gorean apartmentcylinders.

On Gor, incidentally, chairs havespecial significance, and do notoften occur in private dwellings.They tend to be reserved forsignificant personages, such asadministrators and judges.Moreover, although you may findthis hard to understand, they are notthought to be comfortable. Indeed,when I had returned to Earth frommy first trip to Gor I had found thatone of the minor inconveniences ofmy return was reaccustoming

myself to the simple business ofsitting on chairs. I felt, for somemonths, rather awkward, ratherunsteady perched on a little woodenplatform supported by four narrowsticks. Perhaps if you can imagineyourself suddenly being forced tosit on rather high end tables you cansense the feeling.

The Gorean male, at ease,usually sits cross-legged and thefemale kneels, resting back on herheels. The position of the TowerSlave, in which Vika knelt, differsfrom that of a free woman only inthe position of the wrists which areheld before her and, when not

occupied, crossed as though forbinding. A free woman’s wrists arenever so placed. The Older Tarl,who had been my mentor in armsyears ago in Ko – ro-ba, had oncetold me the story of a free woman,desperately in love with a warrior,who, in the presence of her familywas entertaining him, and whosewrists, unconsciously, had assumedthe position of a slave. It was onlywith 1difficulty that she had beenrestrained from hurling herself inmortification from one of the highbridges. The Older Tarl hadguffawed in recounting thisanecdote and was scarcely less

pleased by its sequel. It seems shethereafter, because of herembarrassment, would never seethe warrior and he, at last, impatientand desiring her, carried her off asa slave girl, and returned to the citymonths later with her as his FreeCompanion. At the time that I hadbeen in Ko-ro-ba the couple hadstill been living in the city. Iwondered what had become ofthem.

The position of the PleasureSlave, incidentally, differs from theposition of both the free woman andthe Tower Slave.

The hands of a Pleasure Slave

normally rest on her thighs but, insome cities, for example, Thentis, Ibelieve, they are crossed behindher. More significantly, for the freewoman’s hands may also rest on herthighs, there is a difference in theplacing of the knees. In all thesekneeling positions, incidentally,even that of the Pleasure Slave, theGorean woman carries herself well;her back is straight and her chin ishigh. She tends to be vital andbeautiful to look upon.

“Why is there nothing but waterto drink?” I asked Vika.

She shrugged. “I suppose,” shesaid, “because the Chamber Slave

is alone much of the time.”I looked at her, not fully

understanding.She gazed at me frankly. “It

would be too easy then,” she said.I felt like a fool. Of course the

Chamber Slaves would not bepermitted the escape ofintoxication, for if they were soallowed tolighten their bondageundoubtedly, in time, their beauty,their utility to the Priest-Kingswould be diminished; they wouldbecome unreliable, lost in dreamsand wines.

“I see,” I said.“Only twice a year is the food

brought,” she said.“And it is brought by Priest-

Kings?” I asked.“I suppose,” she said.”“But you do not know?”“No,” said she. “I awaken on

some morning and there is food.”“I suppose Parp brings it,” I said.She looked at me with a trace of

amusement.“Parp the Priest-King,” I said.“Did he tell you that?” she asked.“Yes,” I said.“I see,” she said.The girl was apparently

unwilling to speak more of thismatter, and so I did not press her.

I had almost finished the meal.“You have done well,” Icongratulated her. “The meal isexcellent.”

“Please,” she said, “I amhungry.”

I looked at he dumbfounded. Shehad not prepared herself a portionand so I had assumed that she hadeaten, or was not hungry, or wouldprepare her own meal later.

“Make yourself something,” Isaid.

“I cannot,” she said simply. “Ican eat only what you give me.”

I cursed myself for a fool.Had I now become so much the

Gorean warrior that I coulddisregard the feelings of a fellowc1reature, in particular those of agirl, who must be protected andcared for? Could it be that I had, asthe Codes of my Casterecommended, not even consideredher, but merely regarded her as arightless animal, no more than asubject beast, an abject instrumentto my interests and pleasures, aslave?

“I am sorry,” I said.“Was it not your intention to

discipline me?” she asked.“No,” I said.“Then my master is a fool,” she

said, reaching for the meat that I hadleft on my plate.

I caught her wrist.“It is now my intention to

discipline you,” I said.Her eyes briefly clouded with

tears. “Very well,” she said,withdrawing her hand.

Vika would go hungry that night.

* * *

Although it was late, accordingto the chamber chronometer, fixedin the lid of one of the chests, Iprepared to leave the room.Unfortunately there was no natural

light in the room and so one couldnot judge the time by the sun or thestars and moons of Gor. I missedthem. Since I had awakened, theenergy bulbs had continued to burnat a constant and undiminished rate.

I had washed as well as I couldsquatting in the stream of waterwhich emerged from the wall.

In one of the chests against thewall I had found, among thegarments of various other castes, awarrior’s tunic. I donned this, as myown had been torn by the larl’sclaws.

Vika had unrolled a straw matwhich she placed on the floor at the

foot of the great stone couch in thechamber. On this, wrapped in alight blanket, her chin on her knees,she sat watching me.

A heavy slave ring was set in thebottom of the couch to which Imight have, had I pleased, chainedher.

I buckled on my sword.“You are not going to leave the

chamber, are you?” asked Vika, thefirst words she had said to me sincethe meal.

“Yes,” I said.“But you may not,” she said.“Why?” I asked, alert.“It is forbidden,” she said.

“I see,” I said.I started for the door.“When the Priest-Kings wish

you, they will come for you,” shesaid. “Until then you must wait.”

“I do not care to wait,” I said.“But you must,” she insisted,

standing.I went to her and placed my

hands on her shoulders. “Do notfear the Priest-Kings so,” I said.

She saw that my resolve was notaltered.

“If you go,” she said, “return atleast before the second gong.”

“Why?” I asked.“For yourself,” she said, looking

down.“I am not afraid,” I said.“Then for me,” she said, not

raising her eyes.“But why?” I asked.She seemed confused. “I am

afraid to be alone,” she said.“But you have been alone many

nights,” I pointed out.She looked up at me and I could

not read the expression in hertroubled eyes. “One does not ceaseto be afraid,” she said.

“I must go,” I said.Suddenly in the distance I heard

the rumble of the gong which I hadheard before in the Hall of Priest-

Kings.Vika smiled up at me. “You see,”

she said in relief, “it is too late.Now you must remain.”

“Why?” I asked.She looked away, avoiding my

eyes. “Because the energy bulbswill soon be dimmed,” she said,“and it will be the hours allotted forsleep.”

She seemed unwilling to speakfurther.

“Why must I remain?” I asked.I held her shoulders more firmly

and shook her to force her to speak.“Why?” I insisted.

Fear creep into her eyes.

“Why?” I demanded.Then came the second rumbling

stroke of the distant gong, and Vikaseemed to tremble in my arms.

Her eyes were wide with fear.I shook her again, savagely.

“Why?” I cried.She could hardly speak. Her

voice was scarcely a whisper.“Because after the gong-” she said.

“Yes?” I demanded.“– they walk,” she said.“Who!” I demanded.“The Priest-Kings!” she cried

and turned from me.“I am not afraid of Parp,” I said.She turned and looked at me. “He

is not a Priest-King,” she saidquietly.

And then came the third and finalstroke of that distant gong and at thesame instant the energy bulbs in theroom dimmed and I understood thatnow somewhere in the longcorridors of that vast edifice therewalked the Priest-Kings of Gor.

Chapter SevenI HUNT FOR PRIEST-KINGS

In spite of Vika’s protests it waswith a light heart that I strode intothe passageway beyond her

chamber. I would seek the Priest-Kings of Gor.

She followed me almost to theportal, and I can remember how thesensors set in that great threshold inthe dimmed light of the energy bulbsbegan to glow and pulse as sheneared them.

I could see her white garment andsense the pale beauty of her skin asshe stood back from the portal inthe semi – darkened chamber.

“Please do not go,” she called tome.

“I must,” I said.“Come back,” she cried.I did not answer her but began to

prowl down the hallway.“I’m afraid,” I heard her call.I assumed she would be safe, as

she had been on countle1ss nightsand so I went on.

I thought I heard her weep, andsupposed that she did so for herself,because she was frightened.

I continued down thepassageway.

My business was not to consoleher, not to tell her not to be afraid,not to give her the comfort ofanother human presence. Mybusiness was with the dreaddenizens of these dim passagewayswhich had so inspired her terror;

my business was not that of thecomforter or friend, but that of thewarrior.

As I went down the passageway Ilooked into the various chambers,identical with my own, which linedit. Each, like mine, lacked a gate ordoor, and had for its entrance onlythat massive portal, perhaps sometwelve feet wide and eighteen feethigh. I would not have enjoyedsleeping in such a room, for therewas no way to protect oneself fromthe hall, and of course eventuallyone would need sleep.

Almost all of the chambers Ipassed, and I passed many, seemd

to be empty.Two, however, housed Chamber

Slaves, girls like Vika, clad andcollared identically. I suppose theonly difference in the attire of thethree girls would have been thenumerals engraved on their collars.Vika of course had worn a scarf andthese girls did not, but now Vika nolonger wore her scarf; now hercollar, steel and gleaming, locked,encircling her fair throat, was asevident and beautiful as theirs,proclaiming her to the eyes of all,like them, only a slave girl.

The first girl was a short, sturdywench with thick ankles and wide,

exciting shoulders, probably ofpeasant stock. Her hair had beenbraided and looped over her rightshoulder; it was hard in the light todetermine its colour. She had risenfrom her mat at the foot of the couchunbelievingly, blinking and rubbingher heavy-lidded, ovoid eyes. Asfar as I could tell she was alone inthe chamber. When she approachedthe portal its sensors began to glowand pulse as had Vika’s.

“Who are you?” asked the girl,her accent suggesting the Sa – Tarnafields above Ar and toward theTamber Gulf.

“Have you seen Priest-Kings?” I

asked.“Not this night,” she said.“I am Cabot of Ko-ro-ba,” I said

and went on.The second girl was tall, fragile

and willowy, with slender anklesand large, hurt eyes; she had dark,curling hair that fell about hershoulders and stood out against thewhite of her garment; she may havebeen of High Caste; withoutspeaking to her it would be hard totell; even then it might be difficultto be sure, for the accents of someof the higher artisan castesapproximate pure High CasteGorean; she stood with her back

against the far wall, the palms ofher hands against it, her eyesfastened on me, frightened, scarcelybreathing. As far as I could tell shetoo was alone.

“Have you seen Priest-Kings?” Iasked.

She shook her head vigorously,No.

Still wondering if she were ofHigh Caste, and smiling to myself, Icontinued down the passageway.

Both of the girls had in their waybeen beautiful but I found Vikasuperior to both.

My Chamber Slave’s accent hadbeen pure High Caste Gorean

though I could not place the city.Probably her caste had been that ofthe Builders or Physicians, for hadher people been Scribes I wouldhave expected a greater subtlety ofinflections, the use of less commongrammatical cases; and had her1people been of the Warriors Iwould have expected a blunterspeech, rather belligerently simple,expressed in great reliance on theindicative mood and, habitually, arather arrogant refusal to venturebeyond the most straightforward ofsentence structures. On the otherhand these generalisations areimperfect, for Gorean speech is no

less complex than that of any of thegreat natural language communitiesof the Earth nor are its speakers anythe less diverse. It is, incidentally, abeautiful language; it can be assubtle as Greek; as direct as Latin;as expressive as Russian; as rich asEnglish; as forceful as German. Tothe Goreans it is always, simply,The Language, as though there wereno others, and those who do notspeak it are regarded immediatelyas barbarians. This sweet, fierce,liquid speech is the common bondthat tends to hold together theGorean world. It is the commonproperty of the Administrator of Ar,

a herdsman beside the Vosk, apeasant from Tor, a scribe fromThentis, a metalworker fromTharna, a physician from Cos, apirate from Port Kar, a warriorfrom Ko-ro-ba.

I found it difficult to remove frommy mind the image of the twoChamber Slaves, and that of Vika,perhaps because the plight of thesegirls touched my heart, perhapsbecause each, though differently,was beautiful. I found myselfcongratulating myself that I hadbeen taken to the chamber of Vika,for I had thought her the mostbeautiful. Then I wondered if my

having been brought to her chamber,and not to that of one of the othershad been simply my good fortune. Itoccurred to me that Vika, in someways, resembled Lara, who wasTatrix of Tharna, for whom I hadcared. She was shorter than Laraand more fully bodied but theywould have been considered of thesame general physical type. Vika’seyes were a sullen, smouldering,taunting blue; the blue of Lara’seyes had been brighter, as clearand, when not impassioned, as softas the summer sky over Ko-ro-ba;when impassioned they had burnedas fiercely, as beautifully, as

helplessly as the walls of a rapedcity. Lara’s lips had been rich andfine, sensitive and curious, tender,eager, hungry; the lips of Vika weremaddening; I recalled those lips,full and red, pouting, defiant,scornful, scarlet with a slave girl’schallenge to my blood; I wonderedif Vika might be a bred slave, aPassion Slave, one of those girlsbred for beauty and passion overgenerations by the zealous ownersof the great Slave Houses of Ar, forlips such as Vika’s were a featureoften bred into Passion Slaves; theywere lips formed for the kiss of amaster.

And as I pondered these things Isensed that it had not been accidentthat I had been carried to Vika’schamber but that this had been partof a plan by the Priest-Kings. I hadsensed that Vika had defeated andbroken many men, and I sensed thatthe Priest-Kings might be curious tosee how I might fare with her. Iwondered if Vika herself had beeninstructed by Priest-Kings to subdueme. I gathered that she had not. Itwas not the way of Priest-Kings.Vika would be all unconscious oftheir machinations; she wouldsimply be herself, which is what thePriest-Kings would desire. She

would simply be Vika, insolent,aloof, contemptuous, provocative,untamed though collared,determined to be the master thoughshe were the slave. I wondered howmany men had fallen at her feet,how many men she had forced tosleep at the foot of the great stonecouch, in the shadow of the slavering, while she herself reclined onthe pelts and silks of the master.

* * *

After some hours I found myselfagain in the Hall of Priest – Kings. Iwas gladdened to see once more the

moons and stars of Gor hurtling inthe sky above the dome.

My footsteps rang hollowly onthe stones of the floor. The greatchamber reposed in vastness andstil1lness. The empty throne loomedsilent and awesome.

“I am here!” I cried. “I am TarlCabot. I am a warrior of Ko-ro-baand I issue the challenge of awarrior to the Priest-Kings of Gor!Let us do battle! Let us make war!”

My voice echoed for a long timein the vast chamber, but I receivedno response to my challenge.

I called out again and again therewas no response.

I decided to return to Vika’schamber.

On another night I might explorefurther, for there were otherpassageways, other portals visiblefrom where I stood. It might takedays to pursue them all.

* * *

I set out on my way back toVika’s chamber.

I had walked perhaps an Ahn andwas deep inside one of the long,dimly lit passageways which led inthe direction of her chamber when Iseemed somehow to sense a

presence behind me.I spun quickly about drawing my

sword in the same motion.The corridor behind me was

empty.I slammed the blade back in the

sheath and continued on.I had not walked far when I again

became uneasy. This time I did notturn, but walked slowly ahead,listening behind me with every fibreI could bend to the effort. When Icame to a bend in the passageway Irounded it, and then pressed myselfagainst the wall and waited.

Slowly, very slowly, I drew thesword, taking care that it made no

sound as it left its sheath.I waited but nothing occurred.I have the patience of a warrior

and I waited for a long time. Whenmen stalk one another with weaponsit is well to have patience, greatpatience.

It of course occurred to me ahundred times that I was follish foractually I was conscious of havingheard nothing.

Yet my awareness or sense thatsomething followed me in thecorridor might well have beenoccasioned by some tiny soundwhich my conscious mind had noteven registered, but yet which had

impinged on my senses, leaving asits only conscious trace a vaguewind of suspicion. At last I decidedto force the game. My decision wasmotivated in part by the fact that thehall allowed few concealments forambush and I would presumably seemy pursuer almost as soon as hesaw me. If he were not carrying amissile weapon it would make littledifference. And if he had beencarrying a missile weapon why hadhe not slain me before? I smiledgrimly. If it were a matter ofwaiting I acknowledged that thePriest-King, if such it were, whofollowed me had had the best of

things. For all I knew a Priest-Kingcould wait like a stone or tree,nerveless until necessary. I hadwaited perhaps better than an Ahnand I was covered with sweat. Mymuscles ached for motion. Itoccurred to me that whateverfollowed might have heard thecessation of my footsteps. That itknew that I was waiting. How acutewould be the senses of Priest-Kings? Perhaps they would berelatively feeble, gaving grownaccustomed to reliance oninstrumentation; perhaps they wouldbe other than the senses of men,sharper if only from a differing

genetic heritage, capable ofdiscriminating and interpretingsensory cues that would not even beavailable to the primitive fivesenses of men. Never before had Ibeen so aware of the thin margin ofreality admitted into the humannervous system, little more than arazor’s width of apprehension giventhe multiple and complex physicalprocesses whi1ch formed ourenvironment. The safest thing forme would be to continue on as I hadbeen doing, a pattern of actionwhich would give me the benefit ofthe shield formed by the turn in thepassage. But I had no wish to

continue on. I tensed myself for theleap and cry that would fling meinto the open, the suddeninterruption in the stillness of thepassageway that might be sufficientto impair the steadiness of a speararm, the calm setting of acrossbow’s iron quarrel on itsguide.

And so I uttered the war cry ofKo-ro-ba and leaped, sword ready,to face what might follow me.

A howl of bitter rage escaped mylips as I saw that the passagewaywas empty.

Maddened beyond understandingI began to race down the

passageway, retracing my steps toconfront what might be in thepassage. I had run for perhaps half apasang when I stopped, panting andfurious with myself.

“Come out!” I cried. “Come out!”The stillness of the passageway

taunted me.I remembered Vika’s words,

When the Priest-Kings wish you,they will come for you.

Angrily I stood alone in thepassageway in the dimmed light ofits energy bulbs, my unused swordgrasped futilely in my hand.

Then I sensed something.My nostrils flared slightly and

then as carefully as one mightexamine an object by eye I smelledthe air of the passageway.

I had never much relied on thissense.

Surely I had enjoyed the scent offlowers and women, of hot, freshbread, roasted meat, Paga andwines, harness leather, the oil withwhich I protected the blade of mysword from rust, of green fields andstorm winds, but seldom had Iconsidered the sense of smell in theway one would consider that ofvision or touch, and yet it too hadits often neglected store ofinformation ready for the man who

was ready to make use of it.And so I smelled the passageway

and to my nostrils, vague butundeniable, there came an odourthat I had never before encountered.It was, as far as I could tell at thattime, a simple odour, though later Iwould learn that it was the complexproduct of odours yet more simplethan itself. I find it impossible todescribe this odour, much as onemiught find it difficult to describethe taste of a citrus fruit to one whohad never tasted it or anything muchakin to it. It was however slightlyacrid, irritating to my nostrils. Itreminded me vaguely of the odour

of an expended cartridge.Although there was nothing now

with me in the passage it had left itstrace.

I knew now that I had not beenalone.

I had caught the scent of a Priest-King.

I resheathed my sword andreturned to Vika’s chamber. Ihummed a warrior’s tune, forsomehow I was happy.

Chapter EightVIKA LEAVES THE

CHAMBER

“Wake up, wench!” I cried,striding into Vika’s chamber,clapping my hands sharply twice.

The startled girl cried out andleaped to her feet. She had beenlying on the straw mat at the foot ofthe stone couch. So suddenly hadshe arisen that she had struck herknee against the couch and this hadnot much pleased her. I had meantto scare her h1alf to death and I waspleased to see that I had.

She looked at me angrily. “I wasnot asleep,” she said.

I strode to her and held her head

in my hands, looking at her eyes.She had spoken the truth.

“You see!” she said.I laughed.She lowered her head, and then

looked up shyly. “I am happy,” shesaid, “that you have returned.”

I looked at her and sensed thatshe was.

“I suppose,” I said, “that in myabsence you have been in thepantry.”

“No,” she said, “I have not,”adding as an acrimoniousafterthought, “– Master.”

I had offended her pride.“Vika,” I said, “I think it is time

that some changes were madearound here.”

“Nothing ever changes here,” shesaid.

I looked around the room. Thesensors in the room interested me. Iexamined them again. I was elated.Then, methodically, I began tosearch the room. Although thesensors and the mode of theirapplication were fiendish andbeyonf my immediate competenceto fully understand, they suggestednothing ultimately mysterious,nothing which might not eventuallybe explained. There was nothingabout them to encourage me to

believe that the Priest-Kings, orKing as it might be, were ultimatelyunfathomable or incomprehensiblebeings.

Moreover in the corridor beyondI had sensed the traces, tangibletraces, of a Priest-King. I laughed.Yes, I had smelled a Priest-King, orits effects. The thought amused me.

More fully than ever I nowunderstood how much the forces ofsuperstition have depressed andinjured men. No wonder the Priest-Kings hid behind their palisade inthe Sardar and let the myths of theInitiates build a wall of humanterror about them, no wonder they

let their nature and ends be secret,no wonder they took such pains toconceal and obscure their plans andpurposes, their devices, theirinstrumentation, their limitations! Ilaughed aloud.

Vika watched me, puzzled, surelyconvinced that I must have lost mymind.

I cracked my fist into my openpalm. “Where is it?” I cried.

“What?” whispered Vika.“The Priest-Kings see and the

Priest-Kings hear!” I cried, “Buthow?”

“By their power,” said Vika,moving back to the wall.

I had examined the entire room aswell as I could. It might bepossible, of course, to use sometype of penetrating beam which ifsubtly enough adjusted might permitthe reception of signals throughwalls and then relay these to adistant screen, but I doubted thatsuch a device, though perhapswithin the capacities of the Priest-Kings, would be used in therelatively trivial domesticsurveillance of these chambers.

Then my eye saw, directly in thecentre of the ceiling, another energybulb, like those in the walls, onlythe bulb was not lit. That was a

mistake on the Priest-Kings’ part.But of course the device could be inany of the bulbs. Perhaps one of thealmost inexhaustible energy bulbs,which can burn for years, had as asimple matter of fact at last burnedout.

I leaped to the centre of the stoneplatform. I cried to the girl, “Bringme the laver.”

She was convinced I was mad.“Quickly!” I shouted, and she

fairly leapt to fetch the bronzebowl.

I seized the bowl from her handand hurled it underhanded upagainst the bulb which, though it

had apparently burned out, shatteredwith a great flash and hiss of smokeand sparks. Vika screamed andcrouched behind the stone platform.Down from the cavity where theenergy bulb had been there hung,blasted and smoking, a tangle ofwire, a ruptured metal diaphragmand a conical receptacle whichmight once have held a lens.

“Come here,” I said to Vika, butthe poor girl cringed beside theplatform. Impatient, I seized her bythe arm and yanked her to theplatform and held her there in myarms. “Look up!” I said. But shekept her face resolutely down. I

thrust my fist in her hair and shecried out and looked up. “See!” Icried.

“What is it?” she whimpered.“It was an eye,” I said.“An eye?” she whimpered.“Yes,” I said, “something like the

“eye” in the door.” I wanted her tounderstand.

“Whose eye?” she asked.“The eye of Priest-Kings,” I

laughed. “But it is now shut.”Vika trembled against me and in

my joy with my fist still in her hair Ibent my face to hers and kissed herfull on those magnificent lips andshe cried out helpless in my arms

and wept but did not resist.It was the first kiss I had taken

from the lips of my slave girl, and ithad been a kiss of mad joy, one thatastonished her, that she could notunderstand.

I leaped from the couch and wentto the portal.

She remained standinf on thestone platform, bewildered, herfingers at her lips.

Her eyes regarded me strangely.“Vika,” I cried, “would you like

to leave this room?”“Of course,” she said. Her voice

trembled.“Very well,” I said, “you shall

do so.”She shrank back.I laughed and went to the portal.

Once again I examined the six red,domed sensors, three on a side,which were fixed there. It wouldbe, in a way, a shame to destroythem, for they were rather beautiful.

I drew my sword.“Stop!” cried Vika, in terror.She leaped from the stone couch

and ran to me, seizing my swordarm but with my left hand I flung herback and she fell stumbling backagainst the side of the stone couch.

“Don’t!” she cried, kneelingthere, her hands outstretched.

Six times the hilt of my swordstruck against the sensors and sixtimes there was a hissing pop likethe explosion of hot glass and abright shower of scarlet sparks. Thesensors had been shattered, theirlenses broken and the wiredapertures behind them a tangle ofblack, fused wire.

I resheathed my sword andwiped my face with the back of myforearm. I could taste a little bloodand knew that some of the fragmentsfrom the sensors had cut my face.

Vika knelt beside the couchnumbly.

I smiled at her. “You may now

leave the room,” I said, “should youwish to do so.”

Slowly she rose to her feet. Hereyes looked to the portal and itsshattered sensors. Then she lookedat me, something of wonder andfear in her eyes.

She shook herself.“My master is hurt,” she said.“I am Tarl Cabot of Ko-ro-ba,” I

said to her, telling her my name andcity for the first time.

“My city is Treve,” she said, forthe first time telling me the name ofher city.

I smiled as I watched her go tofetch a towel from one of the chests

against the wall.So Vika was from Treve.That explained much.Treve was a warlike city

somewhere in the tracklessmagnificence of the Voltai Range. Ihad never been there but I knew herreputation. Her warriors were saidto be fierce and brave, her womenproud and beautiful. Her tarnsmenwere ranked with those of Thentis,famed for its tarn flocks, and Ko-ro-ba, even great Ar itself.

Vika returned with the towel andbegan dabbing at my face.

It was seldom a girl from Treveascended the auction block. I

suppose Vika would have beencostly had I purchased her in Ar orKo-ro-ba. Even when not beautiful,because of their rarity, they areprized by collectors.

Treve was alleged to lie aboveAr, some seven hundred pasangsdistant, and toward the Sardar. Ihad never seen the city located on amap but I had seen the territory sheclaimed so marked. The preciselocation of Treve was not known tome and was perhaps known to fewsave its citizens. Trade routes didnot lead to the city and those whoentered its territory did not oftenreturn.

There was said to be no accessto Treve save on tarnback and thiswould suggest that it must be asmuch a mountain stronghold as acity.

She was said to have noagriculture, and this may be true.Each year in the fall legions oftarnsmen from Treve were said toemerge from the Voltai like locustsand fall on the fields of one city oranother, different cities in differentyears, harvesting what they neededand burning the rest in order that along, relatiatory winter campaigncould not be launched against them.A century ago the tarnsmen of Treve

had even managed to stand off thetarnsmen of Ar in a fierce battlefought in the stormy sky over thecrags of the Voltai.

I had heard poets sing of it. Sincethat time her depredations had goneunchecked, although perhaps itshould be added that never againdid the men of Treve despoil thefields of Ar.

“Does it hurt?” asked Vika.“No,” I said.“Of course it hurts,” she sniffed.I wondered if many of Treve’s

women were as beautiful as Vika. Ifthey were it was surprising thattarnsmen from all the cities of Gor

would not have descended on theplace, as the saying goes, to trychain luck.

“Are all the women of Treve asbeautiful as you?” I asked.

“Of course not,” she saidirritably.

“Are you the most beautiful?” Iasked.

“I don’t know,” she said simply,and then she smiled and added,“perhap1s …”

With a graceful movement sherose and went back again to thechests against the wall. Shereturned with a small tube ofointment.

“They are deeper than I thought,”she said.

With the tip of her finger shebegan to work the ointment into thecuts. It burned quite a bit.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.“No,” I said.She laughed, and it pleased me to

hear her laugh.“I hope you know what you are

doing,” I said.“My father,” she said, “was of

the Caste of Physicians.”So, I thought to myself, I had

placed her accent rather well, eitherBuilders or Physicians, and had Ithought carefully enough about it, I

might have recognised her accent asbeing a bit too refined for theBuilders. I chuckled to myself. Ineffect, I had probably merelyscored a lucky hit.

“I didn’t know they hadphysicians in Treve,” I said.

“We have all the High Castes inTreve,” she said, angrily.

The only two cities, other thanAr, which I knew that Treve did notperiodically attack weremountainous Thentis, famed for itstarn flocks, and Ko-ro-ba, my owncity.

If the issue was grain, of course,there would be little point in going

to Thentis, for she imports her own,but her primary wealth, her tarnflocks, is not negligible, and shealso possesses silver, though hermines are not as rich as those ofTharna. Perhaps Treve has neverattacked Thentis because she, too,is a mountain city, lying in theMountains of Thentis, or morelikely because the men of Treverespect her tarnsmen almost asmuch as they do their own.

The cessation of attacks on Ko-ro-ba began during the time myfather, Matthew Cabot, was Ubar ofthat city.

He organised a system of far-

flung beacons, set in fortifiedtowers, which would give the alarmwhen unwelcome forces entered theterritory of Ko-ro-ba. At the sight ofraiders one tower would set itsbeacons aflame, glittering by night,or dampen it with green branchesby day to produce a white smoke,and this signal would be relayedfrom tower to tower. Thus when thetarnsmen of Treve came to the grainfields of Ko-ro-ba, which lie for themost part some pasangs from thecity, toward the Vosk and TamberGulf, they would find her tarnsmenarrayed against them. Having comefor grain and not war, the men of

Treve would then turn back, andseek out the fields of a less well-defended city.

There was also a system ofsignals whereby the towers couldcommunicate with one another andthe city. Thus if one tower failed toreport when expected the alarmbars of Ko-ro-ba would soon ringand her tarnsmen would saddle andbe aflight.

Cities, of course, would pursuethe raiders from Treve, and carrythe pursuit vigorously as far as thefoothills of the Voltai, but there theywould surrender the chase, turningback, not caring to risk their

tarnsmen in the rugged, formidableterritory of their rival, whoselegendary ferocity among her owncrags once gave pause long agoeven to the mighty forces of Ar.

Treve’s other needs seemd to besatisfied much in the same way asher agricultural ones, for herraiders were known from theborders of the Fair of En’Kara, inthe very shadow of the Sardar, tothe delta of the Vosk and the islandsbeyond, such as Tyros and Cos. Theresults of the1se raids might bereturned to Treve or sold, perhapseven at the Fair of En’Kara, oranother of the four great Sardar

Fairs, or if not, they could alwaysbe disposed of easily withoutquestion in distant, crowded,malignant Port Kar.

“How do the people of Trevelive?” I asked Vika.

“We raise the verr,” she said.I smiled.The verr was a mountain goat

indigenous to the Voltai. It was awild, agile, ill-tempered beast,long-haired and spiral-horned.Among the Voltai crags it would beworth one’s life to come withintwenty yards of one.

“Then you are a simple, domesticfolk,” I said.

“Yes,” said Vika.“Mountain herdsmen,” I said.“Yes,” said Vika.And then we laughed together,

neither of us able to restrainourselves.

Yes, I knew the reputation ofTreve. It was a city rich in plunder,probably as lofty, inaccessible andimpregnable as a tarn’s nest.Indeed, Treve was known as theTarn of the Voltai. It was anarrogant, never-conquered citadel,a stronghold of men whose way oflife was banditry, whose womenlived on the spoils of a hundredcities.

And it was the city from whichVika had come.

I believed it.But yet tonight she had been

gentle, and I had been kind to her.Tonight we had been friends.She went to the chest against the

wall, to replace the tube ofointment.

“The ointment will soon beabsorbed,” she said. “In a fewminutes there will be no trace of it,nor of the cuts.”

I whistled.“The physicians of Treve,” I

said, “have marvellous medicines.”“It is an ointment of Priest-

Kings,” she said.I was pleased to hear this, for it

suggested vulnerability. “ThenPriest-Kings can be injured?” Iasked.

“Their slaves can,” said Vika.“I see,” I said.“Let us not speak of Priest-

Kings,” said the girl.I looked at her, standing across

the room, lovely, facing me in thedim light.

“Vika,” I asked, “was your fathertruly of the Caste of Physicians?”

“Yes,” she said, “why do youask?”

“It does not matter,” I said.

“But why?” she insisted.“Because,” I said, “I thought you

might have been a bred PleasureSlave.”

It was a foolish thing to say, and Iregretted it immediately. Shestiffened. “You flatter me,” shesaid, and turned away. I had hurther.

I made a move to approach herbut without turning, she said,“Please do not touch me.”

And then she seemed tostraighten and turned to face me,once again the old and scornfulVika, challenging, hostile. “But ofcourse you may touch me,” she said,

“for you are my master.”“Forgive me,” I said.She laughed bitterly, scornfully.It was truly a woman of Treve

who stood before me now.I saw her as I had never seen her

before.Vika was a bandit princess,

accustomed to be clad in silk andjewels from a thousand lootedcaravans, to sleep on the richestfurs and sup on the most delicateviands, all purloined from galleys,beached and burnt, from theravished storerooms of outlying,smoking cylinders, from the tablesand treasure chests of homes whose

men were slain, whose daughterswore the chains of slave girls, onlynow she herself, Vika, this banditprincess, proud Vika, a woman oflofty, opulent Treve, had fallenspoils herself in the harsh games ofGor, and felt on her own throat thesame encircling band of steel withwhich the men of her city had sooften graced the throats of their fair,weeping captives.

Vika was now property.My property.Her eyes regarded me with fury.Insolently she approached me,

slowly, gracefully, as silken in hermenace as the she-larl, and then to

my astonishment when she stoodbefore me, she knelt, her hands onher thighs, her knees in the positionof the Pleasure Slave, and droppedher head in scornful submission.

She raised her head and hertaunting blue eyes regarded meboldly. “Here, Master,” she said,“is your Pleasure Slave.”

“Rise,” I said.She rose gracefully and put her

arms about my neck and moved herlips close to mine. “You kissed mebefore,” she said. “Now I shall kissyou.”

I looked into those blue eyes andthey looked into mine, and I

wondered how many men had beenburned, and had died, in thatsmouldering, sullen fire.

Those magnificent lips brushedmine.

“Here,” she said softly,imperiously, “is the kiss of yourPleasure Slave.”

I disengaged her arms from myneck.

She looked at me inbewilderment.

I walked from the room into thedimly lit hall. In the passageway, Iextended my hand to her, that shemight come and take it.

“Do I not please you?” she

asked.“Vika,” I said, “come here and

take the hand of a fool.”When she saw what I intended

she shook head slowly, numbly.“No,” she said. “I cannot leave thechamber.”

“Please,” I said.She shook with fear.“Come,” I said, “take my hand.”Slowly, trembling, moving as

though in a dream, the girlapproached the portal, and this timethe sensors could not glow.

She looked at me.“Please,” I said.She looked again at the sensors,

which stared out of the wall likeblack, gutted metal eyes. They wereburned and still, shattered, and eventhe wall in their vicinity showed theseared, scarlet stain of their abrupttermination.

“They can hurt you no longer,” Isaid.

Vika took anot1her step and thenit seemed her legs would fail herand she might swoon. She put outher hand to me. Her eyes were widewith fear.

“The women of Treve,” I said,“are brave, as well as beautiful andproud.”

She stepped through the portal

and fell fainting in my arms.

* * *

I lifted her and carried her to thestone couch.

I regarded the ruined sensors inthe portal and the wreckage of thesurveillance device which had beenconcealed in the energy bulb.

Perhaps now I would not have solong to wait for the Priest – Kingsof Gor.

Vika had said that when theywished me, they would come forme.

I chuckled.

Perhaps now they would beencouraged to hasten theirappointment.

I gently placed Vika on the greatstone couch.

Chapter NineTHE PRIEST-KING

I would allow Vika to share thegreat stone couch, its sleeping pelts,and silken sheets.

This was unusual, however, fornormally the Gorean slave girlsleeps at the foot of her master’s

couch, often on a straw mat withonly a thin, cottonlike blanket,woven from the soft fibres of theRep Plant, to protect her from thecold.

If she has not pleased her masterof late, she may be, of course, as adisciplinary measure, simplychained nude to the slave ring at inthe bottom of the couch, sans bothblanket and mat. The stones of thefloor are hard and the Gorean nightsare cold and it is a rare girl who,when unchained in the morning,does not seek more dutifully toserve her master.

This harsh treatment,

incidentally, when she is thought todeserve it, may even be inflicted ona Free Companion, in spite of thefact that she is free and usuallymuch loved. According to theGorean way of looking at things ataste of the slave ring is thought tobe occasionally beneficial to allwomen, even the exalted FreeCompanions.

Thus when she has been irritableor otherwise troublesome even aFree Companion may find herself atthe foot of the couch lookingforward to a pleasant night on thestones, stripped, with neither matnor blanket, chained to a slave ring

precisely as though she were alowly slave girl.

It is the Gorean way of remindingher, should she need to bereminded, that she, too, is a woman,and thus to be dominated, to besubject to men. Should she betempted to forget this basic fact ofGorean life the slave ring set in thebottom of each Gorean couch isthere to refresh her memory. Gor isa man’s world.

And yet on this world I have seengreat numbers of women who wereboth beautiful and splendid.

The Gorean woman, for reasonsthat are not altogether clear to me,

considering the culture, rejoices inbeing a woman. She is often anexciting, magnificent, gloriouscreature, outspoken, talkative, vital,active, spirited. On the whole I findher more joyful than many of herearth-inhabiting sisters who,theoretically at least, enjoy a morelofty status, although it is surely truethat on my old world I have metseveral women with something ofthe Gorean zest for acknowledgingthe radiant truth of their sex, thegifts of joy, gr1ace and beauty,tenderness, and fathoms of love thatwe poor men, I suspect, maysometimes and tragically fail to

understand, to comprehend.Yet with all due respect and

regard for the most astounding andmarvellous sex, I suspect that,perhaps partly because of myGorean training, it is true that atouch of the slave ring isoccasionally beneficial.

Of custom, a slave girl may noteven ascend the couch to serve hermaster’s pleasure. The point of thisrestriction, I suppose, is to draw aclearer distinction between herstatus and that of a FreeCompanion. At any rate thedignities of the couch are, bycustom, reserved for the Free

Companion.When a master wishes to make

use of a slave girl he tells her tolight the lamp of love which sheobediently does, placing it in thewindow of his chamber that theymay not be disturbed. Then with hisown hand he throws upon the stonefloor of his chamber luxurious lovefurs, perhaps from the larl itself,and commands her to them.

I had placed Vika gently on thegreat stone couch.

I kissed her gently on theforehead.

Her eyes opened.“Did I leave the chamber?” she

asked.“Yes,” I said.She regarded me for a long time.

“How can I conquer you?” sheasked. “I love you, Tarl Cabot.”

“You are only grateful,” I said.“No,” she said, “I love you.”“You must not,” I said.“I do,” she said.I wondered how I should speak

to her, for I must disabuse her of theillusion that there could be lovebetween us. In the house of Priest-Kings there could be no love, norcould she know her own mind inthese matters, and there was alwaysTalena, whose image would never

be eradicated from my heart.“But you are a woman of Treve,”

I said, smiling.“You thought I was a Passion

Slave,” she chided.I shrugged.She looked away from me,

toward the wall. “You were right ina way, Tarl Cabot.”

“How is that?” I asked.She looked at me directly. “My

mother,” she said bitterly, “– was aPassion Slave – bred in the pens ofAr.”

“She must have been verybeautiful,” I said.

Vika looked at me strangely.

“Yes,” she said, “I suppose shewas.”

“Do you not remember her?” Iasked.

“No,” she said, “for she diedwhen I was very young.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.“It doesn’t matter,” said Vika,

“for she was only an animal bred inthe pens of Ar.”

“Do you despise her so?” Iasked.

“She was a bred slave,” saidVika.

I said nothing.“But my father,” said Vika,

“whose slave she was, and who

was of the Caste of Physicians ofTreve, loved her very much andasked her to be his FreeCompanion.” Vika laughed softly.“For three years she 1refused him,”she said.

“Why?” I asked.“Because she loved him,” said

Vika, “and did not wish him to takefor his Free Companion only alowly Passion Slave.”

“She was a very deep and noblewoman,” I said.

Vika made a gesture of disgust.“She was a fool,” she said. “Howoften would a bred slave have achance of freedom?”

“Seldom indeed,” I admitted.“But in the end,” said Vika,

“fearing he would slay himself sheconsented to become his FreeCompanion.” Vikar regarded meclosely. Her eyes met mine verydirectly. “I was born free,” shesaid. “You must understand that. Iam not a bred slave.”

“I understand,” I said. “Perhaps,”I suggested, “your mother was notonly beautiful, but proud and braveand fine.”

“How could that be?” laughedVika scornfully. “I have told youshe was only a bred slave, ananimal from the pens of Ar.”

“But you never knew her,” I said.“I know what she was,” said

Vika.“What of your father?” I asked.“In a way,” she said, “he is dead

too.”“What do you mean, in a way?” I

asked.“Nothing,” she said.I looked about the room, at the

chests against the wall dim in thereduced light of the energy bulbs, atthe walls, at the shattered device inthe ceiling, at the broken sensors, atthe great, empty portal that led intothe passageway beyond.

“He must have loved you very

much, after your mother died,” Isaid.

“Yes,” said Vika, “I suppose so– but he was a fool.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.“He followed me into the Sardar,

to try and save me,” she said.“He must have been a very brave

man,” I said.She rolled away from me and

stared at the wall. After a time shespoke, her words cruel withcontempt.

“He was a pompous little fool,”she said, “and afraid even of the cryof a larl.”

She sniffed.

Suddenly she rolled back to faceme. “How,” she asked, “could mymother have loved him? He wasonly a fat, pompous little fool.”

“Perhaps he was kind to her,” Isuggested, “– when others werenot.”

“Why would anyone be kind to aPassion Slave?” asked Vika.

I shrugged.“For the Passion Slave,” she

said, “it is the belled ankle,perfume, the whip and the furs oflove.”

“Perhaps he was kind to her,” Isuggested again, “– when otherswere not.”

“I don’t understand,” said Vika.“Perhaps,” I said, “he cared for

her and spoke to her and was gentle– and loved her.”

“Perhaps,” said Vika. “Butwould that be enough?”

“Perhaps,” I said.“I wonder,” said Vika. “I have

often wondered about that.”“What became of him,” I asked,

“when he entered the Sardar?”Vika would not speak.“Do you know?” I asked.“Yes,” she said.“Then what?” I asked.She shook her head bitterly. “Do

not ask me,” she said.

I would not press her further onthe matter.

“How is it,” I asked, “that heallowed you to come to theSardar?”

“He did not,” said Vika. “Hetried to prevent me but I sought outthe Initiates of Treve, proposingmyself as an offering to the Priest-Kings. I did not, of course, tell themmy true reason for desiring to cometo the Sardar.” She paused. “Iwonder if they knew,” she mused.

“It is not improbable,” I said.“My father would not hear of it,

of course,” she said. She laughed.“He locked me in my chambers, but

the High Initiate of the City camewith warriors and they broke intoour compartments and beat myfather until he could not move and Iwent gladly with them.” Shelaughed again. “Oh how pleased Iwas when they beat him and hecried out – for he was not a trueman and even though of the Caste ofPhysicians could not stand pain. Hecould not even bear to hear the cryof a larl.”

I knew that Gorean caste lines,though largely following birth, werenot inflexible, and that a man whodid not care for his caste might beallowed to change caste, if

approved by the High Council ofhis city, an approval usuallycontingent on his qualifications forthe work of another caste and thewillingness of the members of thenew caste to accept him as a CasteBrother.

“Perhaps,” I suggested, “it wasbecause he could not stand pain thathe remained a member of the Casteof Physicians.”

“Perhaps,” said Vika. “Healways wanted to stop suffering,even that of an animal or slave.”

I smiled.“You see,” she said, “he was

weak.”

“I see,” I said.Vika lay back in the silks and

furs. “You are the first of the men inthis chamber,” she said, “who havespoken to me of these things.”

I did not reply.“I love you, Tarl Cabot,” she

said.“I think not,” I said gently.“I do!” she insisted.“Someday,” I said, “you will

love – but I do not think it will be awarrior of Ko-ro-ba.”

“Do you think I cannot love?” shechallenged.

“I think someday you will love,”I said, “and I think you will love

greatly.”“Can you love?” she challenged.“I don’t know,” I said. I smiled.

“Once – long ago – I thought Iloved.”

“Who was she?” asked Vika, nottoo pleasantly.

“A slender, dark-haired girl,” Isaid, “whose name was Talena.”1

“Was she beautiful?” asked Vika.“Yes,” I said.“As beautiful as I?” asked Vika.“You are both very beautiful,” I

said.“Was she a slave?” asked Vika.“No,” I said, “– she was the

daughter of a Ubar.”

Rage transfigured Vika’s featuresand she leaped from the couch andstrode to the side of the room, herfingers angrily inside her collar, asthough they might pull it from herthroat. “I see!” she said. “And I –Vika – am only a slave girl!”

“Do not be angry,” I said.“Where is she?” demanded Vika.“I don’t know,” I admitted.“How long has it been since you

have seen her?” demanded Vika.“It has been more than seven

years,” I said.Vika laughed cruelly. “Then,”

she gloated, “she is in the Cities ofDust.”

“Perhaps,” I admitted.“I – Vika-” she said, “am here.”“I know,” I said.I turned away.I heard her voice over my

shoulder. “I will make you forgether,” she said.

Her voice had borne the cruel,icy, confident, passionate menace ofa woman from Treve, accustomedto have what she wanted, whowould not be denied.

I turned to face Vika once more,and I no longer saw the girl towhom I had been speaking but awoman of High Caste, from thebandit kingdom of Treve, insolent

and imperious, though collared.Casually Vika reached to the

clasp on the left shoulder of hergarment and loosened it, and thegarment fell to her ankles.

She was branded.“You though I was a Passion

Slave,” she said.I regarded the woman who stood

before me, the sullen eyes, thepouting lips, the collar, the brand.

“Am I not beautiful enough,” sheasked, “to be the daughter of aUbar?”

“Yes,” I said, “you are thatbeautiful.”

She looked at me mockingly. “Do

you know what a Passion Slaveis?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.“It is a female of the human

kind,” she said, “but bred like abeast for its beauty and its passion.”

“I know,” I said.“It is an animal,” she said, “bred

for the pleasure of men, bred for thepleasure of a master.”

I said nothing.“In my veins,” she said, “flows

the blood of such an animal. In myveins flows the blood of a PassionSlave.” She laughed. “And you,Tarl Cabot,” she said, “are itsmaster. You, Tarl Cabot, are my

master.”“No,” I said.Amused, tauntingly, she

approached me. “I will serve youas a Passion Slave,” she said.

“No,” I said.“Yes,” she said, “for you I will

be an obedient Passion Slave.” Shelifted her lips to mine.

My hands on her arms held herfrom me.

“Taste me,” she said.“No,” I said.She laughed. “You cannot reject

me,” she said.“Why not?” I asked.“I shall not allow you to do so,”

she said. “You see, Tarl Cabot, Ihave decided that you shall be myslave.”

I thrust her from me.“Very well,” she cried, her eyes

flashing. “Very well, Cabot,” shesaid, “then I shall conquer you!”

And she seized my head in herhands and pressed her lips to mine.

In that moment I sensed oncemore that slightly acrid scent whichI had experienced in the corridorsbeyond the chamber, and I pressedmy mouth hard into Vika’s until herlips were cut by my teeth and I hadpressed her back until only my armkept her from falling to the stones of

the floor, and I heard her cry ofsurprise and pain, and then I hurledher angrily from me to the strawslave mat which lay at the foot ofthe stone couch.

Now it seemed to me that Iunderstood but they had come toosoon! She had not had a chance todo her work. It might go hard withher but I was not concerned.

Still I did not turn to that giantportal.

The scent was now strong.Vika crouched terrified on the

slave mat at the foot of the couch, inthe very shadow of the slave ring.

“What is the matter?” she asked.

“What is wrong?”“So you were to conquer me for

them, were you?” I demanded.“I don’t understand,” she

stammered.“You are a poor tool for Priest-

Kings,” I said.“No,” she said, “no!”“How many men have you

conquered for Priest-Kings?” Iasked. I seized her by the hair andtwisted her head to face me. “Howmany?” I cried.

“Please!” she wept.I found myself tempted to break

her head against the foot of thestone couch, for she was worthless,

treacherous, seductive, cruel,vicious, worthy only of the collar,irons and the whip!

She shook her head numbly asthough denying charges I had not yetvoiced.

“You don’t understand,” shesaid. “I love you!”

With loathing I cast her from me.Yet still did I not turn to face that

portal.Vika lay at my feet, a streak of

blood at the corner of those lips thatbore still the marks of my fiercekiss. She looked up at me, tearswelling in her eyes.

“Please,” she said.

The scent was strong. I knew thatit was near. How was it that the girlwas not aware of it? How was itthat she did not know? Was it notpart of her plan?

“Please,” she said, looking up atme, lifting her hand to me.

Her face was tear-stained; hervoice was a broken sob. “I loveyou,” she said.

“Silence, Slave Girl,” I said.She lowered her head to the

stones and wept.I knew now that it was here.The scent was now

overpowering, unmistakable.I watched Vika and suddenly she

seemed too to know and her headlifted and her eyes widened withhorror and she crept to her knees,her hands before her face as thoughto shield herself and she shudderedand suddenly uttered a wild, long,terrible scream of abject fear.

I drew my sword and turned.It stood framed in the doorway.In its way it was very beautiful,

golden and tall, looming over me,framed in that massive portal. Itwas not more than a yard wide butits head nearly touched the top ofthe portal and so I would judgedthat, standing as it did, it must havebeen nearly eighteen feet high.

It had six legs and a great headlike a globe of gold with eyes likevast luminous disks. Its twoforelegs, poised and alert, werelifted delicately in front of its body.Its jaws opened and closed once.They moved laterally.

From its head there extended twofragile, jointed appendages, longand covered with short quiveringstrands of golden hair.

These two appendages, like eyes,swept the room once and thenseemed to focus on me.

They curved toward me likedelicate golden pincers and each ofthe countless golden strands on

those appendages straightened andpointed toward me like a quiveringgolden needle.

I could not conjecture the natureof the creature’s experience but Iknew that I stood within the centreof its sensory field.

About its neck there hung a smallcircular device, a translator ofsome sort, similar to but morecompact than those I had hithertoseen.

I sensed a new set of odours,secreted by what stood before me.

Almost simultaneously amechanically reproduced voicebegan to emanate from the

translator.It spoke in Gorean.I knew what it would say.“Lo Sardar,” it said. “I am a

Priest-King.”“I am Tarl Cabot of Ko-ro-ba,” I

said.A moment after I spoke I sensed

another set of odours, whichemanated perhaps from the devicewhich hung about the neck of whatstood before me.

The two sensory appendages ofthe creature seemed to register thisinformation.

A new scent came to my nostrils.“Follow me,” said the

mechanically reproduced voice,and the creature turned from theportal.

I went to the portal.It was stalking in long, delicate

steps down the passageway.I looked once more at Vika, who

lifted her hand to me. “Don’t go,”she said.

I turned scornfully from her andfollowed the creature.

Behind me I heard her weep.Let her weep, I said to myself,

for sh1e has failed her masters thePriest-Kings, and undoubtedly herpunishment will not be light.

Had I the time, had I not more

urgent business, I might havepunished her myself, teaching herwithout mercy what could be themeaning of her collar, using her asobjectively and ruthlessly as shedeserved, brutally administering thediscipline of a Gorean master to atreacherous slave girl.

We would see then who wouldconquer.

I shook these thoughts from myhead and continued down thepassageway.

I must forget the treacherous,vicious wench. There were moreimportant matters to attend to. Theslave girl was nothing.

I hated Vika.I followed a Priest-King.

Chapter TenMISK THE PRIEST-

KING

The Priest-Kings have little or noscent of their own which isdetectable by the human nostrils,though one gathers there is a nestodour by which they may identifyone another, and that the variationsin this nest odour permitidentifications of individuals.

What in the passageways I hadtaken to be the scent of Priest-Kingshad actually been the residue ofodour-signals which Priest-Kings,like certain social insects of ourworld, use in communicating withone another.

The slightly acrid odour I hadnoticed tends to be a commonproperty of all such signals, muchas there is a common property to thesound of a human voice, whether itbe that of an Englishman, aBushman, a Chinese or a Gorean,which sets it apart from, say, thegrowling of animals, the hiss ofsnakes, the cry of birds.

The Priest-Kings have eyes,which are compound and many –faceted, but they do not much relyon these organs. They are, for them,something like our ears and nose,used as secondary sensors to berelied upon when the most pertinentinformation in the environment isnot relayed by vision, or, in thecase of the Priest-Kings, by scent.Accordingly the two golden-haired,jointed appendages protruding fromtheir globelike heads, above therounded, disklike eyes, are theirprimary sensory organs. I gatherthat these appendages are sensitivenot only to odours but, due to

modification of some of the sensoryhairs, may also transform soundvibrations into somethingmeaningful in their experience.Thus, if one wishes, one may speakof them not only as smelling buthearing through these appendages.Apparently hearing is not of greatimportance, however, to them,considering the small number ofhairs modified for this purpose.Oddly enough few of the Priest-Kings whom I questioned on thismatter seemed to draw thedistinction clearly between hearingand smelling.

I find this incredible, but I have

no reason to believe they deceivedme. They recognise that we havedifferent sensory arrangements thanthey and I suspect that they are asunclear as to the nature of ourexperience as we are of theirs. Infact, though I speak of hearing andsmelling, I am not sure that theseexpressions are altogethermeaningful when applied to Priest-Kings. I speak of them smelling andhearing through the sensoryappendages, but what the quality oftheir experience may be I amuncertain. For example, does aPriest-King have the samequalitative experience that I do

when we are confronted by thesame scent? I am inclined to doubtit, for their music, which consists ofrhapsodies of odours produced byinstruments constructed for thispurpose, and often played by Priest-Kings, some 1of whom I am toldare far more skillful than others, isintolerable to my ear, or I shouldsay, nose.

Communication by odour-signalscan in certain circumstances beextremely efficient, though it can bedisadvantageous in others. Forexample, an odour can carry, to thesensory appendages of a Priest-King, much further than the shout or

cry of a man to another man.Moreover, if not too much time isallowed to elapse, a Priest-Kingmay leave a message in his chamberor in a corridor for another Priest-King, and the other may arrive laterand interpret it. A disdavantage ofthis mode of communication, ofcourse, is that the message may beunderstood by strangers or othersfor whom it is not intended. Onemust be careful of what one says inthe tunnels of Priest-Kings for one’swords may linger after one, untilthey sufficiently dissipate to belittle more than a meaningless blurof scent.

For longer periods of time thereare various devices for recording amessage, without relying oncomplex mechanical devices. Thesimplest and one of the mostfascinating is a chemically treatedrope of clothlike material which thePriest-King, beginning at an endbearing a certain scent, saturateswith the odours of his message.This coiled message-rope thenretains the odours indefinitely andwhen another Priest-King wishes toread the message he unrolls itslowly scanning it serially with thejointed sensory appendages.

I am told that the phonemes of the

language of Priest-Kings or, better,what in their language wouldcorrespond to phonemes in ours,since their “phonemes” have to dowith scent and not sound, numberseventy-three. Their number is, ofcourse, potentially infinite, aswould be the number of possiblephonemes in English, but just as wetake a subset of sounds to beEnglish sounds and form ourutterances from them, so they take asubset of odours as similarly basicto their speech. The number ofEnglish phonemes, incidentally, isin the neighbourhood of fifty.

The morphemes of the language

of Priest-Kings, those smallestintelligible information bits, inparticular roots and affixes, are, ofcourse, like the morphemes ofEnglish, extremely numerous. Thenormal morpheme, in their languageas in ours, consists of a sequence ofphonemes. For example, in English“bit” is one morpheme but threephonemes, as will appear clear ifgiven some reflection. Similarly inthe language of the Priest-Kings, theseventy-three “phonemes” or basicscents are used to form the meaningunits of the language, and a singlemorpheme of Priest-Kings mayconsist of a complex set of odours.

I do not know whether there aremore morphemes in the language ofPriest-Kings or in English, but bothare apparently rich languages, and,of course, the strict morpheme countis not necessarily a reliable indexto the complexity of the lexicon,because of combinations ofmorphemes wo form new words.German, for example, tends to relysomewhat more on morphemecombination than does English orFrench. I was told, incidentally, thatthe language of the Priest-Kingsdoes possess more morphemes thanEnglish but I do not know if thereport is truthful or not, for Priest –

Kings tend to be somewhat touchyon the matter of any comparisons,particularly those to theirdisadvantage or putativedisadvantage, with organisms ofwhat they regard as the lowerorders. On the other hand it maywell be the case that, as a matter offact, the morpheme set of thelanguage of Priest-Kings is indeedlarger than that of English. I simplydo not know. The translator tapes,incidentally, are approximately thesame size, but this is no help, sincethe tapes represent pairings ofapproximate equivelants, and thereare several English morphemes not

translatable into the language ofPriest-Kings, and, as I learned,morphemes in their language for1which no English equivelants exist.One English expression for whichno natural “word” in their languageexists is, oddly enough,“friendship”, and certain of itscognates. There is an expression intheir language which translates intoEnglish as “Nest Trust”, however,and seems to play something of thesame role in their thinking. Thenotion of friendship, it seems to me,has to do with a reliance andaffection between two or moreindividuals; the notion of Nest

Trust, as clearly as I can understandit, is more of a communal notion, asense of relying on the practicesand traditions of an institution,accepting them and living in termsof them.

I followed the Priest-King for along time through the passages.

For all its size it moved with adelicate, predatory grace. It wasperhaps very light for its bulk, orvery strong, perhaps both. It movedwith a certain deliberate, stalkingmovement; its tread was regal andyet it seemed almost dainty, almostfastidious; it was almost as if thecreature did not care to soil itself

by contact with the floor of thepassage.

It walked on four extremely long,slender, four-jointed stalks thatwere its supporting legs, andcarried its far more muscular, four-jointed grasping legs, orappendages, extremely high, almostlevel with its jaw, and in front of itsbody. Each of these graspingappendages terminated in four muchsmaller, delicate hooklikeprehensile appendages, the tips ofwhich normally touched oneanother. I would learn later that inthe ball at the end of its forelegsfrom which the smaller prehensile

appendages extended, there was acurved, bladed, hornlike structurethat could spring forward; thishappens spontaneously when theleg’s tip is inverted, a motion whichat once exposes the hornlike bladeand withdraws the four prehensileappendages into the protected areabeneath it.

The Priest-King halted beforewhat appeared to be a blind wall.

He lifted one foreleg high overhis head and touched somethinghigh in the wall which I could notsee.

A panel slid back and the Priest-King stepped into what seemed to

be a closed room.I followed him, and the panel

closed.The floor seemed to drop beneath

me and my hand grasped my sword.The Priest-King looked down at

me and the antennae quivered asthough in curiosity.

I resheathed my sword.I was in an elevator.

* * *

After perhaps four or fiveminutes the elevator stopped andthe Priest-King and I emerged.

The Priest-King rested back on

the two posterior supportingappendages and with a smallcleaning hook behind the third jointof one of his forelegs began tocomb his antennae.

“These are the tunnels of Priest-Kings,” it said.

I looked about meand foundmyself on a high, railed platform,overlooking a vast circularartificial canyon, lined with bridgesand terraces. In the depths of thiscanyon and on the terraces thatmounted its sides were innumerablestructrues, largely geometricalsol ids – cones, cylinders, loftycubes, domes, spheres and such – of

various sizes, colours andilluminations, many of which werewindowed and possessed ofnumerous floors, some of whicheven towered to the level of theplatform where I stood, some ofwhich soared even higher into thelofty reaches of the vast dome thatarched over the canyon like a stonesky.

I stood on the platform, my handsclenched on the railing, staggeredby what I saw.

The light of energy bulbs set inthe walls and in the dome like starsshed a brilliant light on the entirecanyon.

“This,” said the Priest-King, stillgrooming the golden hairs of hisantennae, “is the vestibule of ourdominion.”

From my position on the platformI could see numerous tunnels atmany levels leading out of thecanyon, perhaps to other suchmonstrous cavities, filled with morestructures.

I wondered what would be thefunction of the structures, probablybarracks, factories, storehouses.

“Notice the energy bulbs,” saidthe Priest-King. “They are for thebenefit of certain species such asyourself. Priest – Kings do not need

them.”“Then there are creatures other

than Priest-Kings who live here,” Isaid.

“Of course,” it replied.At that moment to my horror a

large, perhaps eight feet long and ayard high, multilegged, segmentedarthropod scuttled near, its eyesweaving on stalks.

“It’s harmless,” said the Priest-King.

The arthropod stopped and theeyes leaned toward us and then itspincers clicked twice.

I reached for my sword.Without turning it scuttled

backwards away, its body platesrustling like plastic armour.

“See what you have done,” saidthe Priest-King. “You havefrightened it.”

My hand left the sword hilt and Iwiped the sweat from my palm onmy tunic.

“They are timid creatures,” saidthe Priest-King, “and I am afraidthey have never been able toaccustom themselves to the sight ofyour kind.”

The Priest-King’s antennaeshuddered a bit as they regardedme.

“Your kind is terribly ugly,” it

said.I laughed, not so much because I

supposed what it said was absurd,but because I supposed that, fromthe viewpoint of a Priest-King,what it said might well be true.

“It is interesting,” said the Priest-King. “What you have just saiddoes not translate.”

“It was a laugh,” I said.“What is a laugh?” asked the

Priest-King.“It is something men sometimes

do when they are amused,” I said.The creature seemed puzzled.I wondered to myself. Perhaps

men did not much laugh in the

tunnels of the Priest-Kings and itwas not accustomed to this humanpractice. Or perhaps a Priest-Kingsimply could not understand thenotion of amusement, it beingperhaps genetically removed fromhis comprehension. Yet I said tomyself the Priest-Kings areintelligent and I found it difficult tobelieve there could exist anintelligent race without humour.

“I think I understand,” said thePriest-King. “It is like shaking andcurling your antennae?”

“Perhaps,” I said, now morepuzzled than the Priest-King.

“How stupid I am,” said the

Priest-King.And then to my amazement the

creature, resting back on itsposterior appendages, began toshake, beginning at its abdomen andcontinuing upward through its trunkto its thorax and head and at last itsantennae began to tremble and,curling, they wrapped about oneanother.

Then the Priest-King ceased torock and its antennae uncurled,almost reluctantly I thought, and itonce again rested quietly back onits posterior appendages andregarded me.

Once again it addressed itself to

the patient, meticulous combing ofits antennae hairs.

Somehow I imagined it wasthinking.

Suddenly it stopped grooming itsantennae and the antennae lookeddown at me.

“Thank you,” it said, “for notattacking me in the elevator.”

I was dumbfounded.“You’re welcome,” I said.“I did not think anaesthesia

would be necessary,” it said.“It would have been foolish to

attack you,” I said.“Irrational, yes,” agreed the

Priest-King, “but the lower orders

are often irrational.“Now,” it said, “I may still look

forward someday to the Pleasuresof the Golden Beetle.”

I said nothing.“Sarm thought the anaesthesia

would be necessary,” it said.“Is Sarm a Priest-King?” I asked.“Yes,” I said.“Then a Priest-King may be

mistaken,” I said. This seemed tome significant, far more significantthan the mere fact that a Priest-Kingmight not understand a human laugh.

“Of course,” said the creature.“Could I have slain you?” I

asked.

“Possibly,” said the creature.I looked over the rail at the

marvellous complexity whichconfronted me.

“But it would not have mattered,”said the Priest-King.

“No?” I asked.“No,” it said. “Only the Nest

matters.”My eyes still did not leave the

dominion which lay below me. Itsdiameter might have been tenpasangs in width.

“This is the Nest?” I asked.“It is the beginning of the Nest,”

said the Priest-King.“What is your name?” I asked.

“Misk,” it said.

Chapter ElevenSARM THE PRIEST-

KING

I turned from the railing toobserve the great ramp which forpasangs in a great spiralapproached the platform on which Istood.

Another Priest-King, mounted ona low, oval disk which seemed toslide up the ramp, was approaching.

The new Priest-King looked a

great deal like Misk, save that hewas larger. I wondered if men ofmy species would have difficultytelling Priest-Kings apart. I wouldlater learn to do so easily1 but atfirst I was often confused. ThePriest-Kings themselves distinguishone another by scent but I, ofcourse, would do so by eye.

The oval disk glided to withinsome forty feet of us, and the goldencreature which had ridden itstepped delicately to the ramp.

It approached me, its antennaescrutinising me carefully. Then itbacked away perhaps some twentyfeet.

It seemed to me much like Miskexcept in size.

Like Misk it wore no clothingand carried no weapons, and itsonly accoutrement was a translatorwhich dangled from its neck.

I would learn later that in scent itwore its rank, caste and station asclearly on its body as an officer inone of the armies of Earth mightwear his distinguishing braid andmetal bars.

“Why has it not beenanaesthetised?” asked the newcreature, training its antennae onMisk.

“I did not think it would be

necessary,” said Misk.“It was my recommendation that

it be anaesthetised,” said thenewcomer.

“I know,” said Misk.“This will be recorded,” said the

newcomer.Misk seemed to shrug. His head

turned, his laterally opening jawsopened and closed slowly, hisshoulders rustled and the twoantennae twitched once as though inirritation, and then idly they beganto examine the roof of the dome.

“The Nest was not jeopardised,”came from Misk’s translator.

The newcomer’s antennae were

now trembling, perhaps with anger.It turned a knob on its own

translator and in a moment the airwas filled with the sharp odours ofwhat I take might have been areprimand. I heard nothing for thecreature had snapped off histranslator.

When Misk replied he too turnedoff his translator.

I observed their antennae and thegeneral posturing and carriage oftheir long, graceful bodies.

They stalked about one anotherand some of their motions werealmost whiplike. Upon occasion,undoubtedly as a sign of irritation,

the tips of the forelegs wereinverted, and I caught my firstglimpse of the bladed, hornlikestructures therein concealed.

I would learn to interpret theemotions and states of Priest –Kings by such signs. Many of thesesigns would be far less obviousthan the ones now displayed in thethroes of anger. Impatience, forexample, is often indicated by atrembling in the tactile hair on thesupporting appendages, as thoughthe creature could not wait to beoff; a wandering of attention can beshown by the unconsciousmovement of the cleaning hooks

from behind the third joints of theforelegs, suggesting perhaps thecreature is thinking of grooming, anoccupation in which Priest-Kings,to my mind, spend an inordinateamount of time; I might note,however, in deference to them, thatthey consider humans a particularlyunclean animal and in the tunnelsnormally confine them for sanitarypurposes to carefully restrictedareas; the subtlety of these signsmight well be illuminated if theindications for a wandering ofattention, mentioned above, arecontrasted with the superficiallysimilar signs which give evidence

that a Priest-King is well orfavourably disposed toward anotherPriest-King, or other creature of anytype. In this case there is again theunconscious movement of thecleaning hooks but there is inaddition an incipient, butrestrained,1 extension of theforelegs in the direction of theobject toward which the Priest-King is well disposed; this suggeststo me that the Priest-King is willingto put its cleaning hooks at thedisposal of the other, that he iswilling to groom it. This maybecome more comprehensible whenit is mentioned that Priest-Kings,

with their cleaning hooks, theirjaws and their tongues, often groomone another as well as themselves.Hunger, incidentally, is indicatedby an acidic exudate which forms atthe edges of the jaws giving them acertain moist appearance; thirst,interestingly enough, is indicated bya certain stiffness in theappendages, evident in theirmovements, and by a certainbrownish tarnish that seems toinfect the gold of the thorax andabdomen. The most sensitiveindicators of mood and attention, ofcourse, as you would probablygather, are the motions and tensility

of the antennae.The translator, incidentally,

supposing it to be turned on, wouldprovide only the translation of whatwas said, and the words, unless thevolume control was manipulatedduring the message, would alwaysoccur at the same sound level. Ananalogue to listening to a translatorwould be to imagine words aspictures which, in the same typeface and size, flash serially on ascreen. There would be no clue inthe individual pictures, per se, ofthe rhythm of the language or themood of the speaker. The translatorcan tell you that the speaker is angry

but it cannot show you that he isangry.

After a minute or two the Priest-Kings stopped circling one anotherand turned to face me. As onecreature, they turned on theirtranslators.

“You are Tarl Cabot of the Cityof Ko-ro-ba,” said the larger.

“Yes,” I said.“I am Sarm,” it said, “beloved of

the Mother and First Born.”“Are you the leader of the Priest-

Kings?” I asked.“Yes,” said Sarm.“No,” said Misk.Sarm’s antennae darted in Misk’s

direction.“Greatest in the Nest is the

Mother,” said Misk.Sarm’s antennae relaxed. “True,”

said Sarm.“I have much to speak of with

Priest-Kings,” I said. “If the onewhom you call the Mother is chiefamong you, I wish to see her.”

Sarm rested back on his posteriorappendages. His antennae touchedone another in a slightly curlingmovement. “None may see theMother save her caste attendantsand the High Priest-Kings,” saidSarm, “the First, Second, Third,Fourth and Fifth Born.”

“Except on the three greatholidays,” said Misk.

Sarm’s antennae twitchedangrily.

“What are the three greatholidays?” I asked.

“The Nest Feast Cycle,” saidMisk, “Tola, Tolam and Tolama.”

“What are these feasts?” I asked.“They are the Anniversary of the

Nuptial Flight,” said Misk, “theFeast of the Deposition of the FirstEgg and the Celebration of theHatching of the First Egg.”

“Are these holidays near?” Iasked.

“Yes,” said Misk.

“But,” said Sarm, “even on suchfeasts none of the lower orders mayview the Mother – only Priest-Kings.”

“True,” said Misk.Anger suffused my countenance.

Sarm seemed not to notice thischange but Misk’s antennae perkedup immediately. Perhaps it had hadexperience with human anger.

“Do not think badly of us, TarlCabot,” said Misk, “for on theholidays those of the lower orderswho labour for us – be it even in thepastures or fungus trays – are givensurcease from their labours.”

“The Priest-Kings are generous,”

I said.“Do the men below the mountains

do as much for their animals?”asked Misk.

“No,” I said. “But men are notanimals.”

“Are men Priest-Kings?” askedSarm.

“No,” I said.“Then they are animals,” said

Sarm.I drew my sword and faced

Sarm. The motion was extremelyrapid and must have startled him.

At any rate Sarm leapedbackward on his jointed, stalklikelegs with almost incredible speed.

He now stood almost forty feetfrom me.

“If I cannot speak to the one youcall the Mother,” I said, “perhaps Ican speak to you.”

I took a step towards Sarm.Sarm pranced angrily backward,

his antennae twitching withagitation.

We faced one another.I noticed the tips of his forelegs

were inverted, unsheathing the twocurved, hornlike blades whichreposed there.

We watched one anothercarefully.

From behind me I heard the

mechanical voice of Misk’stranslator: “But she is the Mother,”it said, “and we of the Nest are allher children.”

I smiled.Sarm saw that I did not intend to

advance further and his agitationdecreased, although his generalattitude of awareness was notrelaxed.

It was at this time that I first sawhow Priest-Kings breathed,probably because Sarm’srespiratory movements were nowmore pronounced than they hadbeen hitherto. Muscularcontractions in the abdomen take

place with the result that air issucked into the system through foursmall holes on each side of theabdomen, the same holes servingalso as exhalation vents. Usually thebreathing cycle, unless one is quiteclose and listens carefully, cannotbe heard, but in the present case Icould hear quite clearly from adistance of several feet the quickintake of air through the eight tiny,tubular mouths in Sarm’s abdomen,and its almost immediateexpellation through the sameapertures.

Now the muscular contractions inSarm’s abdomen became almost

unnoticeable and I could no longerhear the evidence of his respiratorycycle. The tips of his forelegs wereno longer inverted, with the resultthat the bladed structures haddisappeared and the small, four-jointed, hooklike prehensileappendages were again fullyvisible. Their tips delicatelytouched one another. Sarm’santennae were calm.

He regarded me.He did not move.I would never find myself fully

able to adjust to the incrediblestillness with which a Priest-Kingcan stand.

He reminded me vaguely of theblade of1 a golden knife.

Suddenly Sarm’s antennaepointed at Misk. “You should haveanaesthetised it,” he said.

“Perhaps,” said Misk.For some reason this hurt me. I

felt that I had betrayed Misk’s trustin me, that I had behaved as a notfully rational creature, that I hadbehaved as Sarm had expected meto.

“I’m sorry,” I said to Sarm,resheathing my sword.

“You see,” said Misk.“It’s dangerous,” said Sarm.I laughed.

“What is that?” asked Sarm,lifting his antennae.

“It is shaking and curling itsantennae,” said Misk.

On the receipt of this informationSarm did not shake nor did hisantennae curl; rather the bladelikestructures snapped out and back,and his antennae twitched inirritation. I gathered one did notshake and curl one’s antennae atPriest – Kings.

“Mount the disk, Tarl Cabot ofKo-ro-ba,” said Misk, gesturingwith his foreleg to the flat oval diskwhich had brought Sarm to ourlevel.

I hesitated.“He is afraid,” said Sarm.“He has much to fear,” said

Misk.“I am not afraid,” I said.“Then mount the disk,” said

Misk.I did so, and the two Priest-Kings

stepped delicately onto the disk tojoin me, in such a way that onestood on each side and slightlybehind me. Scarcely had theyplaced their weight on the diskwhen it began to smoothly andsilently accelerate down the longramp which led toward the bottomof the canyon.

The disk moved with greatswiftness and it was with somedifficulty that I managed to stand onmy feet, leaning into the blast of airwhich rushed past me. To myannoyance both of the Priest-Kingsseemed immobile, leaning alertlyforward into the wind, theirforelegs lifted high, their antennaelying flat, streaming backwards.

Chapter TwelveTHE TWO MULS

On a marble circle of some half

pasang in width, in the bottom ofthat vast, brilliantly lit, many-coloured artificial canyon the ovaldisk diminished its speed and drewto a stop.

I found myself in some sort ofplaza, surrounded by the fantasticarchitecture of the Nest of Priest-Kings. The plaza was crowded, notonly with Priest-Kings but evenmore with various creatures ofother forms and natures. Amongthem I saw men and women,barefoot with shaven heads, clad inshort purple tunics that reflected thevarious lights of the plaza as thoughthey might have been formed of

some reflective plastic.I stepped aside as a flat, sluglike

creature, clinging with several legsto a small transportation disk,swept by.

“We must hurry,” said Sarm.“I see human beings here,” I said

to Misk. “Are they slaves?”“Yes,” said Misk.“They wear no collars,” I

pointed out.“It is n1ot necessary to mark a

distinction between slave and freewithin the Nest,” said Misk, “for inthe Nest all humans are slaves.”

“Why are they shaven and clad asthey are?” I asked.

“It is more sanitary,” said Misk.“Let us leave the plaza,” said

Sarm.I would learn later that his

agitation was principally due to hisfear of contracting filth in thispublic place. Humans walked here.

“Why do the slaves wearpurple?” I asked Misk. “That is thecolour of the robes of a Ubar.”

“Because it is a great honour tobe the slave of Priest – Kings,” saidMisk.

“Is it your intention,” I asked,“that I should be so shaved andclad?”

My hand was on my sword hilt.

“Perhaps not,” said Sarm. “Itmay be that you are to be destroyedimmediately. I must check the scent-tapes.”

“He is not to be destroyedimmediately,” said Misk, “nor is heto be shaved and clad as a slave.”

“Why not?” asked Sarm.“It is the wish of the Mother,”

said Misk.“What has she to do with it?”

asked Sarm.“Much,” said Misk.Sarm seemed puzzled. He

stopped. His antennae twitchednervously. “Was he brought to thetunnels for some purpose?”

“I came of my own accord,” Iavowed.

“Don’t be foolish,” said Misk tome.

“For what purpose was hebrought to the tunnels?” askedSarm.

“The purpose is known to theMother,” said Misk.

“I am the First Born,” said Sarm.“She is the Mother,” said Misk.“Very well,” said Sarm, and

turned away. I sensed he was notmuch pleased.

At that moment a human girlwalked near and wide-eyed circledus, looking at me. Although her

head was shaved she was pretty andthe brief plastic sheath she woredid not conceal her charms.

A shudder of repulsion seemed tocourse through Sarm.

“Hurry,” he said, and wefollowed him as he scurried fromthe plaza.

* * *

“Your sword,” said Misk,extending one foreleg down to me.

“Never,” I said, backing away.“Please,” said Misk.For some reason I unbuckled the

sword belt and reluctantly handed

the weapon to Misk.Sarm, who stood in the long

room on an oval dais, seemedsatisfied with this transaction. Heturned to the walls behind himwhich were covered with thousandsof tiny illuminated knobs. He pulledcertain of these out from the walland they seemed to be attached toslender cords which he passedbetween his antennae. He spentperhaps an Ahn in this activity andthen, exasperated, turned to faceme.

I had been pacing back and forthin the long room, nervous withoutthe feel of the sword steel at my

thig1h.Misk during all this time had not

moved but had remained standing inthat incredible fixity perhaps uniqueto Priest – Kings.

“The scent-tapes are silent,” saidSarm.

“Of course,” said Misk.“What is to be the disposition of

this creature?” asked Sarm.“For the time,” said Misk, “it is

the wish of the Mother that it bepermitted to live as a Matok.”

“What is that?” I asked.“You speak much for one of the

lower orders,” said Sarm.“What is a Matok?” I asked.

“A creature that is in the Nest butis not of the Nest,” said Misk.

“Like the arthropod?” I asked.“Precisely,” said Misk.“If I had my wish,” said Sarm,

“he would be sent to the vivariumor the dissection chambers.”

“But that is not the wish of theMother,” said Misk.

“I see,” said Sarm.“Thus,” said Misk, “it is not the

wish of the Nest.”“Of course,” said Sarm, “for the

wish of the Mother is the wish ofthe Nest.”

“The Mother is the Nest and theNest is the Mother,” said Misk.

“Yes,” said Sarm, and the twoPriest-Kings approached oneanother, bowed and gently lockedtheir antennae.

When they disengagedthemselves, Sarm turned to face me.“Nonetheless,” he said, “I shallspeak to the Mother about thismatter.”

“Of course,” said Misk.“I should have been consulted,”

said Sarm, “for I am First Born.”“Perhaps,” said Misk.Sarm looked down at me. I think

he had not forgiven me the start Ihad given him on the platform highabove the canyon, near the elevator.

“It is dangerous,” he said. “Itshould be destroyed.”

“Perhaps,” said Misk.“And it curled its antennae at

me,” said Sarm.Misk was silent.“Yes,” said Sarm. “It should be

destroyed.”Sarm then turned from me and

with his left, forward supportingappendage depressed a recessedbutton in the dais on which hestood.

Hardly had his delicate foottouched the button than a panel slidaside and two handsome men, of themost symmetrical form and features

with shaven heads and clad in thepurple, plastic tunics of slaves,entered the room and prostratedthemselves before the dais.

At a signal from Sarm theyleaped to their feet and stood alertlybeside the dais, their feet spread,their heads high, their arms folded.

“Behold these two,” said Sarm.Neither of the two men who had

entered the room had seemed tonotice me.

I now approached them.“I am Tarl Cabot of Ko-ro-1ba,”

I said to them, extending my hand.If they saw my hand they made no

effort to accept it.

I assumed they must be identicaltwins. They had wide, fine heads,strong, broad bodies, and a carriagethat suggested calmness andstrength.

Both were a bit shorter than I butwere somewhat more squarelybuilt.

“You may speak,” said Sarm.“I am Mul-Al-Ka,” said one,

“honoured slave of the gloriousPriest-Kings.”

“I am Mul-Ba-Ta,” said theother, “honoured slave of theglorious Priest-Kings.”

“In the Nest,” said Misk, “theexpression “Mul” is used to

designate a human slave.”I nodded. The rest of it I did not

need to be told. The expressions“Al-Ka” and “Ba-Ta” are the twofirst letters of the Gorean alphabet.In effect these men had no names,but were simply known as Slave Aand Slave B.

I turned to Sarm.“I assume,” I said, “you have

more than twenty-eight humanslaves.” There were twenty-eightcharacters in the Gorean alphabet. Ihad intended my remark to be rathervicious but Sarm took no offense.

“Others are numbered,” he said.“When one dies or is destroyed, his

number is assigned to another.”“Some of the low numbers,”

volunteered Misk, “have beenassigned as many as a thousandtimes.”

“Why do these slaves not havenumbers?” I asked.

“They are special,” said Misk.I regarded them closely. They

seemed splendid specimens ofmankind. Perhaps Misk had meantmerely that they were unusuallyexcellent representatives of thehuman type.

“Can you guess,” asked Sarm,“which one has been synthesised?”

I must have given quite a start.

Sarm’s antennae giggled.“Yes,” said Sarm, “one was

synthesised, beginning with thesynthesis of the protein molecules,and was formed molecule bymolecule. It is artificiallyconstructed human being. It is not ofmuch scientific interest but it hasconsiderable curiosity value. It wasbuilt over a period of two centuriesby Kusk, the Priest-King, as a wayof escaping in his leisure hoursfrom the burdens of his seriousbiological investigations.

I shuddered.“What of the other?” I asked.“It too,” said Sarm, “is not

without interest and is alsobestowed upon us by theavocational whims of Kusk, one ofthe greatest of our Nest.”

“Is the other also synthesised?” Iasked.

“No,” said Sarm, “it is theproduct of genetic manipulation,artificial control and alteration ofthe hereditary coils in gametes.”

I was sweating.“Not the least interesting aspect

of this matter,” said Sarm, “is thematch.”

To be sure I could not tell thetwo men, if they were men, apart.

“That is the evidence of real

skill,” said Sarm.“Kusk,” said Misk, “is one of

th1e greatest of the Nest.”“Which of these slaves,” I asked,

“is the one who was synthesised?”“Can’t you tell?” asked Sarm.“No,” I said.Sarm’s antennae shivered and

wrapped themselves about oneanother. He was shaking with thesigns I knew now to be associatedwith amusement.

“I will not tell you,” he said.“It is growing late,” said Misk,

“and the Matok, if he is to remain inthe Nest, must be processed.”

“Yes,” said Sarm, but he seemed

in no hurry to conclude his gloating.He pointed one long, jointed forelegat the Muls. “Gaze upon them withawe, Matok,” said he, “for they arethe product of Priest-Kings and themost perfect specimens of your raceever to exist.”

I wondered about what Miskmeant by “processing” but Sarm’swords irritated me, as did the twograve, handsome fellows who hadso spontaneously groveled beforehis dais. “How is that?” I asked.

“Is it not obvious?” asked Sarm.“No,” I said.“They are symmetrically

formed,” said Sarm. “Moreover

they are intelligent, strong and ingood health.” Sarm seemed to waitfor my reply but there was none.“And,” said Sarm, “they live onfungus and water, and washthemselves twelve times a day.”

I laughed. “By the Priest-Kings!”I roared, the rather blasphemousGorean oath slipping out, somehowincongruously considering mypresent location and predicament.Neither Priest-King howeverseemed in the least disturbed by thisoath which might have brought tearsto the eyes of a member of the Casteof Initiates.

“Why do you curl your

antennae?” asked Sarm.“You call these perfect human

beings?” I asked, waving my armstoward the two slaves.

“Of course,” said Sarm.“Of course,” said Misk.“Perfect slaves!” I said.“The most perfect human being is

of course the most perfect slave,”said Sarm.

“The most perfect human being,”I said, “is free.”

A look of puzzlement seemed toappear in the eyes of the twoslaves.

“They have no wish to be setfree,” said Misk. He then addressed

the slaves. “What is your greatestjoy, Muls?” he asked.

“To be slaves of Priest-Kings,”they said.

“You see?” asked Misk.“Yes,” I said. “I see now that

they are not men.”Sarm’s antennae twitched

angrily.“Why do you not,” I challenged,

“have your Kusk, or whoever he is,synthesise a Priest-King?”

Sarm seemed to shiver with rage.The bladed hornlike projectionssnapped into view on his forelegs.

Misk had not moved. “It wouldbe immoral,” he said.

Sarm turned to Misk. “Would theMother object if the Matok’s armsand legs were broken?”

“Yes,” said Misk.“Would the Mother object if its

organs were damaged?” askedSarm.

“Undoubtedly,” said Misk.“But surely,” said Sarm, “it can

be punished.”“Yes,” said Misk, “undoubtedly

it will have to be disciplinedsometime.”

“Very well,” said Sarm anddirected his antennae at the twoshaven-headed, plastic-clad slaves.“Punish the Matok,” said Sarm, “but

do not break its bones nor injure itsorgans.”

No sooner had these words beenemitted from Sarm’s translator thanthe two slaves leaped toward me toseize me.

In that same instant I leapedtoward them, taking them bysurprise and compounding themomentum of my blow. I thrust oneaside with my left arm and crushedmy fist into the face of the second.His head snapped to the side andhis knees buckled. He crumpled tothe floor. Before the other couldregain his balance, I had leaped tohim and seized him in my hands and

lifted him high over my head andhurled him on his back to the stoneflooring of the long chamber. Had itbeen combat to the death in thatbrief instant I would have finishedhim leaping over him and gougingmy heels into his stomach rupturingthe diaphragm. But I had no wish tokill him, nor a matter of fact toinjure him severely. He managed toroll over on his stomach. I couldhave snapped his neck then with myheel. The thought occurred to methat these slaves had not been welltrained to administer discipline.They seemed to know almostnothing. Now the man was on his

knees, gasping, supporting himselfon the palm of his right hand. If hewas right-handed, that seemedfoolish. Also he made no effort tocover his throat.

I looked up at Sarm and Misk,who, observing, stood in thatslightly inclined, infuriatingly stillposture.

“Do not injure them further,” saidMisk.

“I will not,” I said.“Perhaps the Matok is right,”

said Misk to Sarm. “Perhaps theyare not perfect human beings.”

“Perhaps,” admitted Sarm.Now the slave who was

conscious lifted his hand piteouslyto the Priest-Kings. His eyes werefilled with tears.

“Please,” he begged, “let us go tothe dissection chambers.”

I was dumbfounded.Now the other had regained

consciousness and, on his knees,joined his fellow. “Please,” hecried, “let us go to the dissectionchambers.”

My astonishment could not beconcealed.

“They feel that they have failedthe Priest-Kings and wish to die,”said Misk.

Sarm regarded the two slaves. “I

am kind,” he said, “and it is nearthe Feast of Tola.” He lifted hisforeleg with a gentle, permissivegesture, almost a benediction. “Youmay go to the dissection chambers.”

To my amazement, gratitudetransfigured the features of the twoslaves and, helping one another,they prepared to leave the room.

“Stop!” I cried.The two slaves stopped and

looked at me.My eyes were fixed however on

Sarm and Misk. “You can’t sendthem to their deaths,” I said.

Sarm seemed puzzled.Misk’s antennae shrugged.

Frantically I groped for aplausible objection. “Kusk wouldsurely be displeased if his creatureswere to be destroyed,” I said. Ihoped it would do.

Sarm and Misk touched antennae.“The Matok is right,” said Misk.“True,” said Sarm.I breathed a sigh of relief.Sarm then turned to the two

slaves. “You may not go to thedissection chambers,” he said.

Once more the two slaves, thistime apparently without emotion,folded their arms and stood, legsapart, beside the dais. Nothingmight have happened in the last few

moments save that one wasbreathing heavily and the other’sface was splattered with his ownblood.

Neither of them showed anygratitude at being reprieved nor dideither evince any resentment at myhaving interfered with theirexecutions.

I was, as you might suppose,puzzled. The responses andbehaviour of the two slaves seemedto be incomprehensible.

“You must understand, TarlCabot of Ko-ro-ba,” said Misk,apparently sensing my puzzlement,“that it is the greatest joy of Muls to

love and serve Priest-Kings. If it isthe wish of a Priest-King that theydie they do so with great joy; if it isthe wish of a Priest-King that theylive, they are similarly delighted.”

I noted that neither of the twoslaves looked particularlydelighted.

“You see,” continued Misk,“these Muls have been formed tolove and serve Priest-Kings.”

“They have been made that way,”I said.

“Precisely,” said Misk.“And yet you say they are

human,” I said.“Of course,” said Sarm.

And then to my surprise one ofthe slaves, though which one I couldnot have told, looked at me andspoke. “We are human,” it said verysimply.

I approached him and held outmy hand. “I hope I did not hurtyou,” I said.

It took my hand and awkwardlyheld it, not knowing how to shakehands apparently.

“I too am human,” said the other,looking at me rather directly.

He held his hand out with theback of his hand up. I took the handand turned it and shook it.

“I have feelings,” said the first

man.“I, too, have feelings,” said the

second man.“We all do,” I said.“Of course,” said the first man,

“for we are human.”I looked at him very carefully.

“Which of you,” I asked, “has beensynthesised?”

“We do not know,” said the firstman.

“No,” said the second man. “Wehave never been told.”

The two Priest-Kings hadwatched this small concourse withsome interest, but now the voice ofSarm’s translator was heard: “It is

growing late,” it said, “let theMatok be processed.”

“Follow me,” said the first manand turned, and I followed h1im,leaving the room, the second manfalling into stride beside me.

Chapter ThirteenTHE SLIME WORM

I followed Mul-Al-Ka and Mul-Ba-Ta through several rooms anddown a long corridor.

“This is the Hall of Processing,”said one of them.

We passed several high steelportals in the hallway and on eachof these, about twenty feet high, atthe antennae level of a Priest-King,were certain dots, which I was laterto learn were scent dots.

If the scent-dots were themselvesnot scented one might be tempted tothink of them as graphemes in thelanguage of the Priest-Kings, butsince they themselves are scentedthey are best construed asanalogous to uttered phonemes orphoneme combinations, directexpressions of the oral syllabary ofthe Priest-Kings.

When surrounded by scent-dots

one might suppose the Priest – Kingto be subjected to a cacophony ofstimulation, much as we might be ifenvironed by dozens of blaringradios and television sets, but thisis apparently not the case; the betteranalogy would seem to be ourexperience of walking down a quietcity street surrounded by printedsigns which we might notice but towhich we do not pay muchattention.

In our sense there is nodistinction between a spoken andwritten language for the Priest-Kings, though there is an analogousdistinction between linguistic

patterns that are actually sensed andthose which are potentially to besensed, an example of the latterbeing the scents of a yet uncoiledscent-tape.

“You will not much care for theprocessing,” said one of my guides.

“But it will be good for you,”said the other.

“Why must I be processed?” Iasked.

“To protect the Nest fromcontamination,” said the first.

Scents, of course, will fade intime, but the specially preparedsynthetic products or the Priest-Kings can last for thousands of

years and, in the long run, willsurely outlast the fading print ofhuman books, the disintegratingcelluloid of our films, perhaps eventhe carved, weathering stones soimperishably attesting theincomparable glories of ournumerous kings, conquerors andpotentates.

Scent-dots, incidentally, arearranged in rows constituting ageometrical square, and are readbeginning with the top row from leftto right, then right to left, and thenleft to right and so on again.

Gorean, I might note, issomewhat similar, and though I

speak Gorean fluently, I find it verydifficult to write, largely because ofthe even-numbered lines which,from my point of view, must bewritten backwards. Torm, my friendof the Caste of Scribes, neverforgave me this and to this day, if helives, he undoubtedly considers mepartly illiterate. As he said, I wouldnever make a Scribe. “It is simple,”he said. “You just write it forwardbut in the other direction.”

The syllabary of the Priest-Kings, not to be confused with theirset of seventy-three “phonemes”,consists of what seems to me to bea somewhat unwieldy four hundred

and eleven characters, each ofwhich stands of course for aphoneme or phoneme combination,normally a combination. Certainjuxtapositions of these phonemesand phoneme combinations,naturally, form words. I would havesupposed a simpler syllabary, oreven an experimen1tation with anonscented perhaps alphabeticgraphic script, would have beendesirable linguistic ventures for thePriest-Kings, but as far as I knowthey were never made.

With respect to the rathercomplex syllabary, I originallysupposed that it had never been

simplified because the Priest-King,with his intelligence, would absorbthe four hundred and elevencharacters of his syllabary morerapidly than would a human childhis alphabet of less than thirtyletters, and thus that the differenceto him between more than fourhundred signs and less than thirtywould be negligible.

As far as it goes this was not badguesswork on my part, but deeperreasons underlay the matter. First, Idid not know then how Priest-Kingslearned. They do not learn as wedo. Second, they tend in manymatters to have a penchant for

complexity, regarding it as moreelegant than simplicity. Onepractical result of this seems to bethat they have never been tempted tooversimplify physical reality,biological processes or theoperations of a functioning mind. Itwould never occur to them thatnature is ultimately simple, and ifthey found it so they would berather disappointed. They viewnature as a set of interrelatedcontinua rather than as a visuallyoriented organism is tempted to do,as a network of discrete objectswhich must be somehow,mysteriously, related to one

another. Their basic mathematics,incidentally, begins with ordinaland not cardinal numbers, and themathematics of cardinal numbers isregarded as a limiting case imposedon more intuitively acceptedordinalities. Most significantlyhowever I suspect that the syllabaryof Priest-Kings remains complex,and that experiments with unscentedgraphemes were never conducted,because, except for lexicaladditions, they wish to keep theirlanguage much as it was in theancient past. The Priest-King, forall his intelligence, tends to be fondof established patterns, at least in

basic cultural matters such as Nestmores and language, subscribing tothem however not because ofgenetic necessity but rather acertain undoubtedly geneticallybased preference for that which iscomfortable and familiar. ThePriest-King, somewhat like men,can change its ways but seldomcares to do so.

And yet there is probably more tothese matters than the aboveconsiderations would suggest.

I once asked Misk why thesyllabary of Priest-Kings was notsimplified, and he responded, “Ifthis were done we would have to

give up certain signs, and we couldnot bear to do so, for they are allvery beautiful.”

Beneath the scent-dots on eachhigh portal which Mul-Al-Ka andMul-Ba-Ta and I passed there was,perhaps for the benefit of humans orothers, a stylised outline picture ofa form of creature.

On none of the doors that we hadpassed thus far was the stylisedoutline picture of a human.

Down the hall running towardsus, not frantically but ratherdeliberately, at a steady pace, camea young human female, of perhapseighteen years of age, with shaved

head and clad in the brief plastictunic of a Mul.

“Do not obstruct her,” said oneof my guides.

I stepped aside.Scarcely noticing us and

clutching two scent-tapes in herhands the girl passed.

She had brown eyes and, Ithought, in spite of her shaved head,was attractive.

Neither of my companionsshowed, or seemed to show, theleast interest in her.

For some reason this annoyedme.

I watched her continue on down1

the passageway, listened to the slapof her bare feet on the floor.

“Who is she?” I asked.“A Mul,” said one of the slaves.“Of course she is a Mul,” I said.“Then why do you ask?” he

asked.I found myself nastily hoping that

he was the one who had beensynthesised.

“She is a Messenger,” said theother, “who carries scent – tapesbetween portals in the Hall ofProcessing.”

“Oh,” said the first slave. “He isinterested in things like that.”

“He is new in the tunnels,” said

the second slave.I was curious. I looked directly

at the first slave. “She had goodlegs, didn’t she?” I said.

He seemed puzzled. “Yes,” hesaid, “very strong.”

“She was attractive,” I said to thesecond.

“Attractive?” he asked.“Yes,” I said.“Yes,” he said, “she is healthy.”“Perhaps she is someone’s

mate?” I asked.“No,” said the first slave.“How do you know?” I asked.“She is not in the breeding

cases,” said the man.

Somehow these laconicresponses and the unquestioningacceptance of the apparentbarbarities of the rule of Priest –Kings infuriated me.

“I wonder how she would feel inone’s arms,” I said.

The two men looked at me and atone another.

“One must not wonder aboutthat,” said one.

“Why not?” I asked.“It is forbidden,” said the other.“But surely,” I said, “you must

have wondered about that?”One of the men smiled at me.

“Yes,” he said, “I have sometimes

wondered about that.”“So have I,” said the other.Then all three of us turned to

watch the girl, who was now nomore than a bluish speck under theenergy bulbs far down the hall.

“Why is she running?” I asked.“The journeys between portals

are timed,” said the first slave, “andif she dallies she will be given arecord-scar.”

“Yes,” said the other, “fiverecord-scars and she will bedestroyed.”

“A record-scar,” I said, “is somesort of mark on your records?”

“Yes,” said the first slave, “it is

entered on your scent – tape andalso, in odour, inscribed on yourtunic.”

“The tunic,” said the other, “isinscribed with much information,and it is by means of the tunic thatPriest – Kings can recognise us.”

“Yes,” said the first slave,“otherwise I am afraid we wouldappear much alike to them.”

I stored this information away,hoping that someday1 it might proveuseful.

“Well,” I said, still looking downthe hall, “I would have supposedthat the mighty Priest-Kings couldhave devised a quicker way of

transporting scent-tapes.”“Of course,” said the first slave,

“but there is no better way, forMuls are extremely inexepnsive andare easily replaced.”

“Speed in such matters,” saidone, “is of little interest to Priest-Kings.”

“Yes,” said the other, “they arevery patient.”

“Why have they not given her atransportation device?” I asked.

“She is only a Mul,” said the firstslave.

All three of us stared down thehall after the girl, but she had nowdisappeared in the distance.

“But she is a healthy Mul,” saidone.

“Yes,” said the other, “and shehas strong legs.”

I laughed and clapped both of theslaves on the shoulders, and thethree of us, arm in arm, walkeddown the hall.

* * *

We had not walked far when wepassed a long, wormlike animal,eyeless, with a small red mouth,that inched its way along thecorridor, hugging the angle betweenthe wall and floor.

Neither of my guides paid theanimal any attention.

Indeed, even I myself, after myexperience with the arthropod onthe platform and the flat, sluglikebeast on its transportation disk inthe plaza, was growing accustomedto finding strange creatures in theNest of the Priest-Kings.

“What is that?” I asked.“A Matok,” said one of the

slaves.“Yes,” said the other, “it is in the

Nest but not of the Nest.”“But I thought I was a Matok,” I

said.“You are,” said one of the

slaves.We continued on.“What do you call it?” I asked.“Oh,” said one of the slaves. “It

is a Slime Worm.”“What does it do?” I asked.“Long ago it functioned in the

Nest,” said one of the slaves, “as asewerage device, but it has notserved that function in manythousands of years.”

“But yet it remains in the Nest.”“Of course,” said one of the

slaves, “the Priest-Kings aretolerant.”

“Yes,” said the other, “and theyare fond of it, and are themselves

creatures of great reverence fortradition.”

“The Slime Worm has earned itsplace in the Nest,” said the other.

“How does it live?” I asked.“It scavenges on the kills of the

Golden Beetle,” said the first slave.“What does the Golden Beetle

kill?” I asked.“Priest-Kings,” said the second

slave.I would surely have pressed

forward this inquiry but at that verymoment we arrived at a tall steelportal in the hallway.

Looking up I saw beneath thesquare of scent-dots fixed high on

the steel door the stylised outlinepicture of what was unmistakably ahuman being.

“This is the place,” said one ofmy companions. “It is here that youwill be processed.”

“We will wait for you,” said theother.

Chapter FourteenTHE SECRET

CHAMBER OF MISK

The arms of the metal deviceseized me and I found myself held

helplessly by the arms suspendedsome feet above the floor.

Behind me the panel had slidshut.

The room was rather large, bleanand coated with plastic. It seemedto be bare except that at one endthere were several metal disks inthe wall and, high in the wall, therewas a transparent shield. Viewingme antiseptically through this shieldwas the face of a Priest-King.

“May you bathe in the dung ofSlime Worms,” I called to himcheerfully. I hoped he had atranslator.

Two circular metal plates in the

wall beneath the shield had slidupward and suddenly long metalarms had telescoped outwards andreached for me.

For an instant I had consideredscarmbling out of their reach butthen I had sensed that there wouldbe no escape in the smooth, closed,carefully prepared room in which Ifound myself.

The metal arms had locked on meand lifted me from the floor.

The Priest-King behind the shielddid not seem to notice my remark. Isupposed he did not have atranslator.

As I dangled there to my

irritation further devicesmanipulated by the Priest-Kingemerged from the wall andextended towards me.

One of these woth maddeningdelicacy snipped the clothing frommy body, even cutting the thongs ofmy sandals. Another deftly forced alarge, ugly pellet down my throat.

Considering the size of a Priest-King and the comparatively smallscale of these operations I gatheredthat the reduction gearing on themechanical appendages must beconsiderable. Moreover theaccuracy with which the operationswere performed suggested a

magnification of some sort. I wouldlearn later that practically the entirewall which faced me was such adevice, being in effect a very largescent – reinforcer. But at the time Iwas in no mood to admire theengineering talents of my captors.

“May you antennae be soaked ingrease!” I called to my tormentor.

His antennae stiffened and thencurled a bit at the tips.

I was pleased. Apparently he didhave a translator.

I was considering my next insultwhen the two arms which held meswung me over a metal cage with adouble floor, the higher consisting

of narrow bars set in a wide meshand the lower consisting simply of awhite plastic tray.

The metal appendages whichheld me suddenly sprang open and Iwas dropped into the cage.

I sprang to my feet but the top ofthe cage had clicked shut.

I wanted to try the bars butalready I felt sick and I sank to thebottom of the cage.

I was no longer interested ininsulti1ng Priest-Kings.

I remember looking up andseeing its antennae curling.

It took only two or three minutesfor the pellet to do its work and it is

not with pleasure that I recall thoseminutes.

Finally the plastic tray neatly slidout from beneath the cage andswiftly disappeared through a low,wide panel in the left wall.

I gratefully noted its departure.Then the entire cage, on a track

of some sort, began to move throughan opening which appeared in theright wall.

In the following journey the cagewas successively submerged invarious solutions of varioustemperatures and densities, some ofwhich, perhaps because I was stillill, I found exceedingly noxious.

Had I been less ill I wouldundoubtedly have been moreoffended.

At last after I, sputtering andchoking, had been duly cleansedand rinsed several times, and then itseemed several times again, thecage began to move slowly,mercifully, between vents fromwhich blasts of hot air issued, and,eventually, it passed slowlybetween an assortment of hummingprojection points for wide-beamrays, some of which were visible tomy eye, being yellow, red and arefulgent green.

I would later learn that these

rays, which passed through my bodyas easily and harmlessly as sunlightthrough glass, were indexed to themetabolic physiology of variousorganisms which can infect Priest-Kings. I would also learn that thelast known free instance of such anorganism had occurred more thanfour thousand years before. In thenext frew weeks in the Nest I wouldoccasionally come upon diseasedMuls. The organisms which afflictthem are apparently harnless toPriest-Kings and thus allowed tosurvive. Indeed, they are regardedas Matoks, in the Nest, but not ofthe Nest, and are thus to be

tolerated with equanimity.I was still quite ill when, clad in

a red plasic tunic, I rejoined thetwo slaves in the hall outside thedoor.

âœou look much better,âsaid oneof them.

âœhey left the threadlike growthson your head,âsaid the other.

âœair,âI said, leaning against theportal.

âœtrange,âsaid one of the slaves.âœhe only fibrous body growthspermitted Muls are the lashes of theeyes.â/p>

This, I supposed, would have todo with protecting the eyes from

particles. Idly, not feeling well, Iwondered if there were anyparticles.

âœut he is a Matok,âsaid one.âœhat is true,âsaid the other.I was glad that the tunic I wore

was not of the Ubarâ™ purplewhich would proclaim me as aslave of Priest-Kings.

âœerhaps if you are veryzealous,âsaid one, âœou canbecome a Mul.â/p>

âœes,âsaid the other, âœhen youwould be not only in the Nest but ofthe Nest.â/p>

I did not respond.âœhat is best,âsaid one.

âœes,âsaid the other.I leaned back against the portal

of the Hall of Processing, my eyesclosed, and took several slow, deepbreaths.

âœou have been assignedquarters,âsaid one of the twoslaves, â€a case in the chamber ofMisk.â/p>

I opened my eyes.âœe will take you there,âsaid the

other.I looked at them blankly. âœ

case?âI asked.âœe is not well,âsaid one of the

slaves.âœt is quite confortable,âsaid the

other, âœith fungus and water.â/p>I closed my eyes again and shook

my head. I could feel them gentlytake my arms and I accompaniedthem slowly down the hall.

âœou will feel much better,âsaidone of them, âœhen you have had abit of fungus.â/p>

âœes,âsaid the other.

* * *

It is not hard to get used to Mul-Fungus, for it has almost no taste,being an extremely bland, pale,whitish, fibrous vegetablelikematter. I know of no one who is

moved much in one direction or theother by its taste. Even the Muls,many of whom have been bred inthe Nest, do not particularly like it,nor despise it. It is eaten with muchthe same lack of attention that wenormally breathe air.

Muls feed four times a day. In thefirst meal, Mul-Fungus is groundand mixed with water, forming aporridge of sorts; for the secondmeal it is chopped into rough two-inch cubes; for the third meal it isminced with Mul-Pellets andserved as a sort of cold hash; theMul-Pellets are undoubtedly sometype of dietary supplement; at the

final meal Mul-Fungus is pressedinto a large, flat cake and sprinkledwith a few grains of salt.

Misk told me, and I believe him,that Muls had occasionally slainone another for a handful of salt.

The Mul-Fungus, as far as I cantell, is not much different from thefungus, raised under idealconditions from specially selectedspores, which graces the feedtroughs of the PriestÂâ“Kingsthemselves, a tiny sample of whichwas once given me by Misk. It wasperhaps a bit less coarse than Mul-Fungus. Misk was much annoyedthat I could not detect the

difference.I was much annoyed when I

found out later that the majordifference between high-qualityfungus and the lower-grade Mul-Fungus was simply the smell. I wasin the Nest, incidentally, for morethan five weeks before I could evenvaguely detect the odour differencewhich seemed so significant toMisk. And then it did not strike meas being better or worse than that ofthe low-grade Mul-Fungus.

The longer I stayed in the Nestthe more acute became my sense ofsmell, and it was an embarrassingrevelation to me to discover how

unaware I had become of thesevaried, rich sensory cues soabundantly available in myenvironment. I was given atranslator by Misk and I would utterGorean expressions into it and thenwait for the translation into thelanguage of the Priest-Kings, and inthis way, after a timw, I becamecapable of recognising numerousmeaningful odours. The first odour Icame to recognise was Miskâ™name, and it was delightful todiscover, as I became morepracticed and sensitive, that theodour was the same as his own.

One of the things I did was run

the translator over the red plastictunic I had been issued and listen tothe information which had beenrecorded on it. There was not muchsave my name and city, that I was aMatok under the supervision ofMisk, that I had no record-scars andthat I might be dangerous.

I smiled at the latter caution.I did not even have a sword, and

I was sure that, in any battle withPriest-Kings, I would constitute buta moment’s work for their fiercemandibles and the bladed, hornlikeprojections on their forelegs.

The case which I was to occupyin Misk’s chamber was not as bad

as I had anticipated.Indeed, it seemed to me far more

luxurious than the appointments inMisk’s own chamber, whichseemed utterly bare except for thefeed trough and numerouscompartments, dials, switches andplugs mounted in one wall. ThePriest-Kings eat and sleep standingand never lie down, except perhapsit be to die.

The bareness of Misk’s chamberswas, however, as it turned out, onlyan apparent bareness to a visuallyoriented organism such as myself.Actually the walls, ceilings andfloor were covered with what, to a

Priest-King, were excruciatinglybeautiful scent-patterns. Indeed,Misk informed me that the patternsin his chamber had been laid downby some of the greatest artists in theNest.

My case was a transparentplastic cube of perhaps eight feetsquare, with ventilation holes and asliding plastic door. There was nolock on the door and thus I couldcome and go as I pleased.

Inside the cube there werecanisters of Mul-Fungus, a bowl, aladle, a wooden-bladed Fungus-Knife; a wooden-headed Fungus –Mallet; a convenient tube of Mul-

Pellets, which discharged itscontents one at a time following mydepressing a lever in the bottom ofthe tube; and a large, inverted jar ofwater, by means of which anattached, somewhat shallow,watering pan was kept filled.

In one corner of the case therewas a large, circular padding a fewinches deep of soft, rough-cut,reddish moss which was notuncomfortable and was changeddaily.

Adjoining the cube, reached fromthe cube by sliding plastic panels,were a lavatory facility and awashing-booth.

The washing-booth wasremarkably like the showers withwhich we are familiar except thatone may not regulate the flow offluid. One turns on the fluid bystepping into the booth and itsamount and temperature arecontrolled automatically. I hadnaturally supposed the fluid to besimply water which it closelyresembled in appearance, and oncehad tried to fill my bowl for themorning meal there, rather thanladling the water out of the waterpan. Choking, my mouth burning, Ispat it out in the booth.

“It is fortunate,” said Misk, “that

you did not swallow it for thewashing fluid contains a cleansingadditive that is highly toxic tohuman physiology.”

Misk and I got on rather welltogether after a few small initialfrictions, particularly having to dowith the salt ration and the numberof times a day the washing-boothwas to be used. If I had been a MulI would have received a record –scar for each day on which I had notwashed completely twelve times.Washing-booths, incidentally, arefound in all Mul – cases and often,for convenience, along the tunnelsand in public places, such as

plazas, shaving-parlours, pellet –dispensaries, and funguscommissaries. Since I was a MatokI insisted that I should be exemptedfrom the Duty of the Twelve Joys,as it is known. In the beginning Iheld out for one shower a day asquite sufficient but poor Miskseemed so upset that I agreed to upmy proposal to two. He would stillhear nothing of this and seemed firmthat I should not fall below ten. Atlast, feeling that I perhaps owedsomething to Misk’s acceptance ofme in his chamber, I suggested acompromise at five, and, for anextra salt packet, six on alternate

days. At last Misk threw in twoextra salt packets a day and I agreedto six washings. He himself, ofcourse, did1 not use a washing-booth but groomed and cleanedhimself in the age-old fashion ofPriest-Kings, with his cleaninghooks and mouth. Occasionallyafter we got to know one anotherbetter, he would even allow me togroom him, and the first time heallowed me, with the smallgrooming fork used by favouredMuls, to comb his antennae I knewthat he trusted me, and liked me,though for what reason I could nottell.

I myself grew rather fond ofMisk.

“Did you know,” said Misk onceto me, “that humans are among themost intelligent of the lowerorders?”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I said.Misk was quiet and his antennae

waved nostalgically.“I once had a pet Mul,” he said.I looked at my case.“No,” said Misk, “when a pet

Mul dies the case is alwaysdestroyed, lest there becontamination.”

“What happened to him?” Iasked.

“It was a small female,” saidMisk. “It was slain by Sarm.”

I felt a tension in the foreleg ofMisk which I was grooming asthough it were involuntarilyprepared to invert, bringing out thebladelike projection.

“Why?” I asked.Misk said nothing for a long time,

and then he dejectedly lowered hishead, delicately extending hisantennae to me for grooming. After Ihad combed them for a bit, I sensedhe was ready to speak.

“It was my fault,” said Misk.“She wanted to let the threadlikegrowths on her head emerge, for she

was not bred in the Nest.” Misk’svoice came from the translator asconsecutively and mechanically asever, but his whole body trembled.I removed the grooming fork fromhis antennae in order that thesensory hairs not be injured. “I wasindulgent,” said Misk, straighteningup so that his long body nowloomed over me, inclined forwardslightly from the vertical in thecharacteristic stance of Priest-Kings. “So that it was actually Iwho killed her.”

“I think not,” I said. “You tried tobe kind.”

“And it occurred on the day on

which she saved my life,” saidMisk.

“Tell me about it,” I said.“I was on an errand for Sarm,”

said Misk, “which took me tounfrequented tunnels and forcompany I took the girl with me.

We came upon a Golden Beetlethough none had ever been seen inthat place and I wanted to go to theBeetle and I put my head down andapproached it but the girl seized myantennae and dragged me away, thussaving my life.”

Misk lowered his head again andextended his antennae for grooming.

“The pain was excruciating,”

said Misk, “and I could not butfollow her in spite of the fact that Iwanted to go to the Golden Beetle.In an Ahn of course I no longerwanted to go to the Beetle and Iknew then she had saved my life. Itwas the same day that Sarm orderedher given five record-scars for thegrowths on her head and had herdestroyed.”

“Is it always five record-scarsfor such an offense?” I asked.

“No,” said Misk. “I do not knowwhy Sarm acted as he did.”

“It seems to me,” I said, “that youshould not blame yourself for thegirl’1s death, but Sarm.”

“No,” said Misk. “I was tooindulgent.”

“Is it not possible,” I asked, “thatSarm wished you to die by theGolden Beetle?”

“Of course,” said Misk. “It wasundoubtedly his intention.”

I puzzled to myself why Sarmmight want Misk to be killed.Undoubtedly there was some typeof rivalry or political divisionbetween them. To my human mind,used to the cruelties with whichselfish men can implement theirschemes, I saw nothingincomprehensible in the fact thatSarm would have attempted to

engineer Misk’s death. I wouldlearn later however that this simplefact was indeed almostincomprehensible to Priest-Kings,and that Misk, though he readilyaccepted it as a fact in his mind,could not bring himself, so to speak,in the furthest reaches of his heart toacknowledge it as true, for were notboth he and Sarm of the Nest, andwould not such an action be aviolation of Nest Trust?

“Sarm is the First Born,” saidMisk, “whereas I am the Fifth Born.The first five born of the Mother arethe High Council of the Nest. TheSecond, Third and Fourth Born, in

the long ages, have, one by one,succumbed to the Pleasures of theGolden Beetle. Only Sarm and I areleft of the Five.”

“Then,” I suggested, “he wantsyou to die so that he will be theonly remaining member of theCouncil and thus have absolutepower.”

“The Mother is greater than he,”said Misk.

“Still,” I suggested, “his powerwould be considerably augmented.”

Misk looked at me and hisantennae had a certain lack ofresilience and the golden hairs hadseemed to lose some of their sheen.

“You are sad,” I said.Misk bent down until his long

body was horizontal and theninclined downward yet moretowards me. He laid his antennaegently on my shoulders, almost asthough a man might have put hishands on them.

“Youmust not understand thesethings,” said Misk, “in terms ofwhat you know of men. It isdifferent.”

“It seems no different to me,” Isaid.

“These things,” said Misk, “aredeeper and greater than you know,than you can now understand.”

“They seem simple enough tome,” I remarked.

“No,” said Misk. “You do notunderstand.” Misk’s antennaepressed a bit on my shoulders. “Butyou will understand,” he said.

The Priest-King then straightenedand stalked to my case. With histwo forelegs he gently lifted it andmoved it aside.

The ease with which he did thisastonished me for I am sure itsweight must have been severalpounds. Beneath the case I saw aflat stone with a recessed ring.Misk bent down and lifted this ring.

“I dug this chamber myself,” he

said, “and day by day over thelifetimes of many Muls I took a bitof rock dust away and scattered ithere and there unobserved in thetunnels.”

I looked down into the cavernwhich was now revealed.

“I requisitioned as little aspossible,” you see,” said Misk.

“Even the portal must be movedby mechanical force.”

He then went to a compartmenti1n the wall and withdrew a slenderblack rod. He broke the end of therod off and it began to burn with abluish flame.

“This is a Mul-Torch,” said

Misk, “used by Muls who raisefungus in darkened chambers. Youwill need it to see.”

I knew that the Priest-King hadno need of the torch.

“Please,” said Misk, gesturingtoward the opening.

Chapter FifteenIN THE SECRET

CHAMBER

Holding the slender Mul-Torchover my head I peered into thecavern now revealed in the floor of

Misk’s chamber. From a ring on theunderside of the floor, the ceiling ofthe chamber, there dangled aknotted rope.

There seemed to be very littleheat from the bluish flame of theMul-Torch but, considering the sizeof the flame, a surprising amount oflight.

“The workers of the Fungus-Trays,” said Misk, “break off bothends of the torch and climb about onthe trays with the torch in theirteeth.”

I had no mind to do this, but I didgrasp the torch in my teeth with oneend lit and, hand over hand, lower

myself down the knotted rope.One side of my face began to

sweat. I closed my right eye.A circle of eerie, blue,

descending light flickered on thewalls of the passage down which Ilowered myself. The walls a fewfeet below the level of Misk’scompartment became damp.

The temperature fell severaldegrees. I could see thediscolourations of slime molds,probably white, but seeming blue inthe light, on the walls. I sensed afilm of moisture forming on theplastic of my tunic. Here and there atrickle of water traced its dark

pattern downward to the floorwhere it crept along the wall and,continuing its journey, disappearedinto one crevice or another.

When I arrived at the bottom ofthe rope, some forty feet below, Iheld the torch over my head andfound myself in a bare, simplechamber.

Looking up I saw Misk,disdaining the rope, bend himselfbackwards through the aperture inthe ceiling and, step by dainty step,walk across the ceiling upsidedown and then back himself nimblydown the side of the wall.

In a moment he stood beside me.

“You must never speak of what Iam going to show you,” said Misk.

I said nothing.Misk hesitated.“Let there be Nest Trust between

us,” I said.“But you are not of the Nest,”

said Misk.“Nonetheless,” I said, “let there

be Nest Trust between us.”“Very well,” said Misk, and he

bent forward, extending hisantennae towards me.

I wondered for a moment whatwas to be done but then it seemed Isensed what he wanted. I thrust thetorch I carried into a crevice in the

wall and, standing before Misk, Iraised my arms over my head,extending them towards him.

With extreme gentleness, almosttenderness, the Priest-King touchedthe palms of my hands with hisantennae.

“Let there be Nest Trust betweenus.”

It was the nearest I could come tolocking antennae.

* * *

Briskly Misk straightened up.“Somewhere here,” he said, “but

unscented and toward the floor,

where a Priest-King would not belikely to find it, is a small knobwhich will look much like a pebble.Find this knob and twist it.”

It was but a moment’s work tolocate the knob of which he spokethough I gathered from what he saidthat it might have been wellconcealed from the typical sensoryawareness of a Priest-King.

I turned the knob and a portion ofthe wall swung back.

“Enter,” said Misk, and I did so.Scarcely were we inside when

Misk touched a button I could notsee several feet over my head andthe door swung smoothly closed.

The only light in the chamberwas from my bluish torch.

I gazed about myself withwonder.

The room was apparently large,for portions of it were lost in theshadows from the torch. What Icould see suggested paneling andinstrumentation, banks of scent-needles and guages, numeroustiered decks of wiring and copperplating. There were on one side ofthe room, racks of scent-tapes,some of which were spinningslowly, unwinding their tapesthrough slowly rotating translucent,glowing spheres. These spheres in

turn were connected by slender,woven cables of wire to a large,heavy boxlike assembly, made ofsteel and rather squarish, whichwas set on wheels. In front of thisassembly, one by one, thin metaldisks would snap into place, a lightwould flash as some energytransaction occurred, and then thedisk would snap aside, immediatelyto be replaced by another. Eightwires led from this box into thebody of a Priest-King which lay onits back, inert, in the centre of theroom on a moss-softened stonetable.

I held the torch high and looked

at the Priest-King, who was rathersmall for a Priest-King, being onlyabout twelve feet long.

What most astonished me wasthat he had wings, long, slender,beautiful, golden, translucent wings,folded against his back.

He was not strapped down.He seemed to be completely

unconscious.I bent my ears to the air tubes in

his abdomen and I could hear theslight whispers of respiration.

“I had to design this equipmentmyself,” said Misk, and for thatreason it is inexcusably primitive,but there was no possibility to

apply for standard instrumentationin this case.”

I didn’t understand.“No,” said Misk, “and observe I

had to make my own mnemonicdisks, devising a transducer to readthe scent-tapes, which fortunatelyare easily available, and recordtheir signals on blank receptor-plating, from there to betransformed into impulses forgenerating and regulating theappropriate neural alignments.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.“Of course,” said Misk, “for you

are a human.”I looked at the long, golden

wings of the creature. “Is it amutation?” I asked.

“Of course not,” said Misk.“Then what is it?” I asked.“A male,” said Misk. He paused

for a long time and the antennaeregarded the inert figure on thestone table. “It is the first male bornin the Nest in eight thousand years.”

“Aren’t you a male?” I asked.“No,” said Misk, “nor are the

others.”“Then you are a female,” I said.“No,” said Misk, “in the Nest

only the Mother is female.”“But surely,” I said, “there must

be other females.”

“Occasionally,” said Misk, “anegg occurred which was female butthese were ordered destroyed bySarm. I myself know of no femaleegg in the Nest, and I know of onlyone which has occurred in the lastsix thousand years.”

“How long,” I asked, “does aPriest-King live?”

“Long ago,” said Misk, “Priest-Kings discovered the secrets of cellreplacement without patterndeterioration, and accordingly,unless we meet with injury oraccident, we will live until we arefound by the Golden Beetle.”

“How old are you?” I asked.

“I myself was hatched,” saidMisk, “before we brought ourworld into your solar system.” Helooked down at me. “That wasmore than two million years ago,”he said.

“Then,” I said, “the Nest willnever die.”

“It is dying now,” said Misk.“One by one we succumb to thePleasures of the Golden Beetle. Wegrow old and there is little left forus. At one time we were rich andfilled with life and in that time ourgreat patterns were formed and inanother time our arts flourished andthen for a very long time our only

passion was scientific curiosity, butnow even that lessens, even thatlessens.”

“Why do you not slay the GoldenBeetles?” I asked.

“It would be wrong,” said Misk.“But they kill you,” I said.“It is well for us to die,” said

Misk, “for otherwise the Nestwould be eternal and the Nest mustnot be eternal for how could welove it if it were so?”

I could not follow all of whatMisk was saying, and I found ithard to take my eyes from the inertfigure of the young male Priest-Kingwhich lay on the stone table.

“There must be a new Nest,” saidMisk. “And there must be a newMother, and there must be the newFirst Born. I myself am willing todie but the race of Priest-Kingsmust not die.”

“Would Sarm have this malekilled if he knew he were here?” Iasked.

“Yes,” said Misk.“Why?” I asked.“He does not wish to pass,” said

Misk simply.I puzzled on the machine in the

room, the wiring that seemed tofeed into the young Priest-King’sbody at eight points. “What are you

doing to him?” I asked.“I am teaching him,” said Misk.“I don’t understand,” I said.“What you know – even a

creature such as yourself-” saidMisk, “depends on the charges andmicrostates of your neural tissue,and, customarily, you obtain thesecharges and microstates in theprocess of register1ing andassimilating sensory stimuli fromyour environment, as for examplewhen you directly experiencesomething, or perhaps as when youare given information by others oryou peruse a scent-tape. Thisdevice you see then is merely a

contrivance for producing thesecharges and microstates without thenecessity for the time-consumingexternal stimulation.”

My torch lifted, I regarded withawe the inert body of the youngPriest-King on the stone table.

I watched the tiny flashes of light,the rapid, efficient placement ofdisks and their almost immediatewithdrawal.

The instrumentation and thepaneling of the room seemed toloom about me.

I considered the impulses thatmust be transmitted by those eightwires into the body of the creature

that lay before us.“Then you are literally altering

his brain,” I whispered.“He is a Priest-King,” said Misk,

“and has eight brains, modificationsof the ganglionic net, whereas acreature such as yourself, limited byvertebrae, is likely to develop onlyone brain.”

“It is very strange to me,” I said.“Of course,” said Misk, “for the

lower orders instruct their youngdifferently, accomplishing only aninfinitesimal fraction of this in alifetime of study.”

“Who decides what he learns?” Iasked.

“Customarily,” said Misk, “themnemonic plates are standardisedby the Keepers of the Tradition,chief of whom is Sarm.” Miskstraightened and his antennae curleda bit. “As you might suppose Icould not obtain a set ofstandardised plates and so I haveinscribed my own, using my ownjudgement.”

“I don’t like the idea of alteringits brain,” I said.

“Brains,” said Misk.“I don’t like it,” I said.“Do not be foolish,” said Misk.

His antennae curled. “All creatureswho instruct their young alter their

brains. How else could learningtake place? This device is merely acomparatively considerate, swiftand efficient means to an end that isuniversally regarded as desirableby rational creatures.”

“I am uneasy,” I said.“I see,” said Misk, “you fear he

is becoming a kind of machine.”“Yes,” I said.“You must remember,” said

Misk, “that he is a Priest-King andthus a rational creature and that wecould not turn him into a machinewithout neutralising certain criticaland perceptive areas, withoutwhich he would no longer be a

Priest-King.”“But he would be a self-

governing machine,” I said.“We are all such machines,” said

Misk, “with fewer or a greaternumber of random elements.” Hisantennae touched me.

“We do what we must,” he said,“ane the ultimate control is never inthe mnemonic disk.”

“I do not know if these things aretrue,” I said.

“Nor do I,” said Misk. “It is adifficult and obscure matter.”

“And what do you do in themeantime?” I asked.

“Once,” said Misk, “we rejoiced

and lived, but now though weremain you1ng in body we are oldin mind, and one wonders moreoften, from time to time, on thePleasures of the Golden Beetle.”

“Do Priest-Kings believe in lifeafter death?” I asked.

“Of course,” said Misk, “forafter one dies the Nest continues.”

“No,” I said, “I mean individuallife.”

“Consciousness,” said Misk,“seems to be a function of theganglionic net.”

“I see,” I said. “And yet you sayyou are willing to, as you said,pass.”

“Of course,” said Misk. “I havelived. Now there must be others.”

I looked again at the youngPriest-King lying on the stone table.

“Will he remember learningthese things?” I asked.

“No,” said Misk, “for hisexternal sensors are now beingbypassed, but he will understandthat he has learned things in thisfashion for a mnemonic disk hasbeen inscribed to that effect.”

“What is he being taught?” Iasked.

“Basic information, as you mightexpect, pertains to language,mathematics, and the sciences, but

he is also being taught the historyand literature of Priest-Kings, Nestmores, social customs; mechanical,agricultural and husbandingprocedures, and other types ofinformation.”

“But will he continue to learnlater?”

“Of course,” said Misk, “but hewill build on a rather completeknowledge of what his ancestorshave learned in the past. No time iswasted in consciously absorbingold information, and one’s time isthus released for the discovery ofnew information. When newinformation is discovered it is also

included on mnemonic disks.”“But what if the mnemonic disks

contain some false information?” Iasked.

“Undoubtedly they do,” saidMisk, “but the disks are continuallyin the process of revision and arekept as current as possible.

Chapter SixteenTHE PLOT OF MISK

I took my eyes from the youngPriest-King and looked up at Misk.I could see the disklike eyes in thatgolden head above me and see theflicker of the blue torch on their

myriad surfaces.“I must tell you, Misk,” I said

slowly, “that I came to the Sardar toslay Priest-Kings, to take vengeancefor the destruction of my city and itspeople.”

I thought it only fair to let Miskknow that I was no ally of his, thathe should learn of my hatred forPriest-Kings and my determinationto punish them, to the extent that itlay within my abilities, for the evilwhich they had done.

“No,” said Misk. “You havecome to the Sardar to save the raceof Priest-Kings.”

I looked at him dumbfounded.

“It is for that purpose that youwere brought here,” said Misk.

“I came of my own free will!” Icried. “Because my city wasdestroyed!”

“That is why your city wasdestroyed,” said Misk, “that youwould come to the Sardar.”

I turned a1way. Tears burned inmy eyes and my body trembled.

I turned in rage on the tall, gentlecreature who stood, unmoving,behind that strange table and thatstill form of the young Priest-King.

âœf I had my sword,âI said,pointing to the youngPriestÂâ“King, ✠would kill

it!â/p>âœo, you would not,âsaid Misk,

âœnd that is why you and notanother were chosen to come to theSardar.â/p>

I rushed to the figure on the table,the torch held as though to strike it.

But I could not.âœou will not hurt it because it is

innocent,âsaid Misk. ✠knowthat.â/p>

âœow can you know that?â/p>âœecause you are of the Cabots

and we know them. For more thanfour hundred years we have knownthem, and since your birth we havewatched you.â/p>

âœou killed my father!âI cried.âœo,âsaid Misk, âœe is alive

and so are others of your city, butthey are scattered to the ends ofGor.â/p>

âœnd Talena?â/p>âœs far as we know she is still

alive,âsaid Misk, âœut we cannotscan her, or for others of Ko-ro-ba,without raising suspicion that weare solicitous for youÂâ“or arebargaining with you.â/p>

âœhy not simply bring mehere?âI challenged. âœhy destroy acity?â/p>

âœo conceal our motivation fromSarm,âsaid Misk.

✠donâ™ understand,âI said.âœccasionally on Gor we

destroy a city, selecting it by meansof a random selection device. Thisteaches the lower orders the mightof Priest-Kings and encouragesthem to keep our laws.â/p>

âœut what if the city has done nowrong?âI asked.

âœo much the better,âsaid Misk,âœor the Men below the Mountainsare then confused and fear us evenmoreÂâ“but the members of theCaste of Initiates, we have found,will produce an explanation of whythe city was destroyed. They inventone and if it seems plausible they

soon believe it. For example, weallowed them to suppose that it wasthrough some fault ofyoursÂâ“disresepct for Priest-Kings as I recallÂâ“that your citywas destroyed.â/p>

âœhy when first I came to Gor,more than seven years ago, did younot do this?âI asked.

âœt was necessary to testyou.â/p>

âœnd the siege of Ar,âI asked,âœnd the Empire of Marlenus?â/p>

âœhey provided a suitabletest,âsaid Misk. âœrom Sarmâ™point of view of course yourutilisation there was simply to

curtail the spread of the Empire ofAr, for we prefer humans to dwellin isolated communities. It is betterfor observing their variations, fromthe scientific point of view, and it issafer for us if they remain disunited,for being rational they mightdevelop a science, and beingsubrational it might be dangerousfor us and for themselves if they didso.â/p>

âœhat is the reason then for yourlimitations of their weaponry andtechnology?â/p>

âœf course,âsaid Misk, âœut wehave allowed them to develop inmany areasÂâ“in medicine, for

example, where somethingapproximating the StabilisationSerums has been independentlydeveloped.â€

âœhat is that?âI asked.âœou have surely not failed to

notice,âsaid Misk, âœhat thoughyou came to the Counter-Earth morethan seven years ago you haveundergone no significant physicalalteration in that time.â/p>

✠have noticed,âI said, âœnd Iwondered on this.â/p>

âœf course,âsaid Misk, âœheirserums are not as effective as oursand sometimes do not function, andsometimes the effect wears off after

only a few hundred years.â/p>âœhis was kind of you,âI said.âœerhaps,âsaid Misk. âœhere is

dispute on the matter.âHe peeredintently down at me. âœn thewhole,âhe said, âœe Priest-Kingsdo not interfere with the affairs ofmen. We leave them free to loveand slay one another, which seemsto be what they enjoy doingmost.â/p>

âœut the Voyages ofAcquisition?âI said.

âœe keep in touch with theearth,âsaid Misk, âœor it might, intime, become a threat to us and thenwe would have to limit it, or

destroy it or leave the solarsystem.â/p>

âœhich will you do?âI asked.âœone, I suspect,âsaid Misk.

âœccording to our calculations,which may of course be mistaken,life as you know it on the earth willdestroy itself within the nextthousand years.â/p>

I shook my head sadly.âœs I said,âwent on Misk, âœan

is subrational. Consider whatwould happen if we allowed himfree technological development onour world.â/p>

I nodded. I could see that fromthe Priest-Kingsâ™pint of view it

would be more dangerous thanhanding out automatic weapons tochimpanzees and gorillas. Man hadnot proved himself worthy of asuperior technology to the Priest-Kings. I mused that man had notproved himself worthy of such atechnology even to himself.

âœndeed,âsaid Misk, âœt waspartly because of this tendency thatwe brought man to the Counter-Earth, for he is an interestingspecies and it would be sad to us ifhe disappeared from theuniverse.â/p>

✠suppose we are to begrateful,âI said.

âœo,âsaid Misk, âœe havesimilarly brought various species tothe Counter-Earth, from otherlocations.â/p>

✠have seen few of theseâœther speciesââI said.

Misk shrugged his antennae.✠do remember,âI said, âœ

Spider in the Swamp Forests ofAr.â/p>

âœhe Spider People are a gentlerace,âsaid Misk, âœxcept thefemale at the time of mating.â/p>

âœis name was Nar,âI said,âœnd he would rather have diedthan injure a rational creature.â/p>

âœhe Spider People are

soft,âsaid Misk. âœhey are notPriest-Kings.â/p>

✠see,âI said.âœhe Voyages of

Acquisition,âsaid Misk, âœakeplace normally when we need freshmaterial from Earth, for ourpurposes.â/p>

✠was the object of one suchvoyage,âI said.

âœbviously,âsaid Misk.âœt is said below the mountains

that Priest-Kings know all thatoccurs on Gor.”

“Nonsense,” said Misk. “Butperhaps I shall show you theScanning Room someday. We have

four hundred Priest-Kings whooperate the scanners, and we areaccordingly well informed. Forexample, if there is a violation ofour weapons laws we usually,sooner or later, discover it and afterdetermining the coordinates put intoeffect the Flame DeathMechanism.”

I had once seen a man die theFlame Death, the High Initiate ofAr, on the roof of Ar’s Cylinder ofJustice. I shivered involuntarily.

“Yes,” I said simply, “sometimeI would like to see the ScanningRoom.”

“But much of our knowledge

comes from our implants,” saidMisk. “We implant humans with acontrol web and transmittingdevice. The lenses of their eyes arealtered in such a way that what theysee is registered by means oftransducers on scent-screens in thescanning room. We can also speakand act by means of them, when thecontrol web is activated in theSardar.”

“The eyes look different?” Iasked.

“Sometimes not,” said Misk,“sometimes yes.”

“Was the creature Parp soimplanted?” I asked, remembering

his eyes.“Yes,” said Misk, “as was the

man from Ar whom you met on theroad long ago near Ko-ro-ba.”

“But he threw off the controlweb,” I said, “and spoke as hewished.”

“Perhaps the webbing wasfaulty,” said Misk.

“But if it was not?” I asked.“Then he was most remarkable,”

said Misk. “Most remarkable.”“You spoke of knowing the

Cabots for four hundred years,” Isaid.

“Yes,” said Misk, “and yourfather, who is a brave and noble

man, has served us upon occasion,though he dealt only, unknowingly,with Implanted Ones. He first cameto Gor more than six hundred yearsago.”

“Impossible!” I cried.“Not with the stabilisation

serums,” remarked Misk.I was shaken by this information.

I was sweating. The torch seemedto tremble in my hand.

“I have been working againstSarm and the others for millennia,”said Misk, “and at last – more thanthree hundred years ago – Imanaged to obtain the egg fromwhich this male emerged.” Misk

looked down at the young Priest-King on the stone table. “I then, bymeans of an Implanted Agent,unconscious of the message beingread through him, instructed yourfather to write the letter which youfound in the mountains of yournative world.”

My head was spinning.“But I was not even born then!” I

exclaimed.“Your father was instructed to

call you Tarl, and lest he mightspeak to you of the Counter-Earth orattempt to dissuade you from ourpurpose, he was returned to Gorbefore you were of an age to

understand.”“I thought he deserted my

mother,” I said.“She knew,” said Misk, “for

though she was a woman of Earthshe had been to Gor.”

“Never did she speak to me ofthese things,” I said.

“Matthew Cabot on Gor,” saidMisk, “was a hostage for h1ersilence.”

“My mother,” I said, “died whenI was very young …”

“Yes,” said Misk, “because of apetty bacillus in your contaminatedatmosphere, a victim to theinadequacies of your infantile

bacteriology.”I was silent. My eyes smarted, I

suppose, from some heat or fume ofthe Mul-Torch.

“It was difficult to foresee,” saidMisk. “I am truly sorry.”

“Yes,” I said. I shook my headand wiped my eyes. I still held thememory of the lonely, beautifulwoman whom I had known sobriefly in my childhood, who inthose short years had so loved me.Inwardly I cursed the Mul-Torchthat had brought tears to the eyes ofa Warrior of Ko-ro-ba.

“Why did she not remain onGor?” I asked.

“It frightened her,” said Misk,“and your father asked that she beallowed to return to Earth, forloving her he wished her to behappy and also perhaps he wantedyou to know something of his oldworld.”

“But I found the letter in themountains, where I had made campby accident,” I said.

“When it was clear where youwould camp the letter was placedthere,” said Misk.

“Then it did not lie there formore than three hundred years?”

“Of course not,” said Misk, “therisk of discovery would have been

too great.”“The letter itself was destroyed,

and nearly took me with it,” I said.“You were warned to discard the

letter,” said Misk. “It was saturatedwith Flame Lock, and itscombustion index was set fortwenty Ehn following opening.”

“When I opened the letter it waslike switching on a bomb,” I said.

“You were warned to discard theletter,” said Misk.

“And the compass needle?” Iasked, remembering its erraticbehavious which had so unnervedme.

“It is a simple matter,” said

Misk, “to disrupt a magnetic field.”“But I returned to the same place

I had fled from,” I said.“The frightened human, when

fleeing and disoriented, tends tocircle,” said Misk. “But it wouldnot have mattere, I could havepicked you up had you not returned.I think that you may have sensedthere was no escape and thus,perhaps as an act of pride, returnedto the scene of the letter.”

“I was simply frightened,” I said.“No one is ever simply

frightened,” said Misk.“When I entered the ship I fell

unconscious,” I said.

“You were anaesthetised,” saidMisk.

“Was the ship operated from theSardar?” I asked.

“It could have been,” said Misk,“but I could not risk that.”

“Then it was manned,” I said.“Yes,” said Misk.I looked at him.“Yes,” said Misk. “It was I who

manned it.” He looked down at me.“Now it is late, past the sleepingtime. You are tired.”

I sh1ook my head. “There islittle,” I said, “which was left tochance.”

“Chance does nbot exist,” said

Misk, “ignorance exists.”“You cannot know that,” I said.“No,” said Misk, “I cannot know

it.” The tips of Misk’s antennaegently dipped towards me. “Youmust rest now,” he said.

“No,” I said. “Was the fact that Iwas placed in the chamber of thegirl Vika of Treve considered?”

“Sarm suspects,” said Misk, “andit was he who arranged yourquarters, in order that you mightsuccumb to her charms, that shemight enthrall you, that she mightbend you helplessly, pliantly to herwill and whim as she had a hundredmen before you, turning them –

brave, proud warriors all – into theslaves of a slave, into the slaves ofa mere girl, herself only a slave.”

“Can this be true?” I asked.“A hundred men,” said Misk,

“allowed themselves to be chainedto the foot of her couch where shewould upon occasion, that theymight not die, cast them scraps offood as though they might have beenpet sleen.”

My old hatred of Vika now beganonce again to enfuse my blood, andmy hands ached to grip her andshake her until her bones mightbreak and then throw her to my feet.

“What became of them?” I asked.

“They were used as Muls,” saidMisk.

My fists clenched.“I am glad that such a creature,”

said Misk, “is not of my species.”“I am sorry,” I said, “that she is

of mine.”“When you broke the

surveillance device in thechamber,” said Misk, “I felt I had toact quickly.”

I laughed. “Then,” I said, “youactually thought you were savingme?”

“I did,” said Misk.“I wonder,” I said.“At any rate,” said Misk, “it was

not a risk we cared to take.”“You speak of ”we”?”“Yes,” said Misk.“And who is the other?” I asked.“The greatest in the Nest,” said

Misk.“The Mother?”“Of course.”Misk touched me lightly on the

shoulder with his antennae. “Comenow,” he said. “Let us return to thechamber above.”

“Why,” I asked, “was I returnedto Earth after the siege of Ar?”

“To fill you with hatred forPriest-Kings,” said Misk. “Thusyou would be more willing to come

to the Sardar to find us.”“But why seven years?” I asked.

They had been long, cruel, lonelyyears.

“We were waiting,” said Misk.“But for what?” I demanded.“For there to be a female egg,”

said Misk.“Is there now such an egg?”“Yes,” said Misk, “but I do not

know where it is.”“Then who knows?” I asked.“The Mother,” said Misk.“But what have I to do with all

this?” I demanded.“You are not of the Nest,” said

Misk, “and thus you can do what is

necessary.”“What is necessary?” I asked.“Sarm must die,” said Misk.“I have no wish to kill Sarm,” I

said.“Very well,” said Misk.I puzzled on the many things

which Misk had told me, and then Ilooked up at him, lifting my torchthat I might better see that greathead with its rich, disklike,luminous eyes.

“Why is this one egg soimportant?” I asked. “You have thestabilisation serums. Surely therewill be many eggs, and others willbe female.”

“It is the last egg,” said Misk.“Why is that?” I demanded.“The Mother was hatched and

flew her Nuptial Flight long beforethe discovery of the stabilisationserums,” said Misk.

“We have managed to retard heraging considerably but eon by eon ithas been apparent that our effortshave been less and less successful,and now there are no more eggs.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.“The Mother is dying,” said

Misk.I was silent and Misk did not

speak and the only noise in thatpaneled metallic laboratory that

was the cradle of a Priest-King wasthe soft crackle of the blue torch Iheld.

“Yes,” said Misk, “it is the endof the Nest.”

I shook my head. “This is nobusiness of mine,” I said.

“That is true,” said Misk.We faced one another. “Well,” I

said, “are you not going to threatenme?”

“No,” said Misk.“Are you not going to hunt down

my father or my Free Companionand kill them if I do not serve you?”

“No,” said Misk. “No.”“Why not?” I demanded. “Are

you not a Priest-King?”“Because I am a Priest-King,”

said Misk.I was thunderstruck.“All Priest-Kings are not as

Sarm,” said Misk. He looked downat me. “Come,” he said, “it is lateand you will be tired. Let us retireto the chamber above.”

Misk left the room and I, bearingthe torch, followed him.

Chapter SeventeenTHE SCANNING ROOM

Though the moss in the case wassoft I had great difficulty in fallingasleep that night, for I could not ridmy mind of the turbulence whichhad been occasioned in it by thedisclosures of Misk, the Priest-King. I could not forget the plot ofMisk, the threat which loomed overthe Nest of Priest-Kings. In feveredsleep it seemed I saw Sarm’s greathead with its powerful, laterallymoving jaws hovering over me, thatI he1ard the cry of larls and saw theburning pupils of Parp’s eyes andhis reaching toward me withinstruments and a golden net, and Ifound myself chained to the foot of

Vika’s couch and heard her laughand I cried aloud and shouted andsat up on the moss startled.

“You are awake,” said a voiceon a translator.

“I rubbed my eyes and stood up,and through the transparent plasticof the case I saw a Priest-King. Islid the door open and stepped intothe room.

“Greeetings, Noble Sarm,” Isaid.

“Greetings, Matok,” said Sarm.“Where is Misk?” I asked.“He has duties elsewhere,” said

Sarm.“What are you doing here?” I

asked.“It is near the Feast of Tola,”

said Sarm, “and it is a time ofpleasure and hospitality in the Nestof Priest-Kings, a time in whichPriest-Kings are well disposed toall living things, whatever be theirorder.”

“I am pleased to hear this,” Isaid. “What are the duties of Miskwhich keep him from his chamber?”

“In honour of the Feast of Tola,”said Sarm, “he is now pleased toretain Gur.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.Sarm looked about himself. “It is

a beautiful compartment which

Misk has here,” he said, examiningthe visually bare walls with hisantennae, admiring the scent-patterns which had been placed onthem.

“What do you want?” I asked.“I want to be your friend,” said

Sarm.I made no move but I was

startled to hear the Goreanexpression for “friend” emanatefrom Sarm’s translator. I knew therewas no expression in the languageof the Priest – Kings which was asatisfactory equivalent for theexpression.

I had tried to find it on the

translator and lexical tapes whichMisk had placed at my disposal.Literally what hearing theexpression from Sarm meant wasthat he had had the item speciallyentered into his translator tapes andcorrelated with a random odour,much as if we had decided to inventa name to stand for some novelrelation or object. I wondered ifSarm had much idea of the meaningof the expression “friend” or if itwere merely used because hecalculated that it would produce afavourable impression on me. Hemight have asked Mul TranslatorEngineers for such an expression

and an explanation of it, and Isupposed they might have given himthe expression “friend” andexplained it for him, more or lessadequately, in terms of the normalconsequences of the relationdesignated, such things as tending tobe well disposed toward one,tending to want to do well by one,and so on. The occurrence of theexpression on Sarm’s translatortape, simple as it was, indicatedthat he had gone to a good deal oftrouble, and that the matter, forsome reason, was rather importantto him. I did not, however, betraymy surprise and acted as though I

did not know that the expressionwas a new addition to the Goreanlexicon on his tapes.

“I am honoured,” I said simply.Sarm looked at the case. “You

were of the Caste of Warriors,” hesaid. “Perhaps you would like to begiven a female Mul?”

“No,” I said.“You may have more than oe if

you wish,” said Sarm.“Sarm is generous,” I said, “but I

decline his kind offer.”“Perhaps you would like a

supply of scarce metals andstones?”

“No,” I said.

“Perhaps you would like to bethe Mul-supervisor of a warehouseor fungus farm?”

“No,” I said.“What would you like?” asked

Sarm.“My freedom,” I said, “the

restoration of the City of Ko-ro –ba, the safety of ite people – to seemy father again, my friends, myFree Companion.”

“Perhaps these things can bearranged,” said Sarm.

“What must I do?” I asked.“Tell me why you have been

brought to the Nest,” said Sarm, andsuddenly his antennae snapped

downward towards me like whips,and now rigid, they seemed to betrained on me, as though they mightbe weapons.

“I have no idea,” I said.The antennae quivered briefly in

anger and the bladelike structures atthe tips of Sarm’s forelegs snappedout and back, but then the antennaerelaxed and once again the fourhooklike grasping appendages at thetermination of each foreleg lightly,almost meditatively, touched oneanother. “I see,” came from Sarm’stranslator.

“Would you care for a bit offungus?” I asked.

“Misk has had time to speak toyou,” said Sarm. “What did hesay?”

“There is Nest Trust betweenus,” I said.

“Nest Trust with a human?”asked Sarm.

“Yes,” I said.“An interesting concept,” said

Sarm.“You will excuse me if I wash?”

I asked.“Of course,” said Sarm, “please

do.”I stayed a long time in the

washing-booth and when I came outand donned my plastic tunic it took

quite some time to make the Mul-Fungus Porridge of just theconsistency at which I preferred it,and then, since I had finallymanaged to make it the way inwhich it was least unpalatable, Itook some time to, as one might say,almost enjoy it.

If these tactics were calculated tohave some effect on Sarm I thinkthey most miserably failed of thateffect, for during the entire time Itook, which was considerable, hestood motionless in the room, savefor an occasional movement of hisantennae, frozen in that maddening,immobile but alert posture of

Priest-Kings.At last I emerged from the case.“I want to be your friend,” said

Sarm.I was silent.“Perhaps you would like to see

the Nest?” asked Sarm.“Yes,” I said, “I would enjoy

that.”“Good,” said Sarm.

* * *

I did not ask to see the Mother,for I knew that was forbidden tothose of the human kind, but I foundSarm a most attentive and gracious

guide, quick to answer my questionsand suggest places of interest. Partof the time we rode on atransportation disk, and he showedme how to operate it. The diskflows on a tread of volat1ile gasand is itself lightened by itsconstruction from a partiallygravitationally resistant metal, ofwhich I shall speak later. Its speedis controlled by the placement ofthe feet along double acceleratorstrips which lie flush with thesurface of the disk; its direction iscontrolled by the rider who bendsand turns his body, therebytransmitting force to the lightly

riding disk, the principles involvedbeing no more unusual than thoseemployed in such homely devicesas roller skates or the nowvanishing skate boards oncepopular with Earth children. Onestops the disk by stepping off theaccelerator strips, which brings thedisk to a smooth halt depending onthe area available for braking.There is a cell in the forwardportion of the disk which casts aninvisible beam ahead and if the areafor stopping is small, the stop isaccordingly more abrupt. This cell,however, does not function is theaccelerator strips are depressed. I

would have thought that some typeof cells for avoiding collisionswhen the accelerator strips aredepressed might have been usefulor that a bumper of gas, or a field ofsome sort, might have beenpractical improvements but Sarmfelt that such refinements would beexcessive. “No one is ever injuredby a transportation disk,” he toldme, “except an occasional Mul.”

At my request Sarm took me tothe Scanning Room, whence thesurface of Gor is kept underselective surveillance by the Priest-Kings.

Patterns of small ships, not

satellites, invisible from the groundand remotely controlled, carry thelenses and receptors which beaminformation to the Sardar. Isuggested to Sarm that satelliteswould be less expensive tomaintain in flight but he denied this.I would not have made thissuggestion at a later time but then Idid not understand the Priest-Kings’utilisation of gravity.

“The reason for observationwithin the atmosphere,” said Sarm,“is that it is simpler to get moredefinition in the signal because ofgreater proximity to its source. Toget comparable definition in an

extra-atmospheric surveillancedevice would require more refinedequipment.”

The receptors on the surveillancecraft were equipped to handlepatterns of light, sound and scent,which, selectively collected andreconcentrated, were beamed to theSardar for processing and analysis.Reconstituted in large observationcubes these patterns might then bemonitored by Priest-Kings.

Provisions were available also,as you might suppose, for taping thetransmissions of the surveillancecraft.

“We use random scanning

patterns,” said Sarm, “for we findin the long run, over centuries, theyare more effective than followingfixed scanning schedules. Ofcourse, if we know that somethingof interest or importance to us isoccurring we lock onto itscoordinates and follow itsdevelopments.”

“Did you make a tape,” I asked,“of the destruction of the City ofKo-ro-ba?”

“No,” said Sarm, “it was not ofsufficient interest or importance tous.”

My fists clenched, and I notedthat Sarm’s antennae curled slightly.

“I once saw a man die the FlameDeath,” I said. “Is that mechanismalso in this room?”

“Yes,” said Sarm, indicatingwith one foreleg a quiet-lookingmetal cabinet to one sidepossessing several dials and knobs.

“The projection points for theFlame Death are located in thesurveillance craft,” said Sarm, “butthe coordinates are fixed and thefiring signal is relayed from thisroom. The system is synchronised,or cours1e, with the scanningapparatus and may be activatedfrom any of the control panels at theobservation cubes.”

“Of course,” I said.I looked about the room. It was

an exceedingly long chamber andbuilt on four levels, almost likesteps. Along each of these levels,spaced a few feet from one another,were the observation cubes, whichresembled cubes of transparentglass, and were approximatelysixteen feet square. I was told bySarm that there were four hundredsuch cubes in the room, andmonitoring each, I could see aPriest-King, tall, alert, unmoving. Iwalked along one of the levels,gazing into the cubes. Most of themwere simply filled with the passing

scenery of Gor; once I saw a city,but what city it was I could not tell.

“This might interest you,” saidSarm, indicating one of theobservation cubes.

I regarded the cube.The angle from which the lens

was functioning was unlike that ofmost of the other cubes. The lenswas apparently parallel to ratherthan above the scene.

It was merely a scene of a road,bordered by some trees, whichseemed to slowly approach the lensand then pass behind it.

“You are seeing through the eyesof an Implanted One,” said Sarm.

I gasped.Sarm’s antennae curled. “Yes,”

he said, “the pupils of his eyes havebeen replaced with lenses and acontrol net and transmitting devicehave been fused with his braintissue. He himself is nowunconscious for the control net isactivated. Later we will allow himto rest, and he will see and hear andthink again for himself.”

The thought of Parp crossed mymind.

Once again I looked into theobservation cube.

I wondered of the man throughwhose eyes I was now seeing, who

he was, what he had been, thatunknown Implanted One who nowwalked some lonely roadsomewhere on Gor, a device ofPriest-Kings.

“Surely,” I said bitterly, “with allthe knowledge and power of Priest-Kings you could build somethingmechanical, a robot, which mightresemble a man and do this workfor you.”

“Of course,” said Sarm, “butsuch an instrument, if it were to be agenuinely satisfactory substitute foran Implanted One, would have to beextremely complex – considerprovisions for the self-repair of

damaged tissue alone – and thus, inthe end, would itself have toapproximate a humanoid organism.Accordingly with humansthemselves so plentiful theconstruction of such a device wouldbe nothing but an irrational misuseof our resources.”

Once again I looked into theobservation cube, and wonderedabout that unknown man, or whathad been a man, through whose eyesI now looked. I, in the very Nest ofPriest-Kings, was more free than hewho walked the stones of someroad in the bright sun, somewherebeyond the palisade, far from the

mountains of Priest-Kings yet stillin the shadow of the Sardar.

“Can he disobey you?” I asked.“Sometimes there is a struggle to

resist the net or regainconsciousness,” said Sarm.

“Could a man so resist you thathe could throw off the power of thenet?”

“I doubt it,” said Sarm, “unlessthe net were faulty.”

“If it could be done,” I said,“what would you do?”

“It is a simple matter,” saidSarm, “to overload the net’s powercapacity.”

“You would kill the man?”

“It is only a human,” said Sarm.“Is this what was done once on

the road to Ko-ro-ba, to a man fromAr, who spoke to me in the name ofPriest-Kings?”

“Of course,” said Sarm.“His net was faulty?” I asked.“I suppose so,” said Sarm.“You are a murderer,” I said.“No,” said Sarm, “I am a Priest-

King.”

* * *

Sarm and I passed further ondown one of the long levels,looking into one or another of the

observation cubes.Suddenly one of the cubes we

passed locked onto a given sceneand no more did the scenery movepast me as though in a three-dimensional screen. Rather themagnification was suddenlyincreased and the air becamesuddenly filled with more intenseodours.

On a green field somewhere, Ihad no idea where, a man in thegarments of the Caste of Builders,emerged from what was apparentlyan underground cave. He lookedfurtively about himself as though hefeared he might be observed. Then,

satisfied that he was alone, hereturned to the cave and emergedonce more carrying what resembleda hollow pipe. From a hole in thetop of this pipe there protrudedwhat resembled the wick of a lamp.

The man from the Caste ofBuilders then sat cross-legged onthe ground and took from the pouchslung at his waist a tiny, cylindricalGorean fire-maker, a smallsilverish tube commonly used forigniting cooking fires. Heunscrewed the cap and I could seethe tip of the implement, as it wasexposed to the air, begin to glow afiery red. He touched the fire-maker

to the wicklike projection in thehollow tube and, screwing the fire-maker shut, replaced it in his pouch.The wick burned slowly downwardtoward the hole in the pipe. When itwas almost there the man stood upand holding the pipe in both handstrained it at a nearby rock. Therewas a sudden flash of fire and acrack of sound from the hollow tubeas some projectile hurtled through itand shattered against the rock. Theface of the rock was blackened andsome stone chipped from itssurface. The quarrel of a crossbowwould have done more damage.

“Forbidden weapon,” said Sarm.

The Priest-King monitoring theobservation cube touched a knob onhis control panel.

“Stop!” I cried.Before my horrified eyes in the

observation cube the man seemedsuddenly to vaporise in a suddenblasting flash of blue fire. The manhad disappeared. Another briefincandescent flash destroyed theprimitive tube he had carried. Thenonce again, aside from theblackened grass and stone, thescene was peaceful. A small,curious bird darted to the top of thestone, and then hopped from it to theblackened grass to hunt for grubs.

“You killed that man,” I said.“He may have been carrying on

forbidden experiments for years,”said Sarm. “We were fortunate tocatch him. Sometimes we must waituntil others are using the device forpurposes of war and then destroymany men. It is better this way,more economical of material.”

“But you killed him,” I said.“Of course,” said Sarm, “he

broke the law of Priest-Kings.”“What right have you to make the

law for him?” I asked.“The right of a higher-order

organism to control a lower – orderorganism,” said Sarm. “The same

right you have to slaughter the boskand the tabuk, to feed on the flesh ofthe tarsk.”

“But those are not rationalanimals,” I said.

“They are sentient,” said Sarm.“We kill them swiftly,” I said.Sarm’s antennae curled. “And so

too do we Priest-Kings commonlykill swiftly and yet you complain ofour doing so.”

“We need food,” I said.“You could eat fungus and other

vegetables,” said Sarm.I was silent.

Chapter Eighteen

I SPEAK WITH SARM

In the next days, when I couldescape from the attentions of Sarm,on occasions when he wasundoubtedly drawn elsewhere byhis numerous duties andresponsibilities, I searched the Nestby myself, on a transportation diskfurnished by Sarm, looking forMisk, but I found no trace of him. Iknew only that he had been, as Sarmhad put it, pleased to retain Gur.

No one to whom I spoke,principally Muls, would explain themeaning of this to me. I gatheredthat the Muls to whom I spoke, who

seemed well enough disposedtowards me, simply did not knowwhat was meant, in spite of the factthat several of them had been bredin the Nest, in the breeding caseslocated in certain special vivariaset aside for the purpose. I evenapproached Priest-Kings on thissubject and they, since I was aMatok and not a Mul, gave me oftheir attention, but politely refusedto furnish me with the information Isought.

“It has to do with the Feast ofTola,” they said, “and is not theconcern of humans.”

Sometimes on these excursions

Mul-Al-Ka and Mul-Ba-Ta wouldaccompany me. On the first timethey accompanied me I obtained amarking stick, used by Mul clerks invarious commissaries andwarehouses, and inscribed theirappropriate letters on the leftshoulders of their plastic tunics.Now I could tell them apart. Thevisual mark was plain to humaneyes but it would not be likely to benoticed by Priest – Kings, any morethan a small, insignificant sound islikely to be noticed by a human whois not listening for it and isattending to other things.

One afternoon, as I judged by the

feeding times, for the energy bulbsalways keep the Nest of Priest-Kings at a constant level ofillumination, Mul-Al-Ka and Mul-Ba-Ta and I were swiftly passingthrough one tunnel on mytransportation disk.

“It is pleasant to ride thusly,Cabot,” said Mul-Al-Ka.

“Yes, it is pleasant,” agreedMul-Ba-Ta.

“You speak much alike,” I said.“We are much alike,” pointed out

Mul-Al-Ka.“Are you the Muls of the

biologist Kusk?” I asked.“No,” said Mul-Al-Ka, “we

were given by Kusk to Sarm as agift.”

I stiffened on the transportationdisk and it ne1arly ran into the wallof the tunnel.

A startled Mul had leaped backagainst the wall. Looking back Icould see him shaking his fist andshouting with rage.

I smiled. I gathered he had notbeen bred in the Nest.

“Then,” I said to the Muls whorode with me, “you are spying onme for Sarm.”

“Yes,” said Mul-Al-Ka.“It is our duty,” said Mul-Ba-Ta.“But,” said Mul-Al-Ka, “should

you wish to do something whichSarm will not know of, simply letus know and we will avert oureyes.”

“Yes,” said Mul-Ba-Ta, “or stopthe disk and we will get off andwait for you. You can pick us up onyour way back.”

“That sounds fair enough,” I said.“Good,” said Mul-Al-Ka.“Is it human to be fair?” asked

Mul-Ba-Ta.“Sometimes,” I said.“Good,” said Mul-Al-Ka.“Yes,” said Mul-Ba-Ta, “we

wish to be human.”“Perhaps you will teach us

someday how to be human?” askedMul-Al-Ka.

The transportation disk sped onand none of us spoke for some time.

“I am not sure I know howmyself,” I said.

“It must be very hard,” said Mul-Al-Ka.

“Yes,” I said, “it is very hard.”“Must a Priest-King learn to be a

Priest-King?” asked Mul-Ba – Ta.“Yes,” I said.“That must be even more

difficult,” said Mul-Al-Ka.“Probably,” I said, “I don’t

know.”I swung the transportation disk in

a graceful arc to one side of thetunnel to avoid running into acrablike organism covered withoverlapping plating and then swungthe disk back in another sweepingarc to avoid slicing into a stalkingPriest-King who lifted his antennaequizzically as we shot past.

“The one who was not a Priest-King,” quickly said Mul-Al-Ka,“was a Matok and is called a Toosand lives on discarded fungusspores.”

“We know you are interested inthings like that,” said Mul – Ba-Ta.

“Yes, I am,” I said. “Thank you.”“You are welcome,” said Mul-

Al-Ka.“Yes,” said Mul-Ba-Ta.For a while we rode on in

silence.“But you will teach us about

being human, will you not?” askedMul-Al-Ka.

“I do not know a great deal aboutit,” I said.

“But more than we, surely,” saidMul-Ba-Ta.

I shrugged.The disk flowed on down the

tunnel.I was wondering if a certain

maneuvre was possible.“Watch this!” I said, and turning

my body I swung the transportationdisk in a sudden, abrupt completecircle and continued on in the samedi1rection we had been traveling.

All of us nearly lost out footing.“Marvelous,” cried Mul-Al-Ka.“You are very skilled,” said

Mul-Ba-Ta.“I have never seen even a Priest-

King do that,” said Mul-Al – Kawith something of awe in his voice.

I had been wondering if such aturn was possible with atransportation disk and I was ratherpleased with myself that I hadaccomplished it. The fact that I hadnearly thrown myself and my two

passengers off the disk at highspeed onto the flooring of the tunneldid not occur to me at the time.

“Would you like to try guidingthe transportation disk?” I asked.

“Yes!” said Mul-Al-Ka.“Yes,” said Mul-Ba-Ta, “we

would like that very much!”“But first,” asked Mul-Al-Ka,

“will you not show us how to behuman?”

“Why, how foolish you are!”scolded Mul-Ba-Ta. “He is alreadyshowing us.”

“I don’t understand,” said Mul-Al-Ka.

“Then you are probably not the

one who was synthesised,” saidMul-Ba-Ta.

“Perhaps not,” said Mul-Al-Ka,“but I still do not understand.”

“Do you think,” said Mul-Ba-Taloftily, “that a Priest-King wouldhave done so foolish a thing with atransportation disk?”

“No,” said Mul-Al-Ka, his facebeaming.

“You see,” said Mul-Ba-Ta. “Heis teaching us to be human.”

I reddened.“Teach us more about these

things,” said Mul-Al-Ka.“I told you,” I said, “I don’t

know much about it.”

“If you should learn, inform us,”said Mul-Al-Ka.

“Yes, do,” said Mul-Ba-Ta.“Very well,” I said.“That is fair enough,” said Mul-

Al-Ka.“Yes,” said Mul-Ba-Ta.“In the meantime,” said Mul-Al-

Ka, gazing with unconcealedfascination at the accelerator stripsin the transportation disk, “let usconcentrate on the matter of thetransportation disk.”

“Yes,” said Mul-Ba-Ta, “thatwill be quite enough for us for now– Tarl Cabot.”

* * *

I did not object to the time I spentwith Sarm, however, for he taughtme far more of the Nest in a muchshorter time than would haveotherwise been possible. With himat my side I had access to manyareas which would otherwise havebeen closed to a human.

One of the latter was the powersource of the Priest-Kings, the greatplant wherein the basic energy isgenerated for their many works andmachines.

“Sometimes this is spoken of asthe Home Stone of all Gor,” said

Sarm, as we walked the long,winding, iron spiral that clung to theside of a vast, transparent bluedome. Within that dome, burningand glowing, emitting a bluish,combustive refulgence, was a huge,crystalline reticulated hemisphere.

“Th1e analogy, of course,” saidSarm, “is incorrect for there is noHome Stone as such in the Nest ofPriest-Kings, the Home Stone beinga barbarous artifact generallycommon to the cities and homes ofGorean humans.”

I was somewhat annoyed to findthe Home Stones, taken so seriouslyin the cities of Gor that a man might

be slain if he did not rise whenspeaking of the Home Stone of hiscity, so airily dismissed by the loftySarm.

“You find it hard to understandthe love of a man for his HomeStone,” I said.

“A cultural oddity,” said Sarm,“which I understand perfectly butfind slightly preposterous.”

“You have nothing like the HomeStone in the Nest?” I asked.

“Of course not,” said Sarm. Inoticed an involuntary, almostspasmlike twitch of the tips of theforelegs, but the bladed projectionsdid not emerge.

“There is of course the Mother,”I said innocently.

Sarm stopped on the narrow ironrailing circling the huge, glassy bluedome and straightened himself andturned to face me. With one brush ofa foreleg he might have sent mehurtling to my death some hundredsof feet below. Briefly the antennaeflattened themselves on his headand the bladelike projectionssnapped into view, and then theantennae raised and the bladelikeprojections disappeared.

“That is very different,” saidSarm.

“Yes, it is different,” I said.

Sarm regarded me for a momentand then turned and continued tolead the way.

At last we had reached the veryapex of the great blue dome and Icould see the glowing, bluish,refulgent, reticulated hemisphere farbelow me.

Surrounding the bluish dome, in agreater concentric dome of stone Isaw walkway upon walkway ofpaneling and instrumentation. Hereand there Priest-Kings movedlightly about, occasionally notingthe movements of scent-needles,sometimes delicately adjusting adial with the nimble, hooklike

appendages at the tips of theirforelegs.

I supposed the dome to be areactor of some sort.

I looked down through the domebeneath us. “So this is the source ofthe Priest-Kings’ power,” I said.

“No,” said Sarm.I looked up at him.He moved his forelegs in a

strange parallel pattern, touchinghimself with each leg at threeplaces on the thorax and one behindthe eyes. “Here,” he said, “is thetrue source of our power.”

I then realised that he hadtouched himself at the points of

entry taken by the wires which hadbeen infixed in the young Priest-King’s body on the stone table inthe secret compartment belowMisk’s chamber. Sarm had pointedto his eight brains.

“Yes,” I said, “you are right.”Sarm regarded me. “You know

then of the modifications of theganglionic net?”

“Yes,” I said, “Misk told me.”“It is well,” said Sarm. “I want

you to learn of Priest – Kings.”“In the past days,” I said, “you

have taught me much, and I amgrateful.”

Sarm, standing on that high

platform with me, over the bluishdome, o1ver the refulgent powersource so far below, lifted hisantennae and turned, sweeping themover this vast, intricate, beautiful,formidable domain.

“Yet,” said Sarm, “there arethose who would destroy all this.”

I wondered if hurling my weightagainst Sarm I might have tumbledhim from that platform to his deathfar below.

“I know why you were brought tothe Nest,” said Sarm.

“Then you know more than I do,”I said.

“You were brought here to kill

me,” said Sarm, looking down.I started.“There are those,” he said, “who

do not love the Nest, who wouldwish to see it pass.”

I said nothing.“The Nest is eternal,” said Sarm.

“It cannot die. I will not let it die.”“I don’t understand,” I said.“You understand, Tarl Cabot,”

said Sarm. “Do not lie to me.”He turned to me and the antennae

lowered themselves toward me, theslender, golden hairs on theantennae slightly oscillating. “Youwould not wish to see this beautyand this power pass from our

common world, would you?” askedSarm.

I looked about myself at theincredible complex which laybelow me. “I don’t know,” I said. “Isuppose if I were a Priest-King Iwould not wish to see it pass.”

“Precisely,” said Sarm, “and yetthere is one among us – himselfincredibly enough a Priest-King –who could betray his own kind,who would be willing to see thisglory vanish.”

“Do you know his name?” Iasked.

“Of course,” said Sarm. “We –both of us – know his name. It is

Misk.”“I know nothing of these

matters,” I said.“I see,” said Sarm. He paused.

“Misk believes that he brought youto the Nest for his own purposes,and I have allowed him to supposeso. I allowed him also to supposethat I suspected – but not that I knew– of his plot, for I had you placed inthe chamber of Vika of Treve, and itwas there he proved his guiltbeyond doubt by rushing to protectyou.”

“And had he not entered theroom?” I asked.

“The girl Vika of Treve has

never failed me,” said Sarm.My fists clenched on the railing

and bitterness choked in my throat,and the old hatred I had felt for thegirl of Treve lit once again its darkfires in my breast.

“What good would I be to youchained to her slave ring?” I asked.

“After a time, perhaps a year,”said Sarm, “when you were ready, Iwould free you on the condition thatyou would do my bidding.”

“And what would that be?” Iasked.

“Slay Misk,” said Sarm.“Why do you not slay him

yourself?” I asked.

“That would be murder,” saidSarm. “He for all his guilt andtreason is yet a Priest-King.”

“There is Nest Trust betweenmyself and Misk,” I said.

“There can be no Nest Trust1between a Priest-King and ahuman,” said Sarm.

“I see,” I said. I looked up atSarm. “And supposing I had agreedto do your bidding, what wouldhave been my reward for all this?”

“Vika of Treve,” said Sarm. “Iwould have placed her at your feetnaked and in slave chains.”

“Not so pleasant for Vika ofTreve,” I said.

“She is only a female Mul,” saidSarm.

I thought of Vika and of thehatred I bore her.

“Do you still wish me to slayMisk?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Sarm. “It was forthat purpose I brought you to theNest.”

“Then give me my sword,” Isaid, “and take me to him.”

“Good,” said Sarm, and webegan to trace our way downwardaround that vast bluish globe thatsheltered the power source ofPriest-Kings.

Chapter NineteenDIE, TARL CABOT

Now once again I would have mysword in my hands and at last Iwould be able to find Misk, forwhose safety I feared.

Beyond this I had no definiteplan.

Sarm did not act as quickly as Ihad anticipated and, from the roomof the power source had simplyreturned me to Misk’s compartment,where my case was kept.

I spent an uneasy night on the

moss.Why had we not gotten on

directly with the business at hand?In the morning, after the hour of

the first feeding, Sarm enteredMisk’s compartment, where I waswaiting for him. To my surprise hishead was crowned with an aromaticwreath of green leaves, the firstthing green I had seen in the Nest,and about his neck there hung,besides the invariable translator, anecklace, perhaps of accoutrements,perhaps of pure ornaments, smallpieces of metal, some shallow androunded like tiny scoops, othersrounded and pointed, others slender

and bladed. His entire person I alsonoted was anointed with unusualand penetrating scents.

“It is the Feast of Tola – theFeast of the Nuptial Flight,” saidSarm. “It is fitting that your workshould be done today.”

I regarded him.“Are you ready?” he asked.“Yes,” I said.“Good,” said Sarm, and went to

one of the high cabinets in Misk’schamber and touching a button in acertain sequence of long and shortpresses opened it. Sarm wasapparently familiar with Misk’scompartment. I wondered if the

compartments of all Priest-Kingswere so similar, of if he hadinvestigated it at various times inthe past. I wondered if he knewabout the chamber which laybeneath my case. From the highcabinet Sarm withdrew my swordbelt, my scabbard, and the short,sharp blade of Gorean steel which Ihad earlier yielded at the request ofMisk.

The weapon felt good again inmy hand.

I calculated the distance betweenmyself and Sarm and wondered if Icould reach him and kill him beforehe could bring his jaws into play, or

those formidable blades on hisforelegs. Where would one strike aPriest-King?

To my surprise Sarm then jerkedat the door of te compartment fromwhich he had withdrawn my sword.He bent it outward and downwardand then, with one of the pieces ofmetal hanging from the necklace athis throat he scraped at the frontedge of the door and bent it a bitoutward; following this he attackedthe interior edge of the cabinetsimilarly.

“What are you doing?” I asked.“I am making sure,” said Sarm,

“that no one will lock your sword

up again in this compartment.” Headded, as an afterthought, “I amyour friend.”

“I am indeed fortunate to havesuch a friend,” I said. It wasobvious that the compartment wasbeing fixed in such a way as tosuggest that it had been brokenopen.

“Why,” I asked, “are youadorned as you are today?”

“It is the Feast of Tola,” saidSarm, “the Feast of the NuptialFlight.”

“Where did you get greenleaves?” I asked.

“We grow them in special

chambers under lamps,” said Sarm.“They are worn on Tola by allPriest-Kings in memory of theNuptial Flight, for the NuptialFlight takes place above the groundin the sun and there on the surfacethere are many things which aregreen.”

“I see,” I said.Sarm’s foreleg touched the

metals dangling from his necklace.“These, too,” he said, “have their

significance.”“They are an ornament,” I

suggested, “in honour of the Feastof Tola.”

“More than that,” said Sarm,

“look at them closely.”I approached Sarm and regarded

the pieces of metal. Some of themreminded me of shallow scoops,others of awls, others of knives.

“They are tools,” I said.“Long ago,” said Sarm, “in Nests

long before this one, in times ofwhich you cannot conceive, it wasby means of these small things thatmy people began the journey thatled in time to Priest-Kings.”

“But what of the modifications ofthe ganglionic net?” I asked.

“These things,” said Sarm, “maybe even older than themodifications of the net. It is

possible that had it not been forthem and the changes they wroughtin an ancient form of life theremight have been no suchmodifications, for suchmodifications might then have beenof little practical utility and thus, ifthey had occurred, might not havebeen perpetuated.”

“Then it might seem,” Iproposed, somewhat maliciously,“that from one point of view,contrary to your suggestion ofyesterday, that these tiny pieces ofmetal – and not the modifications ofthe ganglionic net – are the true andultimate source of the Priest-Kings’

power.”Sarm’s antennae twitched

irritably.“We had to pick them up and use

them, and later make them,” saidSarm.

“But they may have come beforethe modifications of the net, yousaid,” I reminded him.

“The matter is obscure,” saidSarm.

“Yes, I suppose so,” I said.Sarm’s bladelike projections

snapped into view and disappearedagain.

“Ver1y well,” said Sarm, “thetrue source of the Priest-Kings’

power lies in the microparticles ofthe universe.”

“Very well,” I agreed.I was pleased to note that it was

only with genuine effort that Sarmmanaged to control himself. Hisentire body seemed to tremble withrage. He pressed the tips of hisforelegs forcibly together to preventthe spontaneous triggering of thebladed projections.

“By the way,” I asked, “howdoes one kill a Priest-King?” As Iasked this I found myselfunconsciously measuring mydistance from Sarm.

Sarm relaxed.

“It will not be easy with your tinyweapon,” he said, “but Misk willbe unable to resist you and so youmay take as much time as youwish.”

“You mean I could simplybutcher him?”

“Strike at the brain-nodes in thethorax and head,” said Sarm. “Itwill probably not take more thanhalf a hundred strokes to cutthrough.”

My heart fell.For all practical purposes it now

semed that Priest-Kings would beinvulnerable to my blade, though Isupposed I might have injured them

severely if I sliced at the sensoryhairs on the legs, at the trunkadjoining thorax and abdomen, atthe eyes and antennae if I couldreach them.

Then it occurred to me that theremust be some vital centre notmentioned by Sarm, probably acrucial organ or organs for pumpingthe body fluids of the Priest-Kings,most simply somethingcorresponding to the heart. But ofcourse he would not tell me of this,nor of its location. Rather thanreveal this information he wouldundoubtedly prefer that I hack awayat doomed Misk as though he were

a block of insensate fungus.Not only would I not do this

because of my affection for Miskbut even if I intended to kill him Isurely would not have done so inthis manner, for it is not the way atrained warrior kills. I wouldexpect to find the heart, or itscorrespondent organ or organs, inthe thorax, but then I would havesupposed that the respiratorycavities were also in the thorax andI knew that they were actually in theabdomen. I wished I had time toinvestigate certain of Misk’s scent-charts, but even if I had had thetime, I might not have found helpful

charts and, anyway, my translatorscanning them could only readlabels. It would be simpler, when Iapproached Misk with my sword inhand, to see if he would volunteerthis information. For some reason Ismiled as I considered this.

“Will you accompany me,” Iasked, “to the slaying of Misk?”

“No,” said Sarm, “for it is Tolaand I must give Gur to the Mother.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.“It is not a matter of concern for

humans,” said Sarm.“Very well,” I said.“Outside,” said Sarm, “you will

find a transportation disk and the

two Muls, Mul-Al-Ka and Mul-Ba-Ta. They will take you to Misk andlater will direct you as to thedisposal of the body.”

“I can depend on them?” I asked.“Of course,” said Sarm. “They

are loyal to me.”“And the girl?” I asked.“Vika of Treve?”“Of course.”Sarm’s antennae curled. “Mul-

Al-Ka and Mul-Ba-Ta will tell youwhere to find her.”

“Is it necessary for them toaccompany me?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Sarm, “to ensure thatyou do your work well.”

“But it will be too many whowill know of the thing,” I suggested.

“No,” said Sarm, “for I haveinstructed them to report to thedissection chambers following thecompletion of your work.”

I said nothing for a moment, butsimply looked at the Priest – Kingwho loomed above me.

“Kusk,” said Sarm, anticipatingme, “may be displeased for a time,but it cannot be helped, and he mayalways produce others if hepleases.”

“I see,” I said.“Besides,” said Sarm, “he gave

them to me and I may do with them

as I please.”“I understand,” I said.“Do not worry about Kusk,” said

Sarm.“Very well,” I said, “I shall try

not to worry about Kusk.”Sarm pranced backwards on

those long, delicate, jointed legs,clearing the passage to the door. Helifted his long, bladelike bodyalmost to the vertical.

“I wish you good fortune in thisventure,” he said. “In theaccomplishing of this matter you doa great service to the Nest and toPriest-Kings, and thereby will yougain great glory for yourself and a

life of honour and riches, the first ofwhich will be the slave girl Vika ofTreve.”

“Sarm is most generous,” I said.“Sarm is your friend,” came from

the Priest-King’s translator.As I turned to leave the chamber

I noted that the grasping appendageson Sarm’s right foreleg turned offhis translator.

He then raised the limb in whatappeared to be a magnanimous,benevolent salute, a wishing of mewell in my venture.

I lifted my right arm somewhatironically to return the gesture.

To my nostrils, now alert to the

signals of Priest-Kings and trainedby my practice with the translatorMisk had allowed me to use, therecame a single brief odour, thecomponents of which I had littledifficulty in discriminating. It was avery simple message and was ofcourse not carried by Sarm’stranslator. It was: “Die, TarlCabot.”

I smiled to myself and left thechamber.

Chapter TwentyCOLLAR 708

Outside I encountered Mul-Al-Ka and Mul-Ba-Ta.

Although they stood on atransportation disk and this wouldcustomarily have been enough todelight both of them, today, and forgood reason as I recognised, neitherof them looked particularly pleased.

“We are instructed,” said Mul-Al-Ka, “to take you to the Priest-King Misk, whom you are to slay.”

“We are further instructed,” saidMul-Ba-Ta, “to help you dispose ofthe body in a place of which wehave been informed.”

“We are also instructed,” said

Mul-A1l-Ka, “to express ourencouragement for you in thisfearsome undertaking and to remindyou of the honours and riches thatawait you upon its successfultermination.”

“Not the least of which, we arerequested to point out,” said Mul-Ba-Ta, “is the enjoyment of thefemale Mul Vika of Treve.”

I smiled and boarded thetransportation disk.

Mul-Al-Ka and Mul-Ba-Ta tookup positions in front of me, butstanding with their backs to me. Itwould have been easy to fling bothof them from the disk. Mul-Al-Ka

stepped on the accelerator stripsand guided the disk from thevicinity of Misk’s portal and outinto the broad, smooth thoroughfareof the tunnel. The disk flowedsilently down the tunnel on its widegaseous tread. The air of the tunnelmoved against us and the portals wepassed slid behind in a soft blur.

“It seems to me,” I said, “youhave well discharged yourinstructions.” I clapped them on theshoulders. “Now tell me what youreally wish.”

“I wish that we could, TarlCabot,” said Mul-Al-Ka.

“But undoubtedly it would be

improper,” said Mul-Ba-Ta.“Oh,” I said.We rode on for a while more.“You will note,” said Mul-Al-

Ka, “that we are standing in such away that you might, without ourbeing able to stop you, hurl us bothfrom the transportation disk.”

“Yes,” I said, “I noted that.”“Increase the speed of the

transportation disk,” said Mul-Ba –Ta, “in order that his action may bethe more effective.”

“I don’t wish to throw you fromthe disk,” I said.

“Oh,” said Mul-Al-Ka.“It seemed a good idea to us,”

said Mul-Ba-Ta.“Perhaps,” I said, “but why

should you wish to be thrown fromthe disk?”

Mul-Ba-Ta looked at me. “Well,Tarl Cabot,” he said, “that way youwould have some time to run andhide. You would be found, ofcourse, but you might survive for awhile longer.”

“But I am supposed to havehonour and riches,” I remindedthem.

Neither of the Muls spoke furtherbut they seemed plunged into asadness that I found in its waytouching, but yet I could scarcely

refrain from smiling for they lookedso precisely similar.

“Look, Tarl Cabot,” said Mul-Al-Ka suddenly, “we want to showyou something.”

“Yes,” said Mul-Ba-Ta.Mul-Al-Ka swung the

transportation disk suddenly down aside tunnel and, acceleratingfiercely, flowed like sound downthe tunnel for several portals andthen stepped of the acceleratorstrips and, as the disk slowed andstopped, brought it neatly to rest ata tall steel portal. I admired hisskill. He was really rather goodwith the disk. I would have liked to

have raced him.“What is it you wish to show

me?” I asked.Mul-Al-Ka and Mul-Ba-Ta said

nothing but stepped from thetransportation disk and, pressing theportal switch, opened the steelportal. I followed them inside.

“We have been instructed not tospeak to you,” said Mul-Al-Ka.

“Were1 you instructed to bringme here?” I asked.

“No,” said Mul-Ba-Ta.“Then why have you brought me

here?”“It seemed good for us to do so,”

said Mul-Al-Ka.

“Yes,” said Mul-Ba-Ta. “Thishas to do with honours and richesand Priest-Kings.”

The room in which we foundourselves was substantially empty,and not too much different in sizeand shape from the room in whichmy processing had been initiated.There was, however, noobservation screen and no walldisks.

The only object in the room otherthan ourselves was a heavy,globelike contrivance, high overour heads, attached to a set ofjointed extensions fastened in theceiling of the chamber.

In the floor side of the globelikecontrivance there was an adjustableopening which was now of adiameter of perhaps six inches.Numerous wires extended from theglobe along the metal extensionsand into a panel in the ceiling. Also,the globe itself bristled withvarious devices, nodes, switches,coils, disks, lights.

Vaguely I sensed that I had heardof this thing somewhere before.

In another chamber I heard a girlcry out.

My hand went to my sword.“No,” said Mul-Al-Ka, placing

his hand on my wrist.

Now I knew the purpose of thedevice in the room – why it wasthere and what it did – but why hadMul-Al-Ka and Mul-Ba-Ta broughtme here?

A panel to the side slid open andtwo plastic-clad Muls entered.Leaning forward they were pushinga large, flat circular disk. The diskfloated on a thin gas cushion. Theyplaced the disk directly under theglobelike object in the ceiling. Onthe disk there was mounted anarrow, closed cylinder oftransparent plastic. It wasapproximately eighteen inches indiameter and apparently constructed

so that it might be opened along itsvertical axis, although it was nowsecurely locked. In the cylinder,save for her head which was held inplace by a circular opening in thetop of the cylinder, was a girl, cladin the traditional robes ofconcealment, even to the veil,whose gloved hands pressedhelplessly against the interior of thecylinder.

Her terrified eyes fell on Mul-Al-Ka, Mul-Ba-Ta and myself.“Save me!” she cried.

Mul-Al-Ka’s hand touched mywrist. I did not draw my sword.

“Greetings, Honoured Muls,”

said one of the two attendants.“Greetings,” said Mul-Al-Ka.“Who is the other?” asked one of

the attendants.“Tarl Cabot of the City of Ko-ro-

ba,” said Mul-Ba-Ta.“I have never heard of it,” said

the other attendant.“It is on the surface,” said Mul-

Al-Ka.“Ah well,” said the attendant. “I

was bred in the Nest.”“He is our friend,” said Mul-Ba-

Ta.“Friendship between Muls is

forbidden,” said the first attendamt.“We know,” said Mul-Al-Ka,

“but we are going to the dissectionchambers anyway.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” said theother attendant.

“Yes,” said Mul-Al-Ka, “wewere sorry to hear it too.”

I gazed at my companions withamazement.

“On the other hand,” said Mul-Ba-Ta, “it is the wish of a Priest-King and thus we also rejoice.”

“Of course,” said the firstattendant.

“What was your crime?” askedthe second attendant.

“We do not know,” said Mul-Al-Ka.

“That is always annoying,” saidthe first attendant.

“Yes,” agreed Mul-Ba-Ta, “butnot important.”

“True,” agreed the first attendant.The attendants now busied

themselves with their work. One ofthem climbed onto the disk besidethe plastic cylinder. The other wentto a panel at the side of the roomand by pushing certain buttons andturning a dial, began to lower theglobe object down toward the girl’shead.

I pitied her as she turned herhead up and saw the large object,with an electronic hum, descend

slowly towards her. She gave along, frantic, terrified, wild screamand squirmed about in the cylinder,her small gloved fists strikingfutilely at the strong, curved plasticwalls that confined her.

The attendant who stood on thedisk then, to her horror, pushedback the hood of her garment andthe ornate, beautiful veils thatmasked her features, face-strippingher as casually as one might removea scarf. She trembled in thecylinder, pressing her small handsagainst it, and wept. I noted that herhair was brown and fine, her eyesdark and longly lashed. Her mouth

was lovely, her throat white andbeautiful. Her final scream wasmuffled as the attendant adjusted theheavy globe over her head andlocked it in place. His companionthen snapped a switch at the wallpanel and the globe seemed to comealive, humming and clicking, coilssuddenly glowing and tiny signallights flashing on and off.

I wondered if the girl knew that aplate of her brain traces was beingperpared, which would becorrelated with the sensorsguarding the quarters of a ChamberSlave.

While the globe did its work, and

held the girl’s head in place, theattendant at the cylinder unlockedthe five latches which held it shutand swung it open. Swiftly andefficiently he placed her wrists inretaining devices mounted in thecylinder and, with a small, curvedknife, removed her clothing, whichhe cast aside. Bending to a panel inthe disk he took out three objects:the long, classic, white garment of aChamber Slave, which wascontained in a wrapper of blueplastic; a slave collar; and anobject of which I did notimmediately grasp the import, asmall, flat boxlike object which

bore the upraised figure that, incursive Gorean script, is the firstletter in the expression for “slavegirl”.

On the latter object he pressed aswitch and almost immediately,before I became aware of it, theupraised portion turned white withheat.

I lunged forward but Mul-Al-Kaand Mul-Ba-Ta, sensing myintention, seized my arms andbefore I could shake them off Iheard, muffled but agonised fromwithin that terrible metal globe, thecry of a branded slave girl.

I felt helpless.

It was too late.“Is your companion well?” asked

the attendant at the wall.“Yes,” said Mul-Al-Ka, “he is

quite well, thank you.1”“If he is not well,” said the

attendant on the disk, “he shouldreport to the infirmary fordestruction.”

“He is quite well,” said Mul-Ba-Ta.

“Why did he say “destruction”?”I asked Mul-Al-Ka.

“Infected Muls are disposed of,”said Mul-Al-Ka. “It is better for theNest.”

The attendant on the disk had

now broken open the blue plasticwrapper that held, fresh and folded,the garment of a Chamber Slave.This, with its clasp on the leftshoulder, he fastened on the girl. Hethen sprung her wrists free of theretaining devices and reclosed theplastic cylinder, locking her insideonce again. She was now containedprecisely as she had been originallysave that she had exchanged thethick, multitudinous, ornate Robesof Concealment, the proud,cumbersome insignia of the freewoman of Gor, for the simplegarment of a Chamber Slave and aburning wound on her left thigh.

The globelike object which hadbeen fastened over her head nowstopped humming and flashing, andthe attendant on the disk opened it,releasing the girl’s head. He shovedthe globe up and a foot or so to theside and then with a quickmovement reclosed it in such a waythat once again its floorsideaperture described an opening ofapproximately six inches indiameter. The attendant at the wallpanel then pressed a button and theentire apparatus raised on itsextension arms to the ceiling.

As well as she could, sobbingand trembling, the girl looked

downward through the transparenttop of the plastic cylinder andregarded herself. She now sawherself in a strange garment. Shetouched her left hand to her thighand cried out in pain.

She shook her head, her eyesbursting with tears. “You don’tunderstand,” she whimpered. “I aman offering to the Priest – Kingsfrom the Initiates of Ar.”

The attendant on the disk thenbent down and picked up theslender, graceful metal collar.

These collars are normallymeasured individually to the girl asis most slave steel. The collar is

regarded not simply as adesignation of slavery and a meansfor identifying the girl’s owner andhis city but as an ornament as well.Accordingly the Gorean master isoften extremely concerned that thefit of the graceful band will beneither too tight nor too loose. Thecollar is normally worn snugly,indeed so much so that if the snap ofa slave leash is used the girl willnormally suffer some discomfort.

The girl continued to shake herhead. “No,” she said, “no, you donot understand.” She tried to twistaway as the attendant’s hands liftedthe collar towards her. “But I came

to the Sardar,” she cried, “in orderthat I might never be a slave girl –never a slave girl!”

The collar made a small, heavyclick as it closed about her throat.

“You are a slave girl,” said theattendant.

She screamed.“Take her away,” said the

attendant by the wall panel.Obediently the attendant on the

disk lightly jumped down and beganto push the disk and its cylinderfrom the room.

As it passed from the chamber,followed by the attendantwho hadoperated the wall panel, I could see

the dazed, confused girl, sobbingand in pain, trying to reach thecollar through the plastic of thecylinder’s top. “No, no,” she said,“you do not understand.” Sheth1rew me one last look, notcomprehending, hopeless, wild,reproachful.

My hand tightened on the hilt ofmy sword.

“There is nothing you can do,”said Mul-Al-Ka.

I supposed that he might well beright. Should I kill the innocentattendants, merely Muls who wereperforming the tasks allotted tothem by Priest-Kings? Would I then

have to slay Mul-Al-Ka and Mul-Ba-Ta as well? And what would Ido with the girl in the Nest ofPriest-Kings? And what of Misk?

Would I not then lose myopportunity, if any, of saving him?

I was angered toward Mul-Al-Kaand Mul-Ba-Ta.

“Why did you bring me here?” Idemanded.

“Why,” said Mul-Al-Ka, “didyou not notice her collar?”

“It was a slave collar,” I said.“But the engraving was large and

very plain,” he said.“Did you not read it?” asked

Mul-Ba-Ta.

“No,” I said irritably, “I did not.”“It was the numeral “708”,” said

Mul-Al-Ka.I started and did not speak. 708

had been the number of Vika’scollar. There was now a new slavefor her chamber. What did thismean?

“That was the collar number ofVika of Treve,” I said.

“Precisely,” said Mul-Al-Ka,“she whom Sarm promised to youas part of the riches accruing fromyour part in his plan to slay Misk.”

“The number, as you see,” saidMul-Ba-Ta, “has been reassigned.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means,” said Mul-Al-Ka,“that Vika of Treve no longerexists.”

I suddenly felt as though ahammer had struck me, for though Ihated Vika of Treve I would nothave wished her dead. Somehow,unaccountably in spite of my greathatred for her, I was shaking,sweating and trembling. “Perhapsshe has been given a new collar?” Iasked.

“No,” said Mul-Al-Ka.“Then she is dead?” I asked.“As good as dead,” said Mul-Ba-

Ta.“What do you mean!” I cried,

seizing him by the shoulders andshaking him.

“He means,” said Mul-Al-Ka,“that she has been sent to the tunnelsof the Golden Beetle.”

“But why?” I demanded.“She was useless any longer as a

servant to Priest-Kings,” said Mul-Ba-Ta.

“But why!” I insisted.“I think we have said enough,”

said Mul-Al-Ka.“That is true,” said Mul-Ba-Ta.

“Perhaps we should not havespoken even this much to you, TarlCabot.”

I placed my hands gently on the

shoulders of the two Muls.“Thank you, my friends,” I said.

“I understand what you have donehere. You have proved to me thatSarm does not intend to keep hispromises, that he will betray me.”

“Remember,” said Mul-Al-Ka,“we have not told you that.”

“That is true,” I said, “but youhave showed me.”

“We only promised Sarm,” saidMul-Ba-Ta, “that we would not tellyou.”

I smiled at the two Muls, myfriends.

“After I have finished with Miskare you then to kill me?” I asked.

“No,” said Mul-Al-Ka, “we aresimply to tell you that Vika of Treveawaits you in the tunnels of theGolden Beetle.”

“That is the weak part of Sarm’splan,” said Mul-Ba-Ta, “for youwould never go to the tunnels of theGolden Beetle to seek a femaleMul.”

“True,” said Mul-Al-Ka, “it isthe first mistake I have known Sarmto make.”

“You will not go to the tunnels ofthe Golden Beetle,” said Mul-Ba-Ta, “because it is death to do so.”

“But I will go,” I said.The two Muls looked at one

another sadly and shook their heads.“Sarm is wiser than we,” said

Mul-Al-Ka.Mul-Ba-Ta nodded his head.

“See how he uses the instincts ofhumans against themselves,” he saidto his companion.

“A true Priest-King,” said Mul-Al-Ka.

I smiled to myself for I thoughthow incredible that I should findmyself naturally and without asecond thought considering going tothe rescue of the worthless, viciouswench, Vika of Treve.

And yet it was not a strangething, particularly not on Gor,

where bravery is highly esteemedand to save a female’s life is ineffect to win title to it, for it is theoption of a Gorean male to enslaveany woman whose life he hassaved, a right which is seldomdenied even by the citizens of thegirl’s city or her family. Indeed,there have been cases in which agirl’s brothers have had her clad asa slave, bound in slave bracelets,and handed over to her rescuer, inorder that the honour of the familyand her city not be besmirched.

There is, of course, a naturaltendency in the rescued female tofeel and demonstrate great gratitude

to the man who has saved her life,and the Gorean custom is perhapsno more than an institutionalisationof this customary response. Thereare cases where a free woman inthe vicinity of a man she desiredhas deliberately placed herself injeopardy. The man then, afterhaving been forced to risk his life,is seldom in a mood to use the girlother than as his slave. I havewondered upon occasion about thispractice so different on Gor than onEarth. On my old world when awoman is saved by a man she may,I understand, with propriety bestowupon him a grateful kiss and

perhaps, if we may believe the talesin these matters, consider him moreseriously because of his action as apossible, eventual companion inwedlock. One of these girls, ifrescued on Gor, would probably bedumbfounded at what would happento her. After her kiss of gratitudewhich might last a good deal longerthan she had anticipated she wouldfind herself forced to kneel and becollared and then, stripped, herwrists confined behind her back inslave bracelets, she would findherself led stumbling away on aslave leash from the field of herchampion’s valour. Yes,

undoubtedly our Earth girls wouldfind this most surprising. On theother hand the Gorean attitude isthat she would be dead were it notfor his brave action and thus it ishis right, now that he has won herlife, to make her live it for himprecisely as she pleases, which isusually, it must unfortunately benoted, as his slave girl, for theprivileges1 of a FreeCompanionship are never bestowedlightly. Also of course a FreeCompanionship might be refused, inall Gorean right, by the girl, andthus a warrior can hardly beblamed, after risking his life, for not

wanting to risk losing the preciousprize which he has just, at greatperil to himself, succeeded inwinning. The Gorean man, as aman, cheerfully and dutifully attendsto the rescuing of his female indistress, but as a Gorean, as a trueGorean, he feels, perhapsjustifiably and being somewhat lessor more romantic than ourselves,that he should have something morefor his pains than her kiss ofgratitude and so, in typical Goreanfashion, puts his chain on thewench, claiming both her and herbody as his payment.

“I thought you hated her,” said

Mul-Al-Ka.“I do,” I said.“Is it human to act as you do?”

inquired Mul-Ba-Ta.“Yes,” I said, “it is the part of a

man to protect a female of thehuman kind, regardless of who shemay be.”

“Is it enough that she be merely afemale of our kind?” asked Mul-Ba-Ta.

“Yes,” I said.“Even a female Mul?” asked

Mul-Al-Ka.“Yes,” I said.“Interesting,” said Mul-Ba-Ta.

“Then we should accompany you

for we too wish to learn to be men.”“No,” I said, “you should not

accompany me.”“Ah,” said Mul-Al-Ka bitterly,

“you do not truly regard us yet asmen.”

“I do,” I said. “You have provedthat by informing me of Sarm’sintentions.”

“Then we may accompany you?”asked Mul-Ba-Ta.

“No,” I said, “for I think you willbe able to help me in othermatters.”

“That would be pleasant,” saidMul-Al-Ka.

“But we will not have much

time,” said Mul-Ba-Ta.“That is true,” said Mul-Al-Ka,

“for we must soon report to thedissection chambers.”

The two Muls lookedunderstandably dejected.

I thought about things for amoment or so and then I shruggedand fixed on them both a look ofwhat I hoped would be a somewhatpoignant disappointment.

“You may if you wish,” I said,“but it is not really very human onyour part.”

“No?” asked Mul-Al-Ka, perkingup.

“No?” asked Mul-Ba-Ta,

showing sudden interest.“No,” I said, “definitely not.”“Are you sure?” inquired Mul-

Al-Ka.“Truly sure?” pressed Mul-Ba-

Ta.“I am positive,” I said. “It is

simply not human at all to just gooff and report to the dissectionchambers.”

The two Muls looked at me for along time, and at themselves, and atme again, and seemed to reachsome sort of accord.

“Well then,” said Mul-Al-Ka,“we shall not do so.”

“No,” said Mul-Ba-Ta rather

firmly.“Good,” I said.“1What will you do now, Tarl

Cabot?” asked Mul-Al-Ka.“Take me to Misk,” I said.

Chapter Twenty-OneI FIND MISK

I followed Mul-Al-Ka and Mul-Ba-Ta into a damp, high, vaultedchamber, unlit by energy bulbs. Thesides of the chamber were formedof some rough, cementlikesubstance in which numerous rocks

of various sizes and shapes inheredas in a conglomerate mass.

At the entrance to the chamber,from a rack, Mul-Al-Ka had taken aMul-Torch and broken off its end.Holding this over his head heilluminated those portions of thechamber to which the light of thetorch would reach.

“This must be a very old portionof the Nest,” said Mul-Al-Ka.

“Where is Misk?” I asked.“He is here somewhere,” said

Mul-Ba-Ta, “for so we were toldby Sarm.”

As far as I could tell the chamberseemed empty. In impatience I

fingered the chain of the translator Ihad had the two Muls pick up on theway to Misk’s prison. I was notsure that Misk would have beenallowed to retain his translator andI wished to be able to communicatewith him.

My eyes drifted upward and Ifroze for an instant and then,scarcely moving, touched Mul-Ba-Ta’s arm.

“Up there,” I whispered.Mul-Al-Ka lifted the torch as

high as he could.Clinging to the ceiling of the

chamber were numerous dark,distended shapes, apparently Priest-

Kings but with abdomens swollengrotesquely. They did not move.

I turned on the translator. “Misk,”I said into it. Almost instantly Irecognised the familiar odour.

There was a rustling among thedark, distended shapes that clung tothe ceiling.

No response came from mytranslator.

“He is not here,” proposed Mul-Al-Ka.

“Probably not,” said Mul-Ba-Ta,“for had he replied I think yourtranslator would have picked up hisresponse.”

“Let us look elsewhere,” said

Mul-Al-Ka.“Give me the torch,” I said.I took the torch and went around

to the edges of the room. By thedoor I saw a series of short barswhich emerged from the wall,which might be used as a ladder.Taking my torch in my teeth Iprepared to climb the set of bars.

Suddenly I stopped, my hands onone of the bars.

“What is the matter?” asked Mul-Al-Ka.

“Listen,” I said.We listened carefully and in the

distance it seemed we heard,incredibly enough, the mournful

singing of human voices, as thoughof many men, and the sound was aswe determined by listening for aminute or two gradually nearing.

“Perhaps they are coming here,”said Mul-Al-Ka.

“We had better hide,” said Mul-Ba-Ta.

I left the bars and led the twoMuls to the far side of the room.There I directed them to take coveras well as they could behind someof the co1nglomerate materialwhich had crumbled from the walland lay at its base. Grinding out theMul-torch on the stones I croucheddown with them behind some of this

debris and together we watched thedoor.

The singing grew louder.It was a sad song, mournful and

slow, almost a dirgelike chant.The words were in archaic

Gorean which I find very difficultto understand. On the surface it isspoken by none but the members ofthe Caste of Initiates who use itprimarily in their numerous andcomplex rituals. As nearly as Icould make it out the song, thoughsad, was a paean of some sort toPriest-Kings, and mentioned theFeast of Tola and Gur. The refrain,almost constantly repeated, was

something to the effect that WeHave Come for Gur, On the Feast ofTola We Have Come for Gur, WeRejoice For on the Feast of TolaWe Have Come for Gur.

Then, as we crouched in thedarkness of the far side of thechamber, the doors opposite usswung open and we observed twolong lines of strange men, marchingabreast, each of whom carried aMul-Torch in one hand and in theother by a handle what resembled adeflated wineskin of golden leather.

I heard Mul-Al-Ka draw in hisbreath quickly beside me.

“Look, Tarl Cabot,” whispered

Mul-Ba-Ta.“Yes,” I said, cautioning him to

silence, “I see.”The men who came through the

door in the long mournfulprocession may have been of thehuman kind or they may not havebeen. They were shaven and clad inplastic as are all Muls of the Nest,but their torsos seemed smaller androunder than those of a human beingand their legs and arms seemedextraordinarily long for their bodysize and the hands and feet seemedunusually wide. The feet had notoes but were rather disklike, fleshycushions on which they padded

silently along, and similarly on thepalms of their wide hands thereseemed to be a fleshy disk, whichglistened in the blue light of theMul-Torches. Most strange perhapswas the shape and width of theeyes, for they were very large,perhaps three inches in width, andwere round and dark and shining,much like the eyes of a nocturnalanimal.

I wondered at what manner ofcreature they were.

As more of them filed abreastinto the room the increasedtorchlight well illuminated thechamber and I quietly warned my

companions to make no movement.I could now see the Priest-Kings

clearly where they clung upsidedown to the ceiling, the greatswollen abdomens almost dwarfingtheir thoraxes and heads.

Then to my amazement, one byone, the strange creatures,disdaining the bars near the doorbegan simply to pad up the almostvertical walls to the Priest-Kingsand then, astonishingly, began towalk upside down on the ceiling.Where they stepped I could see aglistening disk of exudate whichthey had undoubtedly secreted fromthe fleshy pads which served them

as feet. While the creaturesremaining on the floor continuedtheir mournful paean, their fellowcreatures on the walls and ceiling,still carrying their torches, andscattering wild shadows of theirown bodies and those of swollenPriest-Kings against the ceiling,began to fill their golden vesselsfrom the mouths of the Priest –Kings. Many times was a goldenvessel held for a Priest-King as itslowly yielded whatever had beenstored in its abdomen to the Muls.

There seemed to be almost anindefinite number of the Muls andof clinging Priest-Kings there were

perhaps a hundred. The strangeprocession to and fro up the wallsand across the ceiling t1o Priest-Kings and back down to the floor,continued for more than an hour,during which time the Muls whostood below, some of them havingreturned with a full vessel, neverceased to chant their mournfulpaean.

The Muls made no use of the barsand from this I gathered that theymight have been placed where theywere in ancient times before therewere such creatures to serve Priest-Kings.

I assumed that the exudate or

whatever it might be that had beentaken from the Priest-Kings wasGur, and that I now understoodwhat it was to retain Gur.

Finally the last of the unusualMuls stood below on the stoneflooring.

In all this time not one of themhad so much as glanced in ourdirection, so single-minded werethey in their work. When notactively engaged in gathering Gurtheir round dark eyes were liftedlike dark curves to the Priest-Kingswho clung to the ceiling far overtheir heads.

At last I saw one Priest-King

move from the ceiling and climbbackwards down the wall. Hisabdomen drained of Gur was nownormal and he stalked regally to thedoor, moving on those light,feathery feet with the delicate stepsof one of nature’s masters. Whenthere several Muls flanked him oneither side, still singing, andholding their torches and carryingtheir vessels which now brimmedwith a pale, milky substance,something like white, diluted honey.The Priest – King, escorted byMuls, then began to move slowly,step by majestic step, down thepassage outside of the chamber. He

was followed by another Priest-King, and then another, until all butone Priest-King had departed thechamber. In the light of the lasttorches which left the chamber Icould see that there remained onePriest-King who, though emptied ofGur, still clung to the ceiling. Aheavy chain, fastened to a ring inthe ceiling, led to a thick metal bandwhich was locked about his narrowtrunk between the thorax and theabdomen.

It was Misk.I broke off the other end of the

Mul-Torch, igniting it, and walkedto the centre of the chamber.

I lifted it as far over my head as Icould.

“Welcome, Tarl Cabot,” camefrom my translator. “I am ready todie.”

Chapter Twenty-TwoTO THE TUNNELS OF

THE GOLDEN BEETLE

I slung the translator on its chainover my shoulder and went to thebars near the door. Putting the torchin my teeth, I began to climb thebars rapidly. One or two of them,

rusted through, broke away in myhands, and I was nearly plunged tothe rocky floor beneath. The barswere apparently very old and hadnever been kept in a state of repairor replaced when defective.

When I reached the ceiling I saw,to my relief, that further barsprojected downwards from theceiling and that the bottom of eachwas bent outwards in a flat,horizontal projection that wouldafford me a place to put my feet.Still holding the Mul-Torch in myteeth because I wanted both handsfree I began to make my waytoward Misk, hand and foot, across

these metal extensions.I could see the figures of Mul-Al-

Ka and Mul-Ba-Ta beneath me,perhaps a hundred and fifty feetbelow.

Suddenly one of the extensions,the fourth I believe, slipped with agrating sound from the ceiling and Ileaped wildly for the next bar, justmanaging to catch it in my fall. Iheard the other bar drop with agre1at clang to the floor. For amoment I hung there swaeting. Mymouth seemed to be filled withcarbon and I realised I must havealmost bitten through the Mul-Torch.

Then the bar to which I clungmoved an inch from the ceiling.

I moved a bit and it slippedanother inch.

If I drew myself up on it I wasafraid it would fall altogether.

I hung there and it slipped a bitmore, perhaps a fraction of an inch.

I swung forward and back on thebar and felt it loosen almost entirelyin the ceiling but on the nextforward swing I released it andseized the next bar. I heard the bar Ihad just left slide out and fall likeits predecessor to the stone floorbelow.

I looked down and saw Mul-Al-

Ka and Mul-Ba-Ta standing below,looking up. Concern for me waswritten on their faces. The twofallen bars lay almost at their feet.

The bar to which I now clungseemed relatively stable and withrelief I drew myself up onto it, andthen stepped carefully to the next.

In a moment I stood by Misk’sside.

I took the Mul-Torch out of mymouth and spit out some particles ofcarbon. I lifted the torch and lookedat Misk.

He, hanging there upside down,reflected in the blue torchlight,regarded me calmly.

“Greetings, Tarl Cabot,” saidMisk.

“Greetings, Misk,” I said.“You were very noisy,” said

Misk.“Yes,” I said.“Sarm should have had those

bars checked,” said Misk.“I suppose so,” I said.“But it is difficult to think of

everything,” said Misk.“Yes, it is,” I agreed.“Well,” said Misk, “I think

perhaps you should get busy andkill me now.”

“I do not even know how to goabout it,” I said.

“Yes,” said Misk, “it will bedifficult, but with perseverance Ithink it may be accomplished.”

“Is there some central organ that Imight attack?” I queried.

“A heart for example?”“Nothing that will be of great

use,” said Misk. “In the lowerabdomen there is a dorsal organwhich serves to circulate the bodyfluids but since our tissues are, onthe whole, directly bathed in bodyfluid, injuring it would not producedeath for some time, at least not fora few Ehn.

“On the other hand,” said Misk,“I suppose you have the time.”

“Yes,” I said.“My own recommendation,” said

Misk, “would be the brain –nodes.”

“Then there is no swift way tokill a Priest-King?” I asked.

“Not really with your weapon,”said Misk. “You might however,after some time, sever the trunk orhead.”

“I had hoped,” I said, “that therewould be a quicker way to killPriest-Kings.”

“I am sorry,” said Misk.“I g1uess it can’t be helped,” I

said.“No,” agreed Misk. And he

added, “And under thecircumstances I wish it could.”

My eye fell on a metal device, asquare rod with some tinyprojections at one end. The devicehung from a hook about a foot out ofMisk’s reach.

“What is that?” I asked.“A key to my chain,” said Misk.“Good,” I said and walked over

a few bars to get the device, andreturned to Misk’s side. After amoment’s difficulty I managed toinsert the key into the lock onMisk’s trunk band.

“Frankly,” said Misk, “it wouldbe my recommendation to slay me

first and then unlock the band anddispose of my body, for otherwise Imight be tempted to defend myself.”

I turned the key in the lock,springing it open.

“But I have not come to kill you,”I said.

“But did Sarm not send you?”“Yes,” I said.“Then why do you not kill me?”“I do not wish to do so,” I said.

“Besides, there is Nest Trustbetween us.”

“That is true,” agreed Misk andwith his forelegs removed the metalband from his trunk and let it danglefrom the chain. “On the other hand

you will now be killed by Sarm.”“I think that would have

happened anyway,” I said.Misk seemed to think a moment.

“Yes,” he said. “Undoubtedly.”Then Misk looked down at Mul-Al-Ka and Mul – Ba-Ta. “Sarm willhave to dispose of them also,” heobserved.

“He has ordered them to report tothe dissection chambers,” I said,adding, “but they have decided notto do so.”

“Remarkable,” said Misk.“They are just being human,” I

said.“I suppose it is their privilege,”

said Misk.“Yes, I think so,” I said.Then, almost tenderly, Misk

reached out with one foreleg andgathered me from the bar on which Istood. I found myself pressed uptightly against his thorax. “This willbe a great deal safer,” he said, andadded, unnecessarily to my mind,“and probably a good deal lessnoisy.” Then, clutching me securely,he scampered away across theceiling and backed down the wall.

Misk, the Muls and I now stoodon the stone floor of the chambernear the door.

I thrust the Mul-Torch which I

still carried into a narrow ironreceptacle, consisting mainly of twoconnected rings and a base plate,which was bolted to the wall. Therewere several of these, I noted,around the walls and they seemedobviously intended to hold Mul-torches or some similar illuminatingdevice.

I turned to the Priest-King.“You must hide yourself

somewhere,” I said.“Yes,” said Mul-Al-Ka, “find

yourself some secret place and stay,and perhaps someday Sarm willsuccumb to the Pleasures of theGolden Beetle and you can emerge

in safety.”“We will bring you food and

water,” volunteered Mul-Ba-Ta.“That is very ki1nd of you,”

responded Misk, peering down atus, “but it is of course impossible todo so.”

The two Muls stood back aghast.“Why?” I asked, bewildered.Misk drew himself up to his

proud, almost eighteen feet ofheight, save that he inclined slightlyforward from the vertical, and fixedon us with his antennae what I hadcome to recognise in the last fewweeks as a look of rather patient,gentle reproach.

“It is the Feast of Tola,” he said.“So?” I asked.“Well,” said Misk, “it being the

Feast of Tola I must give Gur to theMother.”

“You will be discovered andslain,” I said. “Sarm if he finds youare alive will simply bring aboutyour destruction as soon aspossible.

“Naturally,” said Misk.“Then you will hide?” I asked.“Don’t be foolish,” said Misk, “it

is the Feast of Tola and I must giveGur to the Mother.”

I sensed there was no arguingwith Misk, but his decision

saddened me.“I am sorry,” I said.“What was sad,” said Misk,

“was that I might not have been ableto give Gur to the Mother, and thatthought troubled me grievously forthe days in which I retained Gur,but now thanks to you I will be ableto give Gur to the Mother and I willstand forever in your debt until I amslain by Sarm or succumb to thePleasures of the Golden Beetle.”

He placed his antennae lightly onmy shoulders and then lifted themand I held up my arms and hetouched the palms of my hands withthe tips of his antennae, and once

again we had, in so far as we could,locked our antennae.

He extended his antennae towardthe two Muls but they withdrew inshame. “No,” said Mul-Al-Ka, “weare only Muls.”

“There can be no Nest Trustbetween a Priest-King and Muls,”said Mul-Ba-Ta.

“Then,” said Misk, “between aPriest-King and two of the humankind.”

Slowly, fearfully, Mul-Al-Kaand Mul-Ba-Ta lifted their handsand Misk touched them with hisantennae.

“I will die for you,” said Mul-

Al-Ka.“And I,” said Mul-Ba-Ta.“No,” said Misk, “you must hide

and try to live.”The Muls looked at me, stricken,

and I nodded. “Yes,” I said, “hideand teach others who are of thehuman kind.”

“What will we teach them?”asked Mul-Al-Ka.

“To be human,” I said.“But what is it to be human,”

begged Mul-Ba-Ta, “for you havenever told us.”

“You must decide that foryourself,” I said. “You mustyourself decide what it is to be

human.”“It is much the same thing with a

Priest-King,” said Misk.“We will come with you, Tarl

Cabot,” said Mul-Al-Ka, “to fightthe Golden Beetle.”

“What is this?” asked Misk.“The girl Vika of Treve lies in

the tunnels of the1 Golden Beetle,”I said. “I go to her succor.”

“You will be too late,” saidMisk, “for the hatching time is athand.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.“Are you going?” asked Misk.“Yes,” I said.“Then,” said he, “what I said

will be evident.”We looked at one another.“Do not go, Tarl Cabot,” he said.

“You will die.”“I must go,” I said.“I see,” said Misk, “it is like

giving Gur to the Mother.”“Perhaps,” I said, “I don’t

know.”“We will go with you,” said

Mul-Al-Ka.“No,” I said, “you must go to the

human kind.”“Even to those who carried

Gur?” asked Mul-Ba-Ta, shiveringat the thought of those small roundbodies and the strange arms and

legs, and eyes.“They are mutations,” said Misk,

“bred long ago for service in thedarkened tunnels, now preservedfor ceremonial purposes and for thesake of tradition.”

“Yes,” I said to Mul-Ba-Ta,“even to those who carried Gur.”

“I understand,” said Mul-Ba-Ta,smiling.

“Everywhere in the Nest,” I said,“you must go everywhere that thereis something human to be found.”

“Even in the Fungus Chambersand the Pastures?” asked Mul-Al –Ka.

“Yes,” I said, “wherever there is

something human – wherever it is tobe found and however it is to befound.”

“I understand,” said Mul-Al-Ka.“And I too,” said Mul-Ba-Ta.“Good,” I said.With a last handclasp the two

men turned and ran toward the exit.Misk and I stood alone.“That will mean trouble,” said

Misk.“Yes,” I said, “I suppose it will.”“And you will be responsible,”

said Misk.“In part,” I said, “but mostly

what it means will be decided byPriest-Kings and men.”

I looked up at him.“You are foolish,” I said, “to go

to the Mother.”“You are foolish,” he said, “to go

to the tunnels of the Golden Beetle.”I drew my sword, lifting it easily

from the sheath. It cleared theleather as easily and swiftly as alarl might have bared its fangs. Inthe blue torchlight I examined theblade and the light coat of oil thatprotected it. I tried the balance, anddropped the steel back into itssheath. I was satisfied.

I liked the blade which seemedso simple and efficient compared tothe manifold variations in sword

steel that were possible. I supposedone of the reasons for the shortblade was that it could clear thesheath a fraction of a second beforea longer blade. Another advantagewas that it could be moved withgreater swiftness than a longerblade. The pr1imary advantage Isupposed was that it allowed theGorean warrior to work close to hisman. The brief reach of the bladetended to be more than compensatedfor by the rapidity with which itmight be wielded and the ease withwhich it might work beneath theguard of a longer weapon. If theswordsman with a longer weapon

could not finish the fight in the firstthrust or two he was a dead man.

“Where are the tunnels of theGolden Beetle?” I asked.

“Inquire,” said Misk. “They arewell known to all within the Nest.”

“Is it as difficult to slay a GoldenBeetle as a Priest – King?” I asked.

“I do not know,” said Misk. “Wehave never slain a Golden Beetle,nor have we studied them.”

“Why not?” I asked.“It is not done,” said Misk.

“And,” he said, peering down atme, his luminous eyes intent, “itwould be a great crime to kill one.”

“I see,” I said.

I turned to go but then turnedonce again to face the Priest – King.“Could you, Misk,” I asked, “withthose bladelike structures on yourforelegs slay a Priest-King?”

Misk inverted his forelegs andexamined the blades. “Yes,” hesaid. “I could.”

He seemed lost in thought.“But it has not been done in more

than a million years,” he said.I lifted my arm to Misk. “I wish

you well,” I said, using thetraditional Gorean farewell.

Misk lifted one foreleg in salute,the bladelike projectiondisappearing. His antennae inclined

toward me and the golden hairswith which the antennae glistenedextended towards me as though totouch me. “And I, Tarl Cabot,” hesaid, “wish you well.”

And we turned, the Priest-Kingand I, and went our separate ways.

Chapter Twenty-ThreeI FIND VIKA

I gathered that I had arrived toolate to save Vika of Treve.

Deep in the unlit tunnels of theGolden Beetle, those unadorned,

tortuous passages through the solidrock, I came upon her body.

I held the Mul-Torch over myhead and beheld the foul cavern inwhich she lay on a bedding ofsoiled mosses and stems.

She wore only brief rags, theremains of her once long andbeautiful garment, torn and stainedby what must have been herterrified flight through these dark,rocky tunnels, running, stumbling,screaming, futilely trying to escapethe pursuing jaws of the implacableGolden Beetle.

Her throat, I was pleased to see,no longer wore the collar of a

slave.I wondered if her collar had been

the same as that placed on the girl Ihad seen. If the sizes matched Isupposed it would have been. ThePriest-Kings often practice suchsmall economies, jealouslyconserving the inanimate resourcesof the Nest.

I wondered if the removal of thecollar meant that Vika had beenfreed before being closed within thetunnels of the Golden Beetle. Irecalled vaguely that Misk had oncesaid to me that in deference to theGolden Beetle it was given onlyfree women.

The cavern in which she layreeked of the spoor of the GoldenBeetle, which I had not yetencountered. Its contrast with thefastidiously clean tunnels of theNest of Priest-Kings made it seemall the more repulsive in its filthand litter.

In one corner there werescattered human bones and amongthem the shards of a human skull.The bones had been split and themarrow sucked from them.

How long Vika had been dead Ihad no way of judging, though Icursed myself for it would not haveappeared to be a matter of more

than a few hours. Her body, thoughrigid in the appearance of recentdeath, did not have the coldness Iwould have expected. She wasunmoving and her eyes seemedfixed on me with all the horror ofthe last movement in which the jawsof the Golden Beetle must haveclosed upon her. I wondered if inthe darkness she would have beenable to see what had attacked her. Ifound myself almost hoping that shehad not, for it would have beenmore than enough to have heard itfollowing in the tunnels. Yet Imyself I knew would havepreferred to see the assailant and so

I found myself wishing that thisbrief, terrible privilege had beenVika of Treve’s, for I rememberedher as a woman of courage andpride.

Her skin seemed slightly dry butnot desiccated.

Because of the lack of coldnessin the body I listened for a long timefor a heartbeat. Holding her wrist Ifelt for the slightest sign of a pulse.I could detect neither heartbeat norpulse.

Though I had hated Vika of TreveI would not have wanted this fate tobe hers, nor could I believe that anyman, even those whom she had

injured, could have wished it to beso. As I looked upon her now I feltstrangely sad, and there was nothingleft in my bosom of the bitternesswith which I had earlier regardedher. I saw her now as only a girl,surely too innocent for this, whohad met the Golden Beetle and hadin consequence died one of the mosthorrible of deaths. She was of thehuman kind and whatever mighthave been her faults, she could nothave deserved this grotesque,macabre fate, the jaws and cavernof the Golden Beetle. And lookingupon her I now realised too thatsomehow, not fully understanding, I

had cared for her.“I am sorry,” I said, “I am sorry,

Vika of Treve.”Strangely there did not seem to

be severe wounds on her body.I wondered if it were possible

that she had died of fear.There were no lacerations or

bruises that might not have beencaused by her flight through thetunnels. Her body and arms andlegs, though cut and injured, wereneither torn nor broken.

I found nothing that could havecaused her death unless perhaps asmall puncture on her left side,through which some poison might

have been injected.There were, however, though I

could not conceive of how theycould have killed her, five largeround swellings on her body. Theseextended in a line along her leftside, reaching from the interior ofher left thigh to her waist to a fewinches below her shoulder. Theseswellings, hard, round and smooth,seemed to lie just beneath the skinand to be roughly the size of one’sfist. I supposed they might havebeen some unusual physiologicalreaction to the poison which Iconjectured had been injected intoher system through the small, livid

puncture, also on her left side.I wiped the back of my forearm

across my eyes.There was nothing I could do for

her now, save perhaps hunt for theGolden Beetle.

I wondered if I could bury thebody somewhere, but dismissed thethought in view of the stonypassages I had just traversed. Imight move it from the filth of theGolden Beetle’s den but it, until thecreature itself was slain, wouldnever be safe from its despoilingjaws. I turned my back on Vika ofTreve, and carrying the torch leftthe cavern. As I did so I seemed

almost to hear a silent, horrible,pleading shriek but there was ofcourse no sound. I returned and heldthe torch and her body was the sameas before, the eyes fixed with thesame expression of frozen horror,so I left the chamber.

I continued to search the stonypassages of the tunnels of theGolden Beetle but I saw no sign ofthe creature.

I held my sword in my right handand the Mul-Torch in my left.

When I made a turn I would takethe hilt of the sword, in order toprotect the blade, and scratch asmall sign indicating the direction

from which I had come.It was a long, eerie search, in the

blue light of the Mul – Torch,thrusting it into one crevice andanother, trying one passage and thenthe next.

As I wandered through thesepassages my sorrow for Vika ofTreve struggled with my hatred forthe Golden Beetle until I forcedmyself to clear my head of emotionand concentrate on the task at hand.

But still, as the Mul-Torchburned lower and I yet encounteredno sign of the Golden Beetle, mythoughts turned ever and again tothe still form of Vika lying in the

cavern of the Golden Beetle.It had been weeks since I had last

seen her and I supposed it wouldhave been at least days since shehad been closed in the tunnels of theGolden Beetle. How was it that shehad been captured only so recentlyby the creature? And if it were truethat she had only been captured sorecently how would she havemanaged to live in the caverns forthose days?

Perhaps she might have found asump of water but what would therehave been to eat, I wondered?Perhaps, I told myself, she, like theSlime Worm, would have been

forced to scavenge on the previouskills of the Beetle but I found thishard to believe, for the condition ofher body did not suggest an ugly,protracted, degrading battle withthe worms of starvation.

And how was it, I asked myself,that the Golden Beetle had notalready feasted on the delicate fleshof the proud beauty of Treve?

And I wondered on the fivestrange protuberances that nested sogrotesquely in her lovely body.

And Misk had said to me hethought I would be too late for itwas near hatching time.

A cry of horror from the bottom

of my heart broke from my lips inthat dark passage and I turned andraced madly back down the path Ihad come.

Time and time again I stumbledagainst outcroppings of rock andbruised my shoulders and thighs butnever once did I diminish my speedin my headlong race back to thecavern of the Golden Beetle. Ifound I did not even have to stopand search for the small signs I hadscratched in the walls of thepassages to guide my way for as Iran it seemed I knew each bend andturn of that passageway as though ithad suddenly leaped alive flaming

in my memory.I burst into the cavern of the

Golden Beetle and held the torchhigh.

“Forgive me, Vika of Treve!” Icried. “Forgive me!”

I fell to my knees beside her andthrust the Mul-Torch into a spacebetween two1 stones in the floor.

From her flesh at one point Icould see the gleaming eyes of asmall organism, golden and aboutthe size of a child’s turtle,scrambling, trying to pull itself fromthe leathery shell. With my sword Idug out the egg and crushed it andits occupant with the heel of my

sandal on the stone floor.Carefully, methodically, I

removed a second egg. I held it tomy ear. Inside it I could hear apersistent, ugly scratching, sense themovement of a tiny, energeticorganism.

I broke this egg too, stamping itwith my heel, not stopping untilwhat squirmed inside was dead.

The next three eggs I disposed ofsimilarly.

I then took my sword and wipedthe oil from one side of the bladeand set the shining steel againsts thelips of the girl from Treve. When Iremoved it I cried out with pleasure

for a bit of moisture had formed onthe blade.

I gathered her in my arms andheld her against me.

“My girl of Treve,” I said. “Youlive.”

Chapter Twenty-FourTHE GOLDEN BEETLE

At that instant I heard a slightnoise and looked up to see peeringat me from the darkness of one ofthe tunnels leading from the cavern,two flaming, luminous eyes.

The Golden Beetle was notnearly as tall as a Priest-King, but itwas probably considerably heavier.It was about the size of a rhinocerosand the first thing I noticed after theglowing eyes were two multiplyhooked, tubular, hollow, pincerlikeextensions that met at the tipsperhaps a yard beyond its body.They seemed clearly some aberrantmutation of its jaws. Its antennae,unlike those of Priest-Kings, werevery short. They curved and weretipped with a fluff of golden hair.Most strangely perhaps wereseveral long, golden strands, almosta mane, which extended from the

creature’s head over its domed,golden back and fell almost to thefloor behind it. The back itselfseemed divided into two thickcasings which might once, agesbefore, have been horny wings, butnow the tissues had, at the points oftouching together, fused in such away as to form what was for allpractical purposes a thick,immobile golden shell. Thecreature’s head was even nowwithdrawn beneath the shell but itseyes were clearly visible and ofcourse the extensions of its jaws.

I knew the thing before me couldslay Priest-Kings.

Most I feared for the safety ofVika of Treve.

I stood before her body mysword drawn.

The creature seemed to bepuzzled and made no move toattack.

Undoubtedly in its long life it hadnever encountered anything like thisin its tunnels. It backed up a bit andwithdrew its head further beneaththe shell of its fused, golden wings.It lifted its hooked, tubular jawsbefore its eyes as though to shieldthem from the light.

It occurred to me then that thelight of the Mul-Torch burning in

the invariably dark tunnels of itsdomain may have temporarilyblinded or disoriented the creature.More likely the smell of the torch’soxidation products suddenlypermeating its delicate antennaewould have been as cacophonous toit as some protracted, discordantbedlam of noises might have beento us.

It seemed clear the creature didnot yet un1derstand what had takenplace within its cavern.

I seized the Mul-Torch frombetween the stones where I hadplaced it and, with a great shout,thrust it towards the creature’s face.

I would have expected it toretreat with rapidity, but it made nomove whatsoever other than to liftits tubular, pincerlike jaws to me.

It seemed to me most unnatural,as though the creature might havebeen a living rock, or a blind,carnivorous growth.

One thing was clear. Thecreature did not fear me nor theflame.

I withdrew a step and it, on itssix short legs, moved forward astep.

It seemed to me that it would bevery difficult to injure the GoldenBeetle, particularly when its head

was withdrawn beneath the shell ofits enclosing wings. Thiswithdrawal on its part, of course,would not in the least prevent itfrom using its great jaws to attack,but it would, I supposed, somewhatnarrow the area of its sensoryawareness. It would most certainlylimit its vision but I did not supposethat the Golden Beetle, any morethan a Priest-King, much dependedon this sense. Both would be quiteat home, incomprehensibly to avisually oriented organism, in utterdarkness. On the other hand I couldhope that somehow the sensoryfield of the antennae might be

similarly, at least partially,restricted by their withdrawalbeneath the casing of the fused,horny wings.

I slipped my sword into itssheath and knelt beside Vika’sbody, not taking my eyes off thecreature who stood about four yardsdistant.

By feeling I closed the lids of hereyes in order that they might nolonger stare blindly out with thatlook of frozen horror.

Her body was stiff yet from thevenom which had induced theparalysis, but now, perhapsbecaused of the removal of the five

eggs, it seemed somewhat warmerand more yielding than before.

As I touched the girl the Beetletook another step forward.

It began to hiss.This noise unnerved me for a

moment because I had been used tothe uncanny silence of Priest-Kings.

Now the Beetle began to poke itshead out from beneath the shelter ofthose domed, golden wings and itsshort antennae, tifted with goldenfluff, thrust out and began to explorethe chamber.

With my right hand I lifted Vikato my shoulder and stood up.

The hissing now became more

intense.Apparently the creature did not

wish me to remove Vika from thecavern.

Walking backwards, Vika on myshoulder, th Mul-Torch in my hand,I slowly retreated from the cavernof the Golden Beetle.

When the creature, following me,crawled over the pile of soiledmoss and stems on which Vika hadlain, it stopped and began to pokeamong the shattered remains of theeggs I had crushed.

I had no notion of the speed ofthe creature but at this point I turnedand began to jog away down the

passage, back toward the entrancetunnels of the Golden Beetle. Ihoped, considering the size andshape and probable weight of thecreature, and the comparativetininess of its legs, that it would notbe able to move quickly, at least notfor a sustained period.

About an Ehn after I had turnedand began to move away from thecavern, Vika on my shoulder, Iheard from the cavern one of th1estrangest and most horrifyingsounds I had ever heard in my life,a long, weird, frantic, enraged rushof sound, more than a rush of air,more than a wild hiss, almost a cry

of pain, of comprehension andagony.

I stopped for a moment andlistened.

Now, scrambling after me in thetunnel, I could hear the approach ofthe Golden Beetle.

I turned and jogged on.After a few Ehn I stopped again

and once more listened.Apparently my conjecture as to

the mobility of the Golden Beetlehad been correct and the speed ofits pursuit had quickly slackened.Yet I knew that somewhere backthere it would still be coming, thatit would not yield its vengeance and

its prey so easily. It was stillcoming, somewhere back there inthe darkness, slowly, patiently,implacably, like the coming ofwinter or the weathering of a stone.

I wondered at the nature of theBeetle’s pursuit of his prey.

How horrible I thought it wouldbe to be trapped in these tunnels,waiting for the Beetle, able to avoidit perhaps for hours, perhaps days,but not daring to sleep or to stop,not knowing if one were goingdown a blind passage, if the Beetlewere suddenly to confront one at thenext turn.

No, I supposed the Beetle did not

need speed in its tunnels.I set Vika down.I leaned the Mul-Torch against

the side of the passage.And yet it seemed strange to me

to think of the Beetle as pursuing itsprey in these tunnels for hours,perhaps days. It seemed foolish,unlikely, a puzzle of nature. But Imyself had seen its body and knewnow that it was incapable ofprolonged, rapid movement. Howwas it then, I asked myself, thatsuch a slow, awkward, clumsycreature, no matter how formidableat close range, could capture andslay an organism as alert and swift

as Priest-Kings?I moved Vika’s limbs and rubbed

her hands to see if I could restoreher circulation to a more normallevel.

Bending my ear to her heart I waspleased to detect its faint beat.Holding her wrist I sensed a tinymovement of blood in her veins.

There did not seem to be muchair in the tunnels of the GoldenBeetle.

I supposed they were notventilated as well as the tunnels ofthe Priest-Kings. There was anodour in the tunnels of the GoldenBeetle, perhaps of its spoor or

various exudates. The odourseemed somewhat oppressive. I hadnoticed it much before. Now Ibecame aware of how long I hadbeen in its tunnels, how longwithout food and how tired I was.Surely there would be time to sleep.The Beetle was far behind. Surelythere would be time, if not to sleep,to close my eyes for a moment.

I awoke with a start.The odour was now insufferable

and close.The Mul-Torch was little more

now than a glowing stub.I saw the peering eyes.The golden strands on its back

were lifted and quivering, and itwas from them that the odour came.

I cried out as I felt two long,hard, curved objects close on mybody.

Chapter Twenty-FiveTHE VIVARIUM1b>

My hands seized the narrow,hollow, pincerlike jaws of theGolden Beetle and tried to forcethem from my body, but thoserelentless, hollow, chitinous hooksclosed ever more tightly.

They had now entered my skinand to my horror I felt a pull againstmy tissues and knew that thecreature was now sucking throughthose foul tubes, but I was a man, amammal, and not a Priest-King, andmy body fluids were locked withinthe circulatory system of anotherform of being, and I thrust againstthe vicious hooked tubes that werethe jaws of the Golden Beetle, andthey budged out an inch and thecreature began to hiss and thepressure of the jaws became evenmore cruel, but I managed to thrustthem out of my skin and inch by inchI separated them until I held them at

last almost at my arms’ length andthen I thrust yet more, forcing themyet further apart, slowly, asimplacably as the Beetle itself, andthen at my arms’ length with asickening, snapping sound theybroke from its face and fell to thestone floor of the passage.

The hissing stopped.The Beetle wavered, its entire

shell of golden, fused wingstrembling, and it seemed as if thosefused wings shook as though toseparate and fly but they could not,and it pulled its head back under theshelter of the wings. It began toback away from me on its six short

legs. I leaped forward and thrust myhand under the wing shell andseized the short, tufted antennae andwith one hand on them twisting andthe other beneath the shell I slowlymanaged, lifting and twisting, toforce the struggling creature onto itsback and when it lay on its back,rocking, its short legs writhingimpotently, I drew my sword andplunged it a dozen times into itsvulnerable, exposed belly, and atlast the thing stopped squirming andlay still.

I shuddered.The odour of the golden hairs

still lingered in the passages and,

fearing I might once again succumbto whatever drug they released intothe air, I determined to make mydeparture.

The Mul-Torch began to sputter.I did not wish to resheath my

sword for it was coated with thebody fluids of the Golden Beetle.

I wondered how many more suchcreatures might dwell in similarpassages and caverns near thetunnels of the Priest – Kings.

The plastic tunic I wore did notprovide an absorbent surface withwhich to clean the blade.

I thought for a moment I mightclean it on the golden strands of the

Beetle’s strange mane but Idiscovered these were wet withfoul, glutinous exudate, the sourceof that unpleasant, narcotic odourwhich still permeated thepassageway.

My eyes fell on Vika of Treve.She had not yet made her

contribution to the business of theday.

So I tore a handful of cloth fromher garment and on this I wiped myhands and the blade.

I wondered how proud Vikawould have responded to that.

I smiled to myself for I couldalways tell her, and truthfully, that

having saved her life she was nowmine by Gorean law, so brief hadbeen her freedom, and that it was upto me to determine the extent andnature of her clothing, and indeed,whether or not she would beallowed clothing at all.

Well could I imagine her furyupon the receipt of thisannouncement, a fury notdiminished in the least by theknowledge that the words I spokewere simply and prosaical1ly true.

But now it was important to gether from the tunnels, to find her aplace of refuge and safety where Ihoped she might recover from the

venom of the Golden Beetle.I worried, for where could I find

such a place?By now it might be well known

to Sarm that I had refused to slayMisk and the Nest would no longerbe safe for me, or for anyoneassociated with me.

For whether I wished it or not myaction had placed me in the party ofMisk.

As I prepared to resheath thesword I heard a slight noise in thepassage and, in the light of the dyingMul-Torch, without moving, Iwaited.

What approached was not

another Golden Beetle, though Isupposed there might have beenseveral in those tunnels, but anotherinhabitant of those dismal passages,the whitish, long, slow, blind SlimeWorm.

Its tiny mouth on the underside ofits body touched the stone flooringhere and there like the poking fingerof a blind man and the long,whitish, rubbery body gathereditself and pushed forward andgathered itself and pushed forwardagain until it lay but a yard from mysandal, almost under the shell of theslain Beetle.

The Slime Worm lifted the

forward portion of its long, tubularbody and the tiny red mouth on itsunderside seemed to peer up at me.

“No,” I said, “the Golden Beetlehas not made a kill in this place.”

The tiny red mouth seemed tocontinue to peer at me for perhaps amoment or two more and then itslowly turned away from me to thecarcass of the Golden Beetle.

I shook myself and resheathed mysword.

I had been long enough in thisplace.

I lifted the girl Vika of Treve inmy arms. I could feel the tremble oflife in her body and the touch of her

breath on my cheek made me happy.The Mul-Torch suddenly

sputtered out leaving us in darkness.Gently I kissed her cheek.I was happy. We were both

alive.I turned and with the girl in my

arms began to trace my way slowlydown the passage.

Behind me in the darkness Icould hear the feeding of the SlimeWorm.

* * *

Although it was slow work I hadlittle difficulty in finding my way

back to where I had entered thetunnels of the Golden Beetle.

When I had entered I hadimmediately marked my passagewith small arrows scratched by thehilt of my sword at eye level on theleft side of the passages. Now, bytouch, I was able to retrace myjourney. I had made the marksbecause, unlike others who hadentered the tunnels, I fully intendedto return.

When I came to the portal whereI had entered I found it closed as Ihad known it would be and therewas, as I knew, no handle orobvious device for opening the

door on this side, for no onereturned, supposedly, from thetunnels of the Golden Beetle. Theportals were opened occasionallyto allow the Beetle its run of theNest but I had no idea when thismight occur again.

Although the portal was thick Isupposed that I might have beenheard on the outside if I hadpounded on it with the hilt of mysword.

On the other han1d I had beeninformed, graciously, by the Mulswho manned the portal that it mightnot be opened by them to releaseme once I had decided to enter. As

they put it, they were simply notpermitted to do so. It was the law ofPriest-Kings. I was not certainwhether, as a matter of fact, theywould open the door or not, but Ithought it best that both of themcould honestly report that they hadseen me enter the tunnels and hadnot seen me return.

It had been Sarm’s intentionapparently that I should enter thetunnels of the Golden Beetle anddie there and so I thought itexpedient to allow him to believe Ihad done so.

I knew the tunnels of the GoldenBeetle, like those of the Nest itself,

were ventilated and I hoped to beable to use one of the shafts to leavethe tunnels undetected. If this werenot possible I would explore thetunnels seeking some other exit, andif worse came to worst, I was surethat Vika and I, now that I knew thedangers and strengths andweaknesses of the Golden Beetle,might manage to surviveindefinitely in the tunnels, howeverdespicably, and escape eventuallywhen the portal was opened torelease yet another of the Priest-Kings’ golden assassins.

In the vicinity of the portal itself Iremembered, when I had had the

Mul-Torch, seeing a ventilationshaft some twenty or thirty yardsinside the passage and fixed in theceiling of the passage some ninefeet from the floor. A metal grillehad been bolted over the shaft but itwas fairly light and I did not expectmuch difficulty in wrenching itloose.

The problem would be Vika.I could now feel a bit of fresh air

and, in the darkness, Vika in myarms, I walked until I could feel itbest, and it seemed to be blowingdirectly down upon me. I then setVika to one side and prepared toleap up to seize the grille.

A shattering flash of energyseemed to explode in my face andburn through my body as my fingerstouched the metal grille.

Shivering and numb anddisoriented I crumpled to the floorbeneath it.

In the flash of light I had seen themesh clearly and the shaft beyondand the rings set in the shaft used byMuls who upon occasion clean theshafts and spray them withbactericides.

My limbs shaking, clouds ofyellow and red fire moving intangled afterimages across my fieldof vision in the darkness, I struggled

to my feet.I walked a bit up and down in the

shaft rubbing my arms and shakingmy head until I felt ready to tryagain.

This time, with luck, I could hookmy fingers in the grille and hang on.

I leaped again and this timemanaged to fasten my fingers in thegrille and cried out in pain turningmy face away from the heat and firethat seemed to transform its surfaceerupting over my head withtorturing, savage incandescence.Then I could no longer release thegrille had I wanted to and I hungthere agonised, a prisoner of the

charges flashing through my bodyand the bolts wrenched loose fromthe ceiling, and I fell again to thefloor, the grille clattering besideme, my fingers still hooked in itsmesh.

I pulled my hands free andcrawled in the darkness to one sideof the passage and lay down againstthe wall. My body ached andtrembled and I could not control theinvoluntary movements of itsmuscles. I shut my eyes but to noavail against the burning universesthat seemed to float and explodebefore my eyes.

I do not know if I lost

consciousness or not but I suppose Imay have for the next thing1 Iremember was that the pain hadgone from my body and that I layagainst the wall weak and sick. Icrawled to my knees and threw upin the passage. I stood up thenunsteadily and walked beneath theshaft and stood there with my headback drawing in the welcome freshair that blew down towards me.

I shook myself and moved mylimbs.

Then, gathering my strength, Ileaped up and easily seized one ofthe rings inside the chamber shaft,held it for a moment and then

released it and dropped back to thefloor.

I went to Vika’s side.I could hear the clear beat of her

heart, and the pulse was nowstrong. Perhaps the fresh air in thevicinity of the shaft was doing itspart in reviving her.

I shook her. “Wake up,” I said.“Wake up!” I shook her again,harder, but she could not regainconsciousness. I carried her beneaththe shaft and tried to hold herupright, but her legs crumpled.

Strangely I sensed that somehowwithin her she was vaguelyconscious of what was occurring.

I lifted her to her feet again andslapped her face four times,savagely, sharply. “Wake up!” Icried, but though her head jerkedfrom side to side and my hand feltafire she did not regainconsciousness.

I kissed her and lowered hergently to the floor.

I had no wish to remainindefinitely in the passage, norcould I bring myself to abandon thegirl.

There seemed to be but one thingto do.

I took off my sword belt and,rebuckling it, made a loop which I

managed to hook over the closestring in the shaft. I then removed thethongs from my sandals. With onethong I tied them together about myneck.

With the other thong I boundVika’s wrists securely togetherbefore her body and placed herarms about my neck and leftshoulder. Thus carrying her Iclimbed the sword belt and soonhad attained the first ring. Once inthe shaft I rebuckled the belt aboutmy waist and, still carrying Vika asbefore, began to climb.

After perhaps two hundred feetof climbing the rings in the shaft I

was pleased to reach two branchingshafts which led horizontally fromthe vertical shaft which I had justascended.

I removed Vika’s arms from myneck and shoulder and carried herin my arms down the shaft whichled, to the best of my reckoning, inthe general direction of the majorcomplexes of the Nest.

A slight moan escaped the girland her lips moved.

She was regainingconsciousness.

For perhaps an Ahn I carried herthrough the network of ventilationshafts, sometimes walking on the

level, sometimes climbing.Occasionally we would pass anopening in the shaft where, througha grille, I could see portions of theNest. The light entering at theseopenings was very welcome to me.

At last we came to an openingwhich gave onto something of thesort for which I was looking, arather small complex of buildings,where I saw several Muls at workbut no Priest – Kings.

I also noted, against the far wallof the brilliantly lit area, tiers andtiers of plastic cases, much like theone I had occupied in Misk’scompartment. Some of these cases

were occupied by Muls, male orfemale, sometimes both. Unlike thecase in Misk’s compartment andothers I had seen, these wereapparently locked.

Fungus, water and pellets, andwhatever else was needed, wereapparently administered to theoccupants of these cases from theoutside by the Muls who attendedthem.

I was reminded a bit of a zoowith its cages. Indeed, as I spiedthrough the grille I saw that not allof the cases were occupied byhumans but some by a variety ofother organisms, some of the types

with which I was familiar in theNest but others not, and some of theothers were, as far as I could tell,even mammals.

There was, I could see, a pair ofsleen in one case, and two larls inanother pair of cases, with a slidingpartition between them. I saw onehumanoid creature, small with areceding forehead and excessivelyhairy face and body, bounding aboutin one case, racing along andleaping with his feet against thewall and then with the momentumestablished dashing along the nextwall of the case and then droppingto the floor to repeat again this

peculiar circuit.In a vast low case, on the floor of

which apparently grew real grass, Isaw a pair of shaggy, long-hornedbosk grazing, and in the same casebut in a different corner was a smallherd, no more than five adultanimals, a proud male and fourdoes, of tabuk, the single-horned,golden Gorean antelope. When oneof the does moved I saw thatmoving beside her with dainty stepswere two young tabuk, the first Ihad ever seen, for the young of thetabuk seldom venture far from theshaded, leafy bowers of their birthin the tangled Ka-la-na thickets of

Gor. Their single horns were littlemore than velvety stubs on theirforeheads and I saw that their hide,unlike that of the adults, was amottled yellow and brown. Whenone of the attendant Muls happenedto pass near the case the two littletabuk immediately froze, becomingalmost invisible, and the mother,her bright golden pelt gleaming,began to prance away from them,while the angry male lowered hishead against the Mul and trotted in athreatening manner to the plasticbarrier.

There were several othercreatures in the cases but I am not

sure of their classification. I could,however, recognise a row of brownvarts, clinging upside down likelarge matted fists of teeth and furand leather on the heavy, bare,scarred branch in their case. I sawbones, perhaps human bones, in thebottom of their case.

There was a huge, apparentlyflightless bird stalking about inanother case. From its beak I judgedit to be carnivorous.

In another case, somnolent andswollen, I saw a rare golden hith, aGorean python whose body, evenwhen unfed, it would be difficultfor a full-grown man to encircle

with his arms.In none of these cases did I spy a

tarn, one of the great, predatorysaddle birds of Gor, perhapsbecause they do not thrive well incaptivity. To live a tarn must fly,high, far and often. A Gorean sayinghas it that they are brothers of thewind, and how could one expectsuch a creature to surviveconfinement? Like its brother thewind when the tarn is not free it hasno choice but to die.

As I gazed on this strangeassemblage of creatures in thetiered cases it seemed clear to methat I must be gazing upon one of the

vivaria of which I had heard Sarmspeak.

Such a complex might ideallyserve my purpose of the moment.

I heard a groan from Vika and Iturned to face her.

She lay on her side against thewall of the shaft, some seven oreight feet back from the grille.

The light pouring through thegrille formed a reticulated patternof shadows on her body.

I stood to one side, back a bitfrom the grille so as not to beobserved from the outside, andwatched her.

Her wrists of course were still

bound.She was very beautiful and the

brief rags that were all thatremained of her once long andlovely garment left little of herbeauty to conjecture.

She struggled to her hands andknees, her head hanging down, herhair falling over her head to thefloor of the shaft. Slowly she liftedher head and shook it, a smallbeautiful movement that threw herhair back from her face. Her eyesfell on me and opened wide indisbelief. Her lips trembled but noword escaped them.

âœs it the custom of the proud

women of Treve,âI asked, âœoappear so scantily clad beforemen?â/p>

She looked down at the brief ragsshe wore, insufficient even for aslave girl, and at her bound wrists.

She looked up and her eyes werewide and her words were scarcelya whisper. âœou brought me,âshesaid, âœrom the tunnels of theGolden Beetle.â/p>

âœes,âI said.Now that Vika was recovering I

suddenly became aware of thedifficulties that might ensue. Thelast time I had seen this womanconscious had been in the chamber

where she had tried with the snaresof her beauty to capture andconquer me for my archenemey,Sarm the Priest-King. I knew thatshe was faithless, vicious,treacherous and because of herglorious beauty a thousand timesmore dangerous than a foe armedonly with the reed of a Goreanspear and the innocence of swordsteel.

As she gazed upon me her eyesheld a strange light which I did notunderstand.

Her lips trembled. ✠ampleased to see that you live,âshewhispered.

âœnd I,âI said sternly, âœmpleased to see that you live.â/p>

She smiled ruefully.âœou have risked a great

deal,âshe said, âœo thong the wristsof a girl.â/p>

She lifted her bound wrists.âœour vengeance must be very

precious to you,âshe said.I said nothing.✠see,âshe said, âœhat even

though I was once a proud womanof the high city of Treve you havenot honoured me with binding fibrebut have bound my limbs only withthe thong of your sandal, as though Imight be the lowest tavern slave in

ArÂâ“carried off on a wager, awhim or caprice.â/p>

âœre you, Vika of Treve,âIasked, âœigher than she of whomyou speak, the lowest tavern slavein Ar?â/p>

Her astounded me. She loweredher head. âœo,âshe said, ✠amnot.â/p>

âœs it your intention to slayme?âshe asked.

I laughed.✠see,âshe said.✠have saved your life,âI said.✠will be obedient,âshe said.I extended my hands to her and

her eyes met mine, blue and

beautiful and calm, and she liftedher bound wrists and placed them inmy hands and kneeling before melowered her head between her armsand said softly, very clearly, ✠thegirl Vika of Treve submitmyselfÂâ“completelyÂâ“to the manTarl Cabot of Ko-ro-ba.â€

She looked up at me.âœow, Tarl Cabot,âshe said, âœ

am you slave girl and I must dowhatever you wish.â/p>

I smiled at her. If I had had acollar I would then have locked iton her beautiful throat.

✠have no collar,âI said.To my amazement her eyes as

they looked up into mine weretender, moist, submissive, yielding.âœonetheless, Tarl Cabot,âshe said,✠wear your collar.â/p>

✠do not understand,âI said.She dropped her head.âœpeak, Slave Girl,âI said.She had no choice but to obey.The words were spoken very

softly, very slowly, haltingly,painfully, and it must have cost theproud girl of Treve much to speakthem. ✠have dreamed,âshe said,âœince first I mey you, Tarl Cabot,of wearingÂâ“your collar and yourchains. I have dreamed since first Imet you of sleeping beneath the

slave ringÂâ“chained at the foot ofyour couch.â/p>

It seemed to meincomprehensible what she hadsaid.

✠do not understand,âI said.She shook her head sadly. âœt

means nothing,âshe said.My hand fixed itself in her hair

and gently turned her face up tomine.

✀ Master?âshe asked.My stern gaze demanded an

answer.She smiled, my hand in her hair.

Her eyes were moist. âœt meansonly,âshe said, âœhat I am your

slave girlÂâ“forever.â/p>I released her head and she

dropped it again.To my surprise I saw her lips

gently kiss the cruel leather thongwhich so tightly bound her wrists.

She looked up. âœt means, TarlCabot,âshe said, her eyes wet withtears, âœhat I love you.â/p>

I untied her wrists and kissedher.

Chapter Twenty-SixTHE SAFEKEEPING OF

VIKA OF TREVE

It was hard to believe that thegentle, obedient girl who nestled inmy arms, who had so leaped andsobbed with pleasure, was theproud Vika of Treve.

I still had not determined to mysatisfaction that she might be fullytrusted, much to her distress, and Iwould take no chances with her forI knew who she was, the banditprincess of the lofty plunderingTreve of the Voltai Range. No, Iwould take no chances with thisgirl, whom I knew to be astreacherous and vicious as thenocturnal, sinuous, predatory sleen.

âœabot,âshe begged, âœhat mustI do that you will trust me?â/p>

✠know you,âI said.âœo, dear Cabot,âshe said, âœou

do not know me.âShe shook herhead sadly.

I began to move the grille at onecorner to allow us to drop to thefloor beneath in the vivariumchamber. Fortunately this grille wasnot charged, and I had not supposedit would be.

✠love you,âshe said, touchingmy shoulder.

I pushed her back roughly.It seemed to me I now understood

her treacherous plan and something

of the same bitterness with which Ihad earlier regarded this womantended to fill my breast.

“But I do,” she said.I turned and regarded her coldly.

“You play your role well,” I said,“and nearly was I fooled, Vika ofTreve.”

“I don’t understand,” shestammered.

I was irritated. How convincingshe had been in her role of theenamoured slave girl, hopelessly,desperately mine, undoubtedlywaiting her chance to betray me.

“Be silent, Slave,” I told her.She blushed with shame and hung

her head, her hands before her face,and sank to her knees weepingsoftly, her body shaken with sobs.

For a moment I almost yielded,but I steeled myself against hertrickery and continued my work.

She would be treated with thecoldness and harshness which shedeserved as what she was, abeautiful and treacherous slave girl.

At last I moved the corner of thelarge grille sufficiently to allow meto slip through to the floor beneathand then Vika followed me and Ihelped her to the floor.

The grille snapped back intoplace.

I was rather pleased with thediscovery of the network ofventilator shafts for it suggested tome almost a private and extensivehighway to any place in the Nest Imight wish to reach.

Vika was still crying a bit, but Itook her hair and wiped her faceand told her to stop her noise. Shebit her lip and choked back a soband stopped crying, though her eyesstill brimmed with tears.

I regarded her garment which,however soiled and torn, was stillrecognisably that of a ChamberSlave.

It would never do. It would be a

clue to her identity. It would surelyprovoke curiosity, perhaps evensuspicion.

My plan was a bold one.I looked at Vika sternly. “You

must do whatever I say,” I said,“and quickly, without question.”

She hung her head. “I will beobedient,” she said softly, “–Master.”

“You will be a girl brought fromthe surface,” I said, “for you arestill unshaved, and you are to bedelivered to the vivarium on theorders of Sarm, the Priest-King.”

“I do not understand,” she said.“But you will obey,” I said.

“Yes,” she said.“I will be your keeper,” I said,

“and I am bringing you as a newfemale Mul to the breeding cases.”

“A Mul?” she asked. “Breedingcases?”

“Remove your clothing,” Icommanded, “and place your handsbehind your back.”

Vika looked at me with surprise.“Quickly!” I said.She did as I commanded and I

thonged her wrists behind her back.I then took the handful of rags she

had worn and discarded them in anearby waste container, aconvenience with1 which the Nest

was, to my mind, excessivelyprovided.

In a few moments, putting onsomething of an air of authority, Ipresented Vika to the ChiefAttendant of the Vivarium.

He looked at her unshaved headand long, beautiful hair withdisgust. “How ugly she is,” he said.

I gathered he had been bred in theNest and therein had formed hisconcepts of female beauty.

Vika, I was pleased to note, wasconsiderably shaken by hisappraisal, and I supposed it was thefirst time a man had ever lookedupon her with disfavour.

“Surely there is some mistake?”asked the Attendant.

“None,” I said. “Here is a newfemale Mul from the surface. On theorders of Sarm shave her and clotheher suitably and place her in abreeding case, alone and locked.You will receive further orderslater.”

It was a most miserable andbewildered Vika of Treve whom Ibundled into a small butcomfortable plastic case on thefourth tier of the Vivarium. Shewore the brief tunic of purpleplastic allotted to female Muls inthe nest and save for her eyelashes

her hair had been completelyremoved.

She saw her reflection in the sideof her plastic case and screamedmthrowing her hands before her face.

Actually she was not unattractiveand she had a well-shaped head.

It must have been a great shockfor Vika to see herself as she nowwas.

She moaned and leaned againstthe side of the case, her eyesclosed.

I took her briefly in my arms.This seemed to surprise her.She looked up at me. “What have

you done to me?” she whispered.

I felt that I might tell her what Ihad done was perhaps to save herlife, at least for a time, but I did notsay this to her. Rather I lookedsternly down into her eyes and saidsimply, “What I wished.”

“Of course,” she said, lookingaway bitterly, “for I am only a slavegirl.”

But then she looked up at me andthere was no bitterness in her eyes,no reproach, only a question. “Buthow can I please my Master,” sheasked, “– like this?”

“It pleases me,” I said.She stepped back. “Ah yes,” she

said, “I forgot – your vengeance.”

She looked at me. “Earlier,” shesaid, “I thought-” but she did notfinish her sentence and her eyesclouded briefly with tears. “MyMaster is clever,” she said,straightening herself proudly. “Hewell knows how to punish atreacherous slave.”

She turned away.I heard her voice from over her

shoulder and I could see herreflection in the side of the plasticcase before which she stood. “Am Inow to be abandoned?” she asked.“Or are you not yet done with me?”

I would have responded, in spiteof my better judgment, to reassure

her of my intentions to free her assoon as practicable, and to tell herthat I believed her greatest chanceof safety lay in the anonymity of aspecimen in the Vivarium, but itwould have been foolish to informher, treacherous as she was, of myplans, and fortunately there was noopportunity to do so because theChief Attendant at that momentapproached the case and handed mea leather loop on which dang1ledthe key to Vika’s case.

“I will keep her well fed andwatered,” said the Attendant.

At these words Vika suddenlyturned to face me, desperately, her

back against the plastic side of thecase, the palms of her hand againstit.

“I beg of you, Cabot,” she said,“please do not leave me here.”

“It is here you will stay,” I said.In my hand she saw the key to her

case.She shook her head slowly,

numbly. “No, Cabot,” she said, “–please.”

I had made my decision and Iwas now in no mood to debate thematter with the slave girl, so I didnot respond.

“Cabot,” she said, “– what if myrequest were on the lips of a

woman of High Caste and of one ofthe high cities of all Gor – couldyou refuse it then?”

“I don’t understand,” I said.She looked about herself at the

plastic walls, and shivered. Hereyes met mine. I could see that notonly did she not wish to stay in thisplace but that she was terrified todo so.

Suddenly she fell on her knees,her eyes filled with tears, andextended her hands to me. “Look,Warrior of Ko-ro-ba,” she said, “awoman of High Caste of the loftycity of Treve kneels before you andbegs you that you will not leave her

here.”“I see at my feet,” I said, “only a

slave girl.” And I added, “And it ishere that she will stay.”

“No, no,” said Vika.Her eyes were fixed on the key

that dangled from the leather loop inmy hand.

“Please-” she said.“I have made mu decision,” I

said.Vika fell to her hands and

slumped to the floor moaning,unable to stand.

“She is actually quite beautiful,”said the Attendant, appraisingly.

Vika looked up at him dully as

though she could not comprehendwhat he had said.

“Yes,” I said, “she is quitebeautiful.”

“It is amazing how properclothing and a removal of thethreadlike growths improve afemale Mul,” observed theAttendant.

“Yes,” I agreed, “it is trulyamazing.”

Vika lowered her head to thefloor again and moaned.

“Is there another key?” I askedthe Attendant.

“No,” he said.“What if I should lose this?” I

asked.“The plastic of the case,” said

the Attendant, “is cage plastic andthe lock is a cage lock, so it wouldbe better not to lose it.”

“But if I should?” I asked.“In time I think we could cut

through with heat torches,” said theAttendant.

“I see,” I said. “Has it ever beendone?” I asked.

“Once,” said the Attendant, “andit took several months but there isno danger because we feed andwater them from the outside.”

“Very well,” I said.“Besides,” said the Attendant, “a

key is never lost. Nothing in theNest is ever lost.” He laughed. “Noteven a Mul.”

I smiled, but rather grimly.Entering the case I checked the

containers of fungus.Vika had now regained her feet

and was wiping her eyes with herarm in one corner of the case.

“You can’t leave me her, Cabot,”she said, quite simply as thoughvery sure of it.”

“Why not?” I asked.She looked at me. “For one

thing,” she said, “I belong to you.”“I think my property will be safe

here,” I said.

“You’re joking,” she said,sniffing.

She watched me lift the lids ofthe fungus containers. The materialsin the containers seemed fresh andof good sort.

“What is in the containers?” sheasked.

“Fungus,” I said.“What for?” she asked.“You eat it,” I said.“Never,” she said. “I’ll starve

first.”“You will eat it,” I said, “when

you are hungry enough.”Vika looked at me with horror

for a moment and then, to my

astonishment, she laughed. Shestood back against the rear of thecase scarcely able to stand. “OhCabot,” she cried with relief,reproachingly, “how frightened Iwas!” She stepped to my side andlifted her eyes to mine and gentlyplaced her hand on my arm. “Iunderstand now,” she said, almostweeping with relief, “but youfrightened me so.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.She laughed. “Fungus indeed!”

she sniffed.“It’s not bad when you get used

to it,” I said, “but on the other handit is not really particularly good

either.”She shook her head. “Please,

Cabot,” she said, “your joke hasgone far enough.” She smiled.“Have pity,” she said, “if not onVika of Treve – on a poor girl whois only your slave.”

“I’m not joking,” I told her.She did not believe me.I checked the tube of Mul-Pellets

and the inverted jar of water. “Wedo not have the luxuries in the Nestthat you had in your chamber,” Isaid, “but I think you will managequite well.”

“Cabot,” she laughed, “please!”I turned to the Attendant. “She is

to have a double salt ration eachevening,” I told him.

“Very well,” he said.“You will explain to her the

washings?” I asked.“Of course,” he said, “and the

exercises.”“Exercises?” I asked.“Of course,” he said, “it is

important to exercise inconfinement.”

“Of course,” I admitted.Vika came up behind me and

placed her arms around me. Shekissed me on the back of the neck.She laughed softly. “You have hadyo1ur joke, Cabot,” she said, “now

let us leave this place for I do notlike it.”

There was no scarlet moss in thecase but there was a straw mat onone side. It was better than the oneshe had had in her own chamber.

I looked about the case and itseemed that everything, consideringthe circumstances, was quitecomfortable.

I stepped to the door and Vika,holding my arm, smilingand lookingup into my eyes, accompanied me.

At the door I stopped and as shemade as if to pass through the doormyhand on her arm stopped her.

“No,” I said, “you remain here.”

“You are joking,” she said.“No,” I said, “I am not.”“Yes you are!” she laughed,

clinging ever more tightly to myarm.

“Release my arm,” I said.“You cannot seriously mean to

leave me here,” she said, shakingher head. “No,” she said, “you can’t– you simply can’t leave me here,not Vika of Treve.” She laughedand looked up at me. “I simply willnot permit it,” she said.

I looked at her.The smile fled from her eyes and

the laugh died in her lovely throat.“You will not permit it?” I asked.

My voice was the voice of herGorean master.

She removed her hand from myarm and stepped back, trembling,her eyes frightened. The colour haddrained from her face. “I did notthink of what I was saying,” shesaid.

Terrified, she, as the expressionis, knelt to the whip, assuming theposition of the slave girl who is tobe punished, her wrists crossedbeneath her as though bound and herhead touching the floor, leaving thebow of her back exposed.

“I have no wish to punish you,” Isaid.

Bewildered she lifted her headand there were tears in her eyes.

“Beat me if you wish,” shebegged, “but please – please – takeme with you.”

“I told you,” I said, “my decisionhas been made.”

“But you could change yourdecision, Master,” she said,wheedling, “– for me.”

“I do not,” I said.Vika struggled to restrain her

tears. I wondered if this wereperhaps the first time in her life in amatter of importance to her that shehad not had her way with a man.

At a gesture from me she rose

timidly to her feet. She wiped hereyes and looked at me. “May yourgirl ask a question, Master?” sheasked.

“Yes,” I said.“Why must I stay here?” she

asked.“Because I do not trust you,” I

said simply.She reacted as if struck and tears

welled in her eyes. I could notunderstand why this assertion ofmine should have troubled one ofVika’s proud and treacherous naturebut she seemed somehow more hurtthan if I had administered to herwhen she had knelt the blows of a

slave whip or the lashings of mysword belt.

I looked upon her.She stood, very much alone, in

the centre of the smooth plasticcase, numb, not moving. There weretears in her eyes.

I was forced to remind myself inno uncertain terms of the clevernessof this consummate actress, andhow so many men had weakened toher insidious blandishments. Yet Iknew that I would not weaken,though I was sorely tempted tobelieve that she might be trusted,that the feelings she expressed weretruly those she felt.

“Is this,” I asked, “how youchained men to your slave ring?”

“Oh Cabot,” she moaned,“Cabot-”

Saying nothing further I steppedoutside.

Vika shook her head slowly andnumbly looked about herselfdisbelievingly – at the mat, the jarof water, the canisters along thewall.

I reached up to slide the plasticdoor downward.

This gesture seemed to shakeVika and her entire frame suddenlytrembled with all the panic of abeautiful, trapped animal.

“No!” she cried. “PleaseMaster!”

She rushed across the case andinto my arms. I held her for amoment and kissed her and her kissmet mine wet and warm, sweet andhot and salty with the tears that hadcoursed down her cheeks and then Idrew her back and she stumbledacross the case and fell to her kneesagainst the wall on the oppositeside. She turned to face me there, onher hands and knees. She shook herhead in denial of what washappening and her eyes filled withtears. She lifted her hands to me.“No, Cabot,” she said. “No!”

I slid the plastic door down andclicked it into place.

I turned the key in the lock andheard the firm, heavy snap of themechanism.

Vika of Treve was my prisoner.With a cry she leaped to her feet

and threw herself against the door,her face suddenly wild with tears,and pounded on it madly with hersmall fists. “Master! Master!” shecried.

I slung the key on its leather looparound my neck.

“Good-bye, Vika of Treve,” Isaid.

She stopped pounding on the

plastic partition and stared out atme, her face stained with tears, herhands pressed against the plastic.

The to my amazement she smiledand wiped back a tear, and shookher head as though to throw the hairfrom her eyes and smiled at thefoolishness of the gesture.

She looked out at me.“You are truly leaving,” she said.I could hear her coice through the

vent holes in the plastic.It did not sound much different.“Yes,” I said.“I knew before,” she said, “that I

was truly your slave but I did notknow until now that you were truly

my master.” She looked up at methrough the plastic, shaken. “It is astrange feeling,” she said, “to knowthat someone – truly – is yourmaster, to know that not only has hethe right to do with you as hepleases but that he will, that yourwill is nothing to him, that it is yourwill and not his that must bend, thatyou are hopeless and must – andwil l – do what he says, that youmust obey.”

It made me a bit sad to hear Vikarecount the woes1 of femaleslavery.

Then to my astonishment shesmiled up at me. “It is good to

belong to you, Tarl Cabot,” shesaid. “I love belonging to you.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.“I am a woman,” she said, “and

you are a man, and stronger than Iam and I am yours and this youknew and now I have learned ittoo.”

I was puzzled.Vika dropped her head. “Every

woman in her heart,” said Vika,“wants to wear the chains of aman.”

This seemed to me quitedoubtful.

Vika looked up and smiled. “Ofcourse,” she said, “we would like

to choose the man.”This seemed to me only a bit less

doubtful.“I would choose you, Cabot,” she

said.“Women wish to be free,” I told

her.“Yes,” she said, “we also wish

to be free.” She smiled. “In everywoman,” she said, “there issomething of the Free Companionand something of the Slave Girl.”

I wondered at the things she saidto me for they seemed strange,perhaps more so to my ears thanthey would have to one bred andraised from infancy as a Gorean,

one as much accustomed to thesubmission of women as to the tidesof the gleaming Thassa or thephases of the three moons.

As the girl spoke and I tried tolightly dismiss her words Iwondered at the long processesofevolution that had nurtured overthousands of generations what hadin time become the human kind. Iwondered of the struggles of myown world as well as on Gor,struggles which over millennia hadshaped the blood and inmost beingof my species, perhaps conflictsover tunnels in cliffs to be foughtwith the savage cave bear, long

dangerous weeks spent hunting thesame game as the sabre-toothedtiger, perhaps years spent protectingone’s mate and brood from thedepredations of carnivores and theraids of one’s fellow creatures.

As I thought of our primevalancestor standing in the mouth of hiscave one hand gripping a chippedstone and perhaps the other a torch,his mate behind him and his younghidden in the mosses at the back ofthe cave I wondered at the geneticgifts that would insure the survivalof man in so hostile a world, and Iwondered if among them would notbe the strength and the

aggressiveness and the swiftness ofeye and hand and the courage of themale and on the part of the woman –what?

What would have been thegenetic truths in her blood withoutwhich she and accordingly manhimself might have been overlookedin the vicious war of a species toremain alive and hold its place onan unkind and savage planet?

It seemed possible to me that onetrait of high survival value might bethe desire on the part of the womanto belong – utterly – to a man.

It seemed clear that womanwould, if the race were to survive,

have to be sheltered and defendedand fed – and forced to reproduceher kind.

If she were too independent shewould die in such a world and ifshe did not mate her race woulddie.

That she might survive it seemedplausible that evolution would havefavoured not only the womanattractive to men but the one whohad an unusual set of traits – amongthem perhaps the literallyinstinctual desire to be his, tobelong to him, to seek him out forher mate and submit herself to h1im.Perhaps if she were thrown by her

hair to the back of the cave and raedon furs in the light of the animal fireat its mouth this would have been toher little more than the proof of hermate’s regard for her, the expectedculmination of her innate desire tobe dominated and his.

I smiled to myself as I thought ofthe small things on my old worldthat at such remoteness perhapsreenacted the ancient ceremony ofthe caves, the carrying of the brideover the threshold, perhaps as aprisoner, the tiny wedding bands,perhaps a small reminder of theprimitive thongs that bound thewrists of the first bride, or perhaps

later of the golden manaclesfastened on the wrists of thedaughters of kings, captive maidensled in triumph through cheeringstreets to the bondage of slave girls.

Yes, I said to myself, the wordsVika spoke were perhaps not asstrange as I had thought.

I looked at her gently. “I mustgo,” I said.

“When I first saw you, Cabot,”she said, “I knew you owned me.”She looked up at me. “I wanted tobe free but I knew that you ownedme – I knew that I was from thatmoment your slave; your eyes toldme that I was owned and my most

secret heart acknowledged it.”I turned to go.“I love you, Tarl Cabot,” she

said suddenly, and then, as thoughconfused and perhaps a bitfrightened, she suddenly droppedher head humbly. “I mean-” shesaid, “I love you – Master.”

I smiled a Vika’s very naturalcorrection of her mode ofaddressing me, for a slave girl isseldom permitted, at least publicly,to address her master by his name,only his title. The privilege of usinghis name, of having it on her lips,is, according to the most approvedcustom, reserved for that of a free

woman, in particular a FreeCompanion. Gorean thinking on thismatter tends to be expressed by thesaying that a slave girl grows boldif her lips are allowed to touch thename of her master. On the otherhand, I, like many Gorean masters,provided the girl was not testing orchallenging me, and provided thatfree women, or others, were notpresent whom I had no wish tooffend or upset, preferred as amatter of fact to have my own nameon the girl’s lips, for I think, withacknowledged vanity, that there arefew sounds as pleasurable as thesound of one’s own name on the

lips of a beautiful woman.Vika’s eyes were worried and

her hands moved as though shewanted to touch me through theplastic.

“May I ask,” she queried, “wheremy master goes?”

I considered the matter andsmiled at her.

“I go,” I said, “to give Gur to theMother.”

“What does that mean?” sheasked, wide-eyed.

“I don’t know,” I said, “but Iintend to find out.”

“Must you go?” she asked.“Yes,” I replied, “I have a friend

who may be in danger.”“A slave girl is pleased,” she

said, “that such a man as you is hermaster.”

I turned to go.I heard her voice over my

shoulder. “I wish you well,Master,” she said.

I briefly turned to face her againand almost unconsciously I kissedthe tips of my fingers and pressedthem against the plastic. Vika kissedthe plastic opposite where myfingers had touched.

She was a strange girl.Had I not known how vicious and

deceitful she was, how cruel and

treacherous, I might have permittedmyself a word of kindness to her. Iregretted that I had touched theplastic for it seemed to express aconcern for her which I hadintended to mask.

Her performance had beensuperb, almost convincing. She hadalmost led me to believe she cared.

“Yes,” I said, “Vika of Treve –Slave Girl – you play your partwell.”

“No,” she said, “no – Master – Ilove you!”

Angered at how nearly I had beendeceived I laughed at her.

Now undoubtedly realising her

game was known she covered hereyes with her hands and sankweeping to her knees behind theheavy transparent plastic partition.

I turned away, having moreimportant things to attend to than thefaithless wench from Treve.

“I will keep the female Mul wellfed and watered,” said theAttendant.

“If you wish,” I said, and turnedaway.

Chapter Twenty-SevenIN THE CHAMBER OF

THE MOTHER

It was still the Feast of Tola.Though the time was now past

the fourth feeding.It was almost eight Gorean Ahn,

or about ten Earth hours, since I hadseparated from Misk and Mul-Al-Ka and Mul-Ba-Ta early thismorning.

The transportation disk whichhad originally taken me to thechamber where I had found Misk Ihad taken to the entrance of thetunnels of the Golden Beetle and Ithought it well that it should staythere, as if witnessing my entrance

and my supposed failure to return.I was less pleased to have left

the translator with the disk but itseemed the better thing to do, forone would not have taken atranslator into the tunnels of theGolden Beetle and if it were foundmissing from the disk it mightoccasion speculation not that I hadreturned from the tunnels of theGolden Beetle but more likely that Ihad only pretended to enter. Theword of the two Muls by the portalmight or might not carry weightwith their Priest-King Masters.

I had not walked far from theVivarium before I was able to

regather my general directions inthe Nest and, as I walkedimpatiently along, I spied atransportation disk docked, so tospeak, hovering on its cushion ofgas, outside one of the tall steelportals of the Hall ofCommissaries. The disk was, ofcourse, untended, for in theenclosed, regulated life of the Nesttheft, save for an occasional handfulof salt was unknown.

Therefore I may have beensetting something of a precedentwhen I leaped on the transportationdisk and stepped to the acceleratorstrips.

I was soon gliding rapidly downthe hall on my, let us say,considering the significance andurgency of my mission,commandeered vehicle.

I had not gone more than a pasangor so when I spun the disk to a stopbefore another portal in the Hall ofCommissaries. I entered the portaland in a few moments emergedwearing the purple of a Mul. Theclerk, at my request writing downthe expense to Sarm, informed methat I would promptly have to havethe new tunic imprinted with thescent-patterns p1ertaining to myidentity, record-scars, etc. I assured

him I would give the matter seriousconsideration and departed, hearinghim congratulate me on my goodfortune in having been permitted tobecome a Mul rather than having toremain a lowly Matok. “You willnow be of the Nest as well as in it,”he beamed.

Outside I thrust the red plasticgarment I had worn into the firstdisposal chute I found whence itwould be whisked awaypneumatically to the distantincinerators that burned somewherebelow the Nest.

I then leaped again on thetransportation disk and swept away

to Misk’s compartment.There I took a few minutes to

replenish my energies from thecontainers of Mul-Fungus and I tooka long welcome draught of waterfrom the inverted jar in my case. AsI ate the fungus and sat in the case Iconsidered my future course ofaction. I must try to find Misk.Probably to die with him, or to diein the attempt to avenge him.

My thoughts wandered to Vika inher own case, though hers, unlikemine, was her prison. I fingered thekey to her case which hung on itsleather loop about my throat. Ifound myself hoping that she might

not be too distressed by hercaptivity, and then I scorned myselfthis weakness and insisted to myselfthat I welcomed the thought thatwhatever miseries she enduredwould be richly deserved. Idropped the metal key back insidemy tunic. I considered the heavy,transparent case on the fourth tier ofthe Vivarium. Yes, the hours wouldbe long and lonely for the caged,shorn Vika of Treve.

I wondered what had become ofMul-Al-Ka and Mul-Ba-Ta. They,like myself, having disobeyedSarm, were now outlaws in theNest. I hoped they might be able to

hide and find or steal enough foodto live. I did not give much for theirchances but even a piteousalternative to the dissectionchambers was welcome.

I wondered about the young malePriest-King in the secret chamberbelow Misk’s compartment. Isupposed my best way of servingMisk might be to abandon him to hisdeath and try to protect the youngmale, but these were matters inwhich I had little interest. I did notknow the location of the female eggnot could I have tended it had Iknown; and, further, that the race ofPriest-Kings should wither and die

did not seem the proper business ofa human, particularly consideringmy hatred for them, and myrejection of their mode of regulatingin so many important respects thelives of men in this world. Had theynot destroyed my city? Had they notscattered its people? Had they notdestroyed men by Flame Death andbrought them, willing or no, to theirown world on the Voyages ofAcquisition? Had they notimplanted their control nets inhuman beings and spun the hideousmutations of the Gur Carriers off thestock of which I was a specimen?Did they not regard us as a lower

order of animal and one suitablyplaced at the disposal of their loftyexcellence? And what of the Mulsand the Chamber Slaves and allthose of the human kind who wereforced to serve them or die? No, Isaid to myself, it is good for mykind that Priest-Kings should die.But Misk was different, for he wasmy friend. There was Nest Trustbetween us and accordingly, as awarrior and a man, I stood ready togive my life for him.

I checked the sword in its sheathand left Misk’s compartment,stepped to the transportation diskand swept silently, rapidly, down

the tunnel in the direction in which Iknew lay the Chamber of theMother.

I had spent but a few Ehn on thedisk before I came to the barricadeof heavy steel bars which separatedthose portions of the Nest open toMuls from those which wereprohibited to them.

There was a Priest-1King onguard whose antennae wavedquizzically about as I drew the diskto a stop not twelve feet from him.His head was garlanded by awreath of green leaves as had beenthat of Sarm, and also, like Sarm,there was about his neck, as well as

his translator, the ceremonial stringof tiny metal tools.

It took a moment for me tounderstand the Priest-King’sconsternation.

The tunic I wore carried noscent-patterns and for a moment hehad thought that the transportationdisk I rode was actually without adriver.

I could see the lenses of thecompound eyes almost flickering asit strained to see, much as we mighthave strained to hear some smallsound.

His reactions were almost thosethat a human might have had if he

could hear something in the roomwith him but had not yet been ableto see it.

At last his antennae fastened onme but I am sure the Priest – Kingwas annoyed that he did not receivethe strong signals he would have if Ihad been wearing my own scent-infixed tunic. Without the tunic I hadworn I probably did not seem muchdifferent to him from any other maleMul he had encountered in the Nest.To another human, of course, myhair alone, which is a shaggy, brightred, would have been a clearlyrecognisable feature, but Priest-Kings, as I may have indicated, tend

to have extremely casual visualdiscrimination and are, moreover, Iwould gather, colour blind. Thecolours that are found in the Nestare always in the areas frequentedby Muls. The only Priest-King inthe Nest who could have recognisedme immediately, and perhaps froma distance, was probably Misk,who knew me not as a Mul but as afriend.

“You are undoubtedly the NobleGuard of the Chamber where I mayhave my tunic fixed with scent-marks,” I called jovially.

The Priest-King seemed relievedto hear me speak.

“No,” he said, “I guard theentrance to the tunnels of theMother, and you may not enter.”

Well, I said to myself, this is theright place.

“Where can I have my tunicmarked?” I inquired.

“Return to whence you came andinquire,” said the Priest-King.

“Thank you, Noble One!” I criedand turned the transportation diskalmost as if it had a vertical centralaxis and sped off. I glanced ove rmyshoulder and I could see the Priest– King still straining to sense me.

I quickly turned the disk down aside tunnel and began to hunt for a

ventilator shaft.In perhaps two or three Ehn I

found one which appeared to bequite suitable. I drove the diskabout half a pasang away andstopped it by an open portal withinwhich I could see busy Mulsstirring vats of bubbling plasticwith huge wooden paddles.

I quickly retraced my steps to theventilator shaft, pried open thebottom of the grille, squeezedinside and soon found myselfmaking my way rapidly through theventilating system in the directionof the Chamber of the Mother.

From time to time I would pass

an opening in the shaft and peer out.From one of these openings I couldsee that I was already behind thesteel barricade with its Priest-Kingguard, who was standing as I wouldhave expected, in that almostvertical, slender golden fixity thatwas so characteristic of his kind.

There was no sound to celebratethe Feast of Tola but I had littledifficulty in locating the scene ofthe celebration1 for I soonencountered a shaft, one of thosethrough which used air is pumpedout of the tunnels, which was rich inunusual and penetrating scents, of asort which my stay with Misk had

taught me were regarded by Priest-Kings as being of great beauty.

I followed these scents and soonfound myself peering into animmense chamber. Its ceiling wasonly perhaps a hundred feet high butits length and width wereconsiderable and it was filled withgolden Priest-Kings, garlanded ingreen and wearing about their necksthat shining, jangling circle of tiny,silverish tools.

There were perhaps a thousandPriest-Kings in the Nest, and Isupposed that this might be almostall the Priest-Kings in the Nest,save perhaps those that might be

essentially placed at a fewminimum posts, such as the guard atthe steel barricade and perhapssome in the Scanning Chamber or,more likely, the Power Plant.

Much of the business of the Nest,of course, even relatively technicalmatters, was carried on by trainedMuls.

The Priest-Kings stoodmotionless in great circling, tieredrows which spread concentricallyoutward as though from a stage inan ancient theatre. To one side Icould see four Priest-Kingshandling the knobs of a large scent-producer, about the size of a steel

room. There were perhaps hundredsof knobs on each side and onePriest-King on each side with greatskill and apparent rhythm touchedone knob after another in intricatepatterns.

I had little doubt but that thesePriest-Kings were the most highlyregarded musicians of the Nest, thatthey should be chosen to playtogether on the great Feast of Tola.

The antennae of the thousandPriest-Kings seemed almostmotionless so intent were they onthe beauties of the music.

Inching forward I saw, on theraised platform at this end of the

room, the Mother.For a moment I could not believe

that it was real or alive.It was undoubtedly of the Priest-

King kind, and it now wasunwinged, but the most incrediblefeature was the fantastic extent ofthe abdomen. Its head was littlelarger than that of an ordinaryPriest-King, or its thorax, but itstrunk was conjoined to an abdomenwhich if swollen with eggs mighthave been scarcely smaller than acity bus. But now this monstrousabdomen, depleted and wrinkled,no longer possessing whatevertensility it might once have had, lay

collapsed behind the creature like aflattened sack of brownly tarnishedgolden ancient leather.

Even with the abdomen emptyher legs could not support itsweight and she lay on the dais withher jointed legs folded beside her.

Her colouring was not that of anormal Priest-King but darker,more brownish, and her and thereblack stains discoloured her thoraxand abdomen.

Her antennae seemed unalert andlacked resilience. They lay backover her head.

Her eyes seemed dull and brown.I wondered if she were blind.

It was a most ancient creature onwhich I gazed, the Mother of theNest.

It was hard to imagine her,uncounted generations ago, withwings of gold in the open air, in theblue sky of Gor, glistening andturning with her lover borne on thehigh, glorious, swift winds of thisdistant, savage world. How goldenshe would have been.

There was no male, no Father ofthe Nest, and I supposed the malehad died, or had not lived long afterher mating. I wondered if, amongPriest-Kings, he would have helpedher, or if there would have been

others from the former Nest, or ifshe alone would have fallen toearth, to eath the wings that hadborne her, and to burrow beneaththe mountains to begin the lonelywork of the Mother, the creation ofthe new Nest.

I wondered why there had notbeen more females.

If Sarm had killed them, how wasit that the Mother had not learned ofthis and had him destroyed?

Or was it her wish that thereshould be no others?

But if so why was she, if it weretrue, in league with Misk toperpetuate the race of Priest-Kings?

I looked again through the grilleon the shaft. It opened about thirtyfeet over the floor of the chamberand a bit to one side of the Platformof the Mother. I surmised theremight be a similar shaft on the otherside of her platform, knowing thesymmetry that tends to mark theengineering aesthetics of Priest-Kings.

As the musicians continued toproduce their rhapsodic, involute,rhythms of aroma on the scent-producer, one Priest – King at atime, one after the other, wouldslowly stalk forward and approachthe Platform of the Mother.

There, from a great golden bowl,about five feet deep and with adiameter of perhaps twenty feet,setting on a heavy tripod, he wouldtake a bit of whitish liquid,undoubtedly Gur, in his mouth.

He took no more than a taste andthe bowl, though the Feast of Tolawas well advanced, was stillalmost brimming. He would thenapproach the Mother very slowlyand lower his head to hers. Withgreat gentleness he would thentouch her head with his antennae.She would extend her head to himand then with a delicacy hard toimagine in so large a creature he

would transfer a tiny drop of theprecious fluid from his mouth tohers. He would then back away andreturn to his place where he wouldstand as immobile as before.

He had given Gur to the Mother.I did not know at the time but Gur

is a product originally secreted bylarge, grey, domesticated,hemispheric arthropods which are,in the morning, taken out to pasturewhere they feed on special Simplants, extensive, rambling, tangledvine-like plants with huge, rollingleaves raised under square energylamps fixed in the ceilings of thebroad pasture chambers, and at

night are returned to their stablecells where they are milked byMuls. The special Gur used on theFeast of Tola is, in the ancientfashion, kept for weeks in the socialstomachs of specially chosenPriest-Kings to mellow and reachthe exact flavour and consistencydesired, which Priest-Kings arethen spoken of as retaining Gur.

I watched as one Priest-King andthen another approached the Motherand repeated the Gur Ceremony.

I was perhaps the first humanwho had ever beheld this ceremony.

Considering the number ofPriest-Kings and the time it took for

each to give Gur to the Mother, Iconjectured that the ceremony musthave begun hours ago. Indeed, it didnot seem incredible to me at all thatthe giving of Gur might well last anentire day.

I was already familiar with theastounding patience of Priest-Kingsand so I was not surprised at thealmost total lack of movement in thelines of that golden pattern, formedof Priest-Kings, which radiated outfrom the Platform of the Mother.But I now understood as I observedthe slight, lmost enraptured tremourof their antennae responding to thescent – music of the musicians that

this was no1t a simpledemonstration of their patience buta time of exaltation for them, ofgathering, of bringing the Nesttogether, of reminding them of theircommon, remote origins and theirlong, shared history, of remindingthem of their very being and nature,of what they perhaps alone in all theuniverse were – Priest-Kings.

I looked at the golden rows ofPriest-Kings, alert, immobile, theirheads wreathed in green leaves,about their necks dangling the tiny,primitive, silverish tools telling ofa distant, simpler time before theScanning Chamber, the Power Plant

and the Flame Death.I could not to my emotional

satisfaction conjecture theancientness of this people on whichI gazed, and I could but dimlyunderstand their powers, what theymight feel, what they might hope ofdream, supposing that so old andwise a people were still akin to thesimple dream, the vagrant,insuppressible perhaps, folly ofhope.

The Nest, had said Sarm, iseternal.

But on the platform before whichthese golden creatures stood therelay the Mother, perhaps blind,

almost insensate, the large, feeblething they revered, weak, brownish,withered, the huge worn body atlast wrinkled and empty.

You are dying, Priest-Kings, Isaid to myself.

I strained my eyes to see if Icould pick out either Sarm or Miskin those golden rows.

I had watched for perhaps anhour and then it seemed that theceremony might be over, for someminutes passed and no furtherPriest-Kings approached theMother.

Then almost at the same time Isaw Sarm and Misk together.

The rows of the Priest-Kingsseparated forming an aisle down themiddle of the chamber and thePriest-Kings now stood facing thisaisle, and down the aisle togethercame Sarm and Misk.

I gathered that perhaps this wasthe culmination of the Feast of Tola,the giving of Gur by the greatest ofthe Priest – Kings, the First FiveBorn, save that of that number therewere only two left, the First Bornand the Fifth, Sarm and Misk. As itturned out later I was correct in thissurmise and the moment of theceremony is known as the March ofthe First Five Born, in which these

five march abreast to the Motherand give her Gur in inverse order oftheir priority.

Misk of course lacked the wreathof green leaves and the chain oftools about his neck.

If Sarm were disturbed at findingMisk, whom he thought to have hadkilled, at his side, he gave no signto this effect.

Together, in silence to humanears but to the swelling intensitiesof scent-music, in stately, stalkingprocession the two Priest-Kingsapproached the Mother, and I sawMisk, first, dip his mouth to thegreat golden bowl on its tripod and

then approach her.As his antennae touched her head

her antennae lifted and seemed totremble and the ancient, brownishcreature lifted her head and on herready tongue from his own mouthMisk, her child, delicately and withsupreme gentleness placed aglistening drop of Gur.

He backed away from her.Now did Sarm, the First Born,

approach the Mother and dip hisjaws too to the golden bowl andstalk to the Mother and place hisantennae gently on her head, andonce again the old creature’santennae lifted but this time they

seemed to retract.Sarm placed his jaws to the

mouth of the Mother but she did notlift her head to him.

She turned her face away.The scent-music suddenly

stopped and the Priest-Kingsseemed to rustle as though anunseen wind had suddenly stirredthe leaves of autumn and I heardeven the surprised jangling of thosetiny metal tools.

Well could I now read the signsof consternation in the rows ofPriest-Kings, the startled antennae,the shifting of the supportingappendages, the sudden intense

inclination of the head and body, thestraining of the antennae toward thePlatform of the Mother.

Once again Sarm thrust his jawsat the face of the Mother and onceagain she moved her head awayfrom him.

She had refused to accept Gur.Misk stood by, immobile.Sarm pranced backwards from

the Mother. He stood as thoughstunned. His antennae seemed tomove almost randomly. His entireframe, that long, slender goldenblade, seemed to shudder.

Trembling, with none of thatdelicate grace that so typically

characterises the movements ofPriest-Kings, he once again tried toapproach the Mother. Hismovements were awkward,uncertain, clumsy, halting.

This time even before he wasnear her she again turned aside thatancient, brownish, discolouredhead.

Once again Sarm retreated.Now there was no movement

among the rows of Priest-Kings andthey stood in that uncanny frozenstance regarding Sarm.

Slowly Sarm turned towardMisk.

No longer was Sarm trembling or

shaken but he had drawn his frameto its full and golden height.

Before the Platform of theMother, facing Misk, rearingperhaps two feet over him, Sarmstood with what, even for a Priest-King, seemed a most terriblequietude.

For a long moment the antennaeof the two Priest-Kings regardedone another and then Sarm’santennae flattened themselves overhis head and so, too, did Misk’s.

Almost at the same time thebladelike projections on theirforelegs snapped into view.

Slowly the Priest-Kings began to

circle one another in a ritual moreancient perhaps even than the Feastof Tola, a ritual perhaps older thaneven the days and objectscelebrated by the string of metaltools that hung jangling about theneck of Sarm.

With a speed that I still find hardto comprehend Sarm rushed uponMisk and after a blurring moment Isaw them on their posteriorsupporting appendages lockedtogether rocking slowly back andforth, trying to bring those greatgolden, laterally chopping jaws intoplay.

I knew the unusual strength of

Priest-Kings and I could wellimagine the stresses and pressuresthat throbbed in the frames of thoselocked creatures as they rockedback and forth, to one side andanother, each pressing and seekingfor the advantage that would meandeath to the other.

Sarm broke away and began tocircle again, and Misk turnedslowly, watching him, his antennaestill flattened.

I could now hear the sucking inof air through the breathing – tubesof both creatures.

Suddenly Sarm charged at Miskand slashed down at him with one

of those bladelike projections onhis forelegs and leaped away evenbefore I saw the green-filled woundopening on the left side of one ofthose great, compound l1uminousdisks on Misk’s head.

Again Sarm charged and again Isaw a long greenish-wet openingappear as if by magic on the side ofMisk’s huge golden head, and againSarm, whose speed was almostunbelievable, leaped away beforeMisk could touch him and wasagain circling and watching.

Once more Sarm leaped to attackand this time a green-flowingwound sprang into view on the right

side of Misk’s thorax in theneighbourhood of one of the brain-nodes.

I wondered how long it wouldtake to kill a Priest-King.

Misk seemed stunned and slow,his head dropped and the antennaeseemed to flutter, exposingthemselves.

I noted that already the greenexudate which flowed from Misk’swounds was turning into a green,frozen sludge on his body, stanchingthe flow from the wounds.

The thought crossed my mind thatMisk, in spite of his apparentlybroken and helpless condition, had

actually lost very little body fluid.I told myself that perhaps the

stroke in the vicinity of the brain-nodes had been his undoing.

Cautiously Sarm watched Misk’sfluttering, piteous, exposedantennae.

Then slowly one of Misk’s legsseemed to give way beneath himand he tilted crazily to one side.

In the frenzy of the battle I hadapparently failed to note the injuryto the leg.

Perhaps so too had Sarm.I wondered if Sarm, considering

Misk’s desperate condition andplight, would offer quarter.

Once again Sarm leaped in, hisbladed projection lifted to strike,but this time Misk suddenlystraightened himself promptly onthe leg which had seemed to failhim and whipped his antennae backbehind his head an instant beforethe stroke of Sarm’s blade andwhen Sarm struck he found hisappendage gripped in the hooklikeprojections on the end of Misk’sforeleg.

Sarm seemed to tremble and hestruck with his other foreleg but thisone too Misk seized with his otherforeleg and once again they stoodrocking on their posterior

appendages for Misk, havinglearned their strengths in the firstgrappling, and lacking the swiftnessof Sarm, had decided to close withhis antagonist.

Their jaws locked together, thegreat heads twisting.

Then with a force that might havebeen that of clashing, goldenglaciers Misk’s jaws tightened andturned and suddenly Sarm wasthrown to his back beneath him andin the instant Sarm struck the floorMisk’s jaws had slipped their gripto the thick tube about which hungthe string of Tola’s silverish tools,that tube that separated the head

from the thorax of Sarm, what on ahuman would have been the throat,and Misk’s jaws began to close.

In that instant I saw the bladelikeprojections disappear from the tipsof Sarm’s forelegs and he foldedhis forelegs against his body andceased resistance, even lifting hishead in order to further expose thecrucial tube that linked thorax withhead.

Misk’s jaws no longer closed buthe stood as if undecided.

Sarm was his to kill.Though the translator which still

hung about Sarm’s neck with thestring of silverish tools was not

turned on I would not have neededit to interpret the desperate odour-signal emitted by the First Born. Itwas, indeed, though shorte1r andmore intense, the first odour-signalthat had ever been addressed to me,only then it had come from Misk’stranslator in the chamber of Vika.Had the translator been turned on, Iwould have heard “Lo Sardar” – “Iam a Priest-King”.

Misk removed his jaws from thethroat of Sarm and stepped back.

He could not slay a Priest-King.Misk slowly turned away from

Sarm and with slow, delicate stepsapproached the Mother, before

whom he stood, great chunks ofgreenish coagulated body fluidmarking the wounds on his body.

If he spoke to her or she to him Idid not detect the signals.

Perhaps they merely regardedone another.

My interest was more with Sarm,whom I saw lift himself withdelicate menace to his fourposterior appendages. Then to myhorror I saw him remove thetranslator on its chain from histhroat and wielding this like a maceand chain he rushed upon Misk andstruck him viciously from behind.

Misk’s legs slowly bent beneath

him and his body lay on the floor ofthe chamber.

Whether he was dead or stunnedI could not tell.

Sarm had drawn himself up againto his full height and like a goldenblade he stood behind Misk andbefore the Mother. He looped thetranslator again about his throat.

I sensed a signal from theMother, the first I had sensed, and itwas scarcely detectable. It was,“No”.

But Sarm looked about himself tothe golden rows of immobile Priest-Kings who watched him and then,satisfied, he opened those great,

laterally moving jaws and advancedslowly on Misk.

At that instant I kicked loose thegrille on the ventilator shaft anduttering the war cry of Ko-ro-basprang to the Platform of the Motherand in another instant had leapedbetween Sarm and Misk, my sworddrawn.

“Hold, Priest-King!” I cried.Never before had a human set

foot in this chamber and I knew notif I had committed sacrilege but Idid not care, for my friend was indanger.

Horror coursed through the ranksof the assembled Priest – Kings and

their antennae waved wildly andtheir golden frames shook withrage, and hundreds of them musthave simultaneously turned on theirtranslators for I heard almostimmediately from everywherebefore me the contrastingly calmtranslation of their threats andprotests. Among the words I heardwere “He must die,” “Kill him,”“Death to the Mul”. I almost had tosmile in spite of myself for theunmoved, unemotional emissions ofthe translators seemed so much atodds with the visible agitation ofthe Priest-Kings and the dire importof their messages.

But then, from the Mother herself,behind me, I sensed once again thetransmission of negation, and Iheard on the thousand translatorsthat faced me, the single expression“No”. It was not their message, butthat of she who lay brown andwrinkled behind me. “No.”

The rows of Priest-Kings seemedto rustle in confusion and anguishbut in a moment, incredibly enough,they were as immobile as ever,standing as if statues of goldenstone, regarding me.

Only from Sarm’s translatorcame a message. “It will die,” hesaid.

“No,” said the Mother, hermessage being caught andtransmitted by Sarm’s owntranslator.

“Yes,” said Sarm, “it will die.”“No,” said the Mother, the

message coming again from Sarm’stranslator.

“I am the First Born,” said Sarm.“I am the Mother,” said she who

lay behind me.“I do what I wish,” said Sarm.He looked around him at the

rows of silent, immobile Priest –Kings and found none to challengehim. Now the Mother herself wassilent.

“I do what I wish,” came againfrom Sarm’s translator.

His antennae peered down at meas though trying to recognise me.They examined my tunic but foundon it no scent-markings.

“Use your eyes,” I said to him.The golden disks on his great

globular head seemed to flicker andthey fastened themselves upon me.

“Who are you?” he asked.“I am Tarl Cabot of Ko-ro-ba,” I

said.Sarm’s bladelike projections

snapped viciously into view andremained exposed.

I had seen Sarm in action and I

knew that his speed was incredible.I hoped I would be able to see hisattack. I told myself it wouldprobably come for the head or thethroat, if only because these were,from his height, easier to reach andhe would wish to kill me quicklyand with little difficulty, for hewould surely regard his mainbusiness as the slaying of Misk,who still lay, either dead orunconscious, behind me.

“How is it,” asked Sarm, “thatyou have dared to come here?”

“I do what I wish,” I told him.Sarm straightened. The bladelike

projections had never been

withdrawn. His antennae flattenedthemselves over his head.

“It seems that one of us mustdie,” said Sarm.

“Perhaps,” I agreed.“What of the Golden Beetle?”

asked Sarm.“I killed it,” I said. I gestured to

him with my sword. “Come,” I said,“let us make war.”

Sarm moved back a step.“It is not done,” he said, echoing

words I had heard once from Misk.“It is a great crime to kill one.”

“It is dead,” I said. “Come, let usmake war.”

Sarm moved back another step.

He turned to one of the closestPriest-Kings. “Bring me a silvertube,” he said.

“A silver tube to kill only aMul?” asked the Priest-King.

I saw the antennae of several ofthe Priest-Kings curling.

“I spoke in jest,” said Sarm to theother Priest-King, who made noresponse but, unmoving, regardedhim.

Sarm approached me again. Heturned his translator down.

“It is a great crime to threaten aPriest-King.” He said.

“Let me kill you quickly or I willhave a thousand Muls sent to the

dissection chambers.”I thought about this of a moment.

“If you are dead,” I asked, “How,will you have th1em sent to thedissection chambers?”

“It is a great crime to kill aPriest-King,” said Sarm.

“Yet you would slay Misk,” Isaid.

“He is a traitor to the nest,” saidSarm.

I lifted my voice, hoping that thesound waves would carry to thosetransducers that were the translatorsof the Priest-Kings.

“It is Sarm,” I called, “who is atraitor to the Nest, for this Nest will

die, and he has not permitted thefounding of a new nest.”

“The Nest is eternal,” said Sarm.“No,” said the Mother, and the

message again came from Sarm’sown translator, and was echoed athousand times by those of the otherPrises-Kings in the great chamber.

Suddenly with a vicious, almostincalculable speed Sarm’s rightbladed projection flashed towardmy head, I hardly saw it coming butan instant before its flight began Ihad seen the tremor of a fiber in hisshoulder and I knew the signal forits strike had been transmitted.

I counterslashed.

And when the swift living bladeof Sarm was still a full yard frommy throat it met the lightning steelof a Gorean blade that had oncebeen carried at the siege of Ar, thathad met and withstood andconquered the steel of Pa-Kur,gor’s Master Assassin, until thattime said to be the most skilledswordsman on the planet.

A hideous splash of greenishfluid struck me in the face and Ileaped aside, in the same movementshaking my head and wiping theback of my fist across my eyes.

In an instant I was again onguard, my vision cleared, but I saw

that Sarm was now some fifteenyards or more away and wasslowly turning and turning in whatmust have been some primitive,involuntary dance of agony. I couldsense the intense, weird odors ofpain uncarried by his translator,which now filled the chamber.

I returned to the place where Ihad struck the blow.

To one side I saw the bladedprojection lying at the foot of one ofthe low stone tiers on which Priest-Kings stood.

Sarm had thrust the stub of hisforeleg beneath his shoulder and itseemed frozen there in the

coagulating green slush thatemanated from the wound.

Shaking with pain, his entireframe quivering, he turned to faceme, but he did not approach.

I saw that several Priest-Kingswho stood behind him began toedge forward.

I raised my blade, resolved todie well.

Behind me I sensed something.Glancing over my shoulder I saw

the welcome, now standing goldenform of Misk.

He placed one foreleg on myshoulder.

He regarded Sarm and his

cohorts, and his great laterallychopping jaws opened and closedonce.

The golden Priest-Kings behindSarm did not advance further.

Misk’s message to Sarm wascarried on Sarm’s own translator.“You have disobeyed the Mother,”said Misk.

Sarm said nothing.“Your Gur has been refused,”

said Misk. “Go.”Sarm seemed to tremble and so,

too, did1 those Priest-Kings whostood behind him.

“We will bring silver tubes,”said Sarm.

“Go,” said Misk.Suddenly, strangely carried on

the many translators in the room,were the words, “I remember him— I have never forgotten him — inthe sky — in the sky — he withwings like showers of gold.”

I could not understand this butMisk, paying no attention to Sarm,or his cohorts or the other Priest-Kings, rushed to the Platform of theMother.

Another Priest-King and thenanother pressed more closely and Iwent with them to the platform.

“Like Showers of gold,” shesaid.

I heard the message on thetranslators of Priest-Kings who,like Misk, approached the platform.

The ancient creature on theplatform, brown and wrinkled,lifted her antennae, and surveyedthe chamber and her children.“Yes,” she said, “he had wings likeshowers of gold.”

The Mother is dying,” said Misk.This message was echoed by

every translator in the room and athousand times again and again asthe Priest-Kings repeated it indisbelief to one another.

“It cannot be,” said one.“The Nest is eternal,” said

another.The feeble antennae trembled. “I

would speak,” she said, “with himwho saved y child.”

It was strange to me to hear herspeak of the powerful, goldencreature Misk in such a way.

I went to the ancient creature.“I am he,” I said.“Are you a Mul?” she asked,“No,” I said, “I am free,”“Good,” she said.At this moment two Priest-Kings

carrying syringes pressed throughtheir brethren to approach theplatform.

When they made as though to

inject her ancient body in what musthave been yet another in a thousandtimes, she shook her antennae andwarned them off.

“No,” she said.One of the Priest-Kings prepared

to inject the serum despite herrefusal to accept it but Misk’sforeleg rested on his and he did notdo so.

The other Priest-King who hadcome with a syringe examined herantennae and the brown, dull eyes.

He motioned his companionaway. “It would make a differenceof only a few Ehn,” he said.

Behind me I heard one of the

Priest-Kings repeat over and over,“The Nest is eternal,”

Misk placed a translator on theplatform beside the dying creature.

“Only he,” said the Mother.Misk motioned away the

physicians and the other Priest-Kings and set the translator on theplatform at its lowest volume. Iwondered how long the scent-message, whatever it was to be,would linger in the air beforefading into an unrecognisable blueof scent to be drawn through theventilator system and dispelledsomewhere far above among theblack crags of the treeless, frozen

Sardar.I bent my ear to the trans1lator.At the low volume I received the

message the other translators in theroom would not be likely to pick itup and transduce the sounds intoodor – signals.

“I was evil,” said she.I was astounded.“I wanted to be,” said the brown,

dying creature, “the only Mother ofPriest-Kings, and I listened to myFirst Born who wanted to be theonly First Born of a Mother ofPriest-Kings.”

The old frame shook, thoughwhether with pain or sorrow, or

both, I could not tell.“Now,” she said, “I die and the

race of Priest-Kings must not diewith me.”

I could barely hear the wordsfrom the translator.

“Long ago,” she said, “Misk, mychild, stole the egg of a male andnow he has hidden it from Sarm andothers who do not wish for there tobe another Nest.”

“I know,” I said softly.“Not long ago,” said she,

“perhaps no more than four of yourcenturies, he told me of what he haddone and of his reasons for doingso.” The withered antennae

trembled, and the thin brownthreads on them lifted as thoughstirred by a chill wind, the passingfoot of mortality. “I said nothing tohim but I considered what he hadsaid, and I thought on this matter,and at last — in league with theSecond Born, who has sincesuccumbed to the Pleasures of theGolden Beetle, I set aside a femaleegg to be concealed from Sarmbeyond the Nest.”

“Where is this egg?” I asked.She seemed not to understand my

question and I was afraid for her asI saw her ancient brown carcassbegin to shake with spasmodic

tremors, which I feared mightherald the close of that vast life.

One of the physicians rushedforward and thrust the long syringedeep through her exoskeleton intothe fluids of her thorax. He drewout the syringe and held hisantennae to hers for a moment. Thetremors subsided

He withdrew and stood watchingus from some distance away, notmoving, as still as the others, like athousand statues of tortured gold.

Once again a sound came frommy translator. “The egg was takenfrom the Nest by two humans,” shesaid, “men who were free – like

yourself – not Muls – and hidden.”“Where was it hidden?” I asked.“These men,” she said, “returned

to their own cities speaking to noone as they had been commanded.In this undertaking on behalf ofPriest-Kings they had been unitedand together had suffered manydangers and privations and haddone their work well as brothers.”

“Where is the egg?” I repeated.“But their cities fell to warring,”

said the withered ancient one, “andthese men in battle slew one anotherand with them died the secret as faras it was known among men.” Thehuge, tarnished head lying on the

stone platform tried to lift itself butcould not. “Strange is your king,”she said. “Half larl, half Priest-King.”

“No,” I said, “half larl, halfman.”

She said nothing for a time. Thenonce again the voice of thetranslator was heard.

“You are Tarl Cabot of Ko-ro-ba,” she said.

“Yes,” I sai1d.“I like you,” she said.I knew not how to respond to this

and so I said nothing.The old antennae stretched

froward, inching themselves toward

me and I took them gently in myhands and held them.

“Give me Gur,” she said.Amazed, I stepped away from her

and went to the great golden bowlon its heavy tripod and took out afew drops of the precious liquid inthe palm of my hand and returned toher.

She tried to lift her head but stillcould not do so. Her great jawsmoved slowly apart and I saw thelong, soft tongue that lay behindthem.

“You wish to know of the egg,”she said.

“If you wish to tell me,” I said.

“Would you destroy it?” sheasked.

“I don’t know,” I said.Gently I placed my hand between

those huge ancient jaws and withmy palm I touched her tongue thatshe might taste what adhered to it.

“Go to the Wagon Peoples, Tarlof Ko-ro-ba,” she said. “Go to theWagon Peoples.”

“But where is it?” I asked.Then before my horrified eyes

the carcass of that ancient she beganto shiver and tremble and I stoodback as she struggled to myamazement to her feet and rearedherself to the height of a Priest-

King, her antennae extended to theirvery lengths as though grasping,clutching, trying to sense something,though what she sought I did notknow, but in her sudden fantasticstrength, the gasp of her deliriumand power, she seemed suddenlythe Mother of a great race, verybeautiful and very strong andsplendid.

And from a thousand translatorsrang the message she cried out overthose golden heads to the blankstone ceiling and walls of herchamber and I shall never forget itas it was in all the sorrow and thejoy of her trembling dying

magnificence; I and all could read itin the attitude of her body, thealertness of the forelegs, thesuddenly sensing antennae, even inthose dull brown disks which hadbeen eyes and now seemed to be forthat one last moment luminousagain. The voice of the translatorswere simple and quiet andmechanical. The message was givento my ears, as would have been anymessage. It said: “I see him, I seehim, and his wings are like showersof gold.”

Then slowly the great form sankto the platform and the body nolonger trembled and the antennae

lay limp on the stone.Misk approached her and

touched her gently with hisantennae.

He turned to the Priest-Kings.“The Mother is dead,” he said.

Chapter Twenty-EightGRAVITATIONAL

DISRUPTION

WE WERE IN THE FIFTH weekof the War in the Nest and the issuestill hung in balance.

After the death of the Mother,

Sarm and those who followed him,most of the Priest-Kings for he wasFirst Born, fled from the chamber tofetch, as it was said, silver tubes.

These were charged, cylindricalweapons, manually operated butincorporating principles much1 likethose of the flame DeathMechanism. Unused, they had lainencased in plastic quivers for amatter of centuries and yet whenthese quivers were broken open andthe weapons seized up by angryPriest-Kings they were as ready fortheir grim work as they had beenwhen first they were stored away.

I think with one such weapon a

man might have made himself Ubarof all Gor.

Perhaps there were only ahundred Priest-Kings who rallied tothe call of Misk and among themwere no more than a dozen silvertubes.

The headquarters for the forcesof Misk lay in his compartment andthere, pouring over the scent mapsof the tunnels, he directed theplacement of his defenses.

Thinking to overcome us withlittle difficulty the forces of Sarm,mounted on transportation disks,swept through the tunnels andplazas, but the Priest-Kings of

Misk, hidden in rooms, concealedbehind portals, firing from theramps and the roofs of the buildingsin the open complexes, soon tookfierce toll of Sarm’s unwary andoverconfident troops.

In such war the much largerforces of the First Born tended to beneutralized and a situation ofinfiltration and counterinfiltrationdeveloped, marked by frequentsniping and occasional skirmishes.

On the second day of the secondweek of battle, after the forces ofSarm had withdrawn, I, armed withsword and silver tube, mounted atransportation disk and swept

through the no man’s land ofunoccupied tunnels toward theVivarium.

Although constantly on the alert Isaw no sign of enemy forces, noreven of Muls or Matoks of variouskinds. The Muls, I supposed,terrified and confused, hadscattered and hidden themselves intheir cases, living on their fungusand water, while over their headshissed the weapons of their masters.

Therefore it was much to mysurprise when I heard a distantsinging in the tunnel that grewlouder as I approached and soon Islowed the transportation disk and

waited, my weapon ready.As I waited, the tunnel and, as I

later learned, the entire complex,were suddenly plunged intodarkness. The energy bulbs, for thefirst time in centuries perhaps, hadbeen shut down.

And yet there was not an instant’spause in that singing nor thedropping of a beat or tempo. It wasas if the darkness made nodifference.

And as I waited on the still diskin the darkness, my weapon ready, Isuddenly saw far down the tunnelthe sudden blue flash of an openedMul-Torch and then its steady

blaze, and then I saw another flashand blaze and another and to myamazement it seemed that these fireshung from the very ceiling of thetunnel.

It was the carriers of Gur but farfrom the Gur chamber and Iwatched with something of awe asthe long procession of humanoidcreatures, two abreast, marchedalong the ceiling of the tunnel untilthey stopped above me.

“Greetings, Tarl Cabot,” said avoice from the floor of the tunnel.

I had not even seen him to thismoment so intent had I been on thestrange procession about me.

I read the mark on his tunic.“Mul-Al-Ka!”I cried.

He came to the disk and seizedmy hand firmly.

“Al-Ka,” said he. “I havedecided I am no long a Mul.”

“Then Al-Ka it is!” I cried.Al-Ka raised his arm and

poin1ted to the creatures above us.“They too,” said Al-Ka, “have

decided they will be free.”A thin voice yet strong, almost

like that of something that was atonce and old man and a child, rangout above me.

“We have waited fifteenthousand years for this moment,” its

said.And another voice called out.

“Tell us what to do.”I saw that the creatures above

me, whom I shall now speak of asGur Carriers, for they were nolonger Muls, still carried theirsacks of golden leather.

“They bring not Gur,” said Al-Ka, “but water and fungus.”“Good,” I said, “but tell them thatthis war is not theirs, but that ofPriest-Kings, and that they mayreturn to the safety of theirchambers.”

“The nest is dying,” said one ofthe creatures hanging above me,

“and we have determined that wewill die free.”

Al-Ka looked at me in the light ofthe hanging torches.

“They have decided,” he said.“Very well,” I said“I admire them, said Al-Ka, “for

they can see a thousand yards in thedarkness by the light of a singleMul-Torch and they can live on ahandful of fungus and a wallow ofwater a day and they are very braveand proud.”

“Then,” said I, “I too admirethem.”

I looked at Al-Ka. “Where isMul-Ba-Ta?” I asked. It was the

first time I had ever seen the twomen separated.

“He has gone to the Pastures andthe Fungus Chambers,” said Al-Ka.

“Alone?” I asked.“Of course,” said Al-Ka, “for the

lights have been shut down. Priest-Kings do not need lights, buthumans are handicapped withoutit.”

“Then,” I said, “the lights havebeen shut down because of theMuls.”

“The Muls are rising,” said Al-Ka simply.”

“They will need light,” I said.“There are humans in the Nest

who know of these matters,” saidAl-Ka. “The lights will be on againas soon as the equipment can bebuilt and the power fed into thesystem.”

The calmness with which hespoke astonished me. After all, Al-Ka, and other humans of the Nest,with the exception of the GurCarriers, would never have knowndarkness.

“Where are you going?” askedAl-Ka.

“To one of the vivaria,” I said,“to fetch a female Mul.”

“That is a good idea,” said Al-Ka. “Perhaps I too will some day

fetch a female Mul.”And so it was a strange

procession that followed thetransportation disk, now happilypiloted by Al-Ka, down he tunnel tothe Vivarium.

In the dome of the Vivarium,holding a Mul-Torch, I walked upthe ramps to the fourth tier, notingthat the cages had been emptied, butI suspected that there would be onethat would have remained locked.

And there was, and in this casethough it had been seared as if anattempt had been made to open it Ifound Vika of Treve.

She crouched in the corner of the

ca1se away from the door in thedarkness and through the plastic Isaw her in the blue radiance of theMul-Torch.

She crept to her feet holding herhands before her face and I couldsee her trying to see and yet protecther eyes from the glare.

Even shorn she seemed to meincredibly beautiful, veryfrightened, in the brief plasticsheath that was the only garmentallotted to female Muls.

I took the metal key from the looparound my neck and turned theheavy mechanism of the case lock.

I hurled the plastic partition

upward opening the case.“— Master?” she asked.“Yes,” I said.A soft cry of joy escaped her

lips.She stood before me blinking

against the light of the Mul-Torch,trying to smile.

Yes as she stood there sheseemed also to be frightened and tomy surprise she dared not approachthe door though it now stood open.

She looked rather at me.Her eyes were apprehensive, not

knowing what I would do nor why Ihad returned to the case.

And her fears were not lessened

as she looked beyond me to see thecreatures, undoubtedly hideous toher eyes, who clung spiderlike tothe ceiling of the Vivarium chamberwith their glowing Mul-Torches.

“Who are they?” she whispered.“Unusual men,” I saidShe regarded the small round

bodies and the long limbs with thecushioned feet and the long-fingeredhands with their heavy palms.

Hundreds of pairs of those great,round dark eyes stared at her.

She shivered.Then she looked again at me.She dared ask no question but

submissively knelt, as befitted her

station, and bowed her head.The case, I said to myself, has

taught Vika of Treve much.Before her head fell I had read in

her eyes the silent, desperate pleasof the rightless, helpless slave girlthat her master, he who owns her,he who holds her chain, might bepleased to be kind to her.

I wondered if I should take herfrom the case.

I saw her shoulders tremble asshe awaited my decision as to herfate.

I no longer wished her to beconfined her now that I betterunderstood how matters stood in the

Nest. I thought, even in spite of thecage plastic, she might be saferwith the forces of Misk. Moreover,the Vivarium Attendants were goneand the other cages were empty andso it would only be a matter of timebefore she would starve. I did notwish to return periodically to theVivarium to feed her and Isupposed, if necessary, somesuitable confinement might be foundfor her near Misk’s headquarters. Ifno other choice seemed practical Isupposed I could always keep herchained in my own case.

Kneeling before me Vika’sshoulders shook but she dared not

raise her head to read her fate in myeyes.

I wished that I could trust her butI knew that I could not.

“I have returned for you, Vika ofTr e v e — Slave Girl,” I saidsternly,” — to take you from thecase.”Slowly, her eyes radiant, her lipstrembling, Vika lifted her head tome.

“Thankyou Master,” she saidsoftly, humbly. Tears welled in hereyes.

“Call me Cabot,” I said, “as wasyour wont.”

On Gor I had not minded owning

women as much as I should havebut I had never been overly fond ofbeing addressed by the title ofMaster.

It was enough to be Master.The women I had owned, Sana,

Talena, Lara and others of whom Ihave not written, Passion Slavesrented for the hour in the PagaTaverns of Ko-ro-ba and Ar,Pleasure salves bestowed on me intoken of hospitality for a night spentin a friend’s compartments, hadknown that I was master and thathad been sufficient.

On the other hand I have nevertruly objected to the title because I

had not been long on Gor before Iunderstood, for some reason that isnot yet altogether clear to me, thatthe work “Master’ canindescribably thrill a girl when shefinds it on her lips, now those of aslave girl, and knows that it is true.Whether or not this would be thesame with the girls of Earth I do notknow.

“Very well, Cabot my Master,”said Vika.

As I looked into the eyes of VikaI saw there the tears of relief andgratitude but I saw too the tears ofanother emotion, infinitely tenderand vulnerable, which I could not

read.She knelt in the position of the

Pleasure Slave but her hands on herthighs had unconsciously,pleadingly, turned their palms tome, and she no longer knelt quiteback on her heels. It was as thoughshe begged to be allowed to lift andopen her arms and rise and come tomy arms. But as I looked upon hersternly she turned her palms againto her thighs, knelt back on herheels and dropped her head,holding her eyes as if by force ofwill fixed on the plastic beneath mysandals.

Her entire body trembled with

the ache of her desire.But she was a slave girl and dare

not speak.I looked down at her sternly.

“Look up, Slave Girl,” I said.She looked up.I smiled.“To my lips, Slave Girl,” I

commanded.With a cry of joy she flung

herself into my arms weeping.“I love you, Master,” she cried.

“I love you, Cabot my Master!”I knew the words she spoke

could not be true but I did notrebuke her.

It was no longer in my heart to be

cruel to Vika of Treve, no matterwho or what she might be.

After some minutes I said to her,rather sternly, “I have no time forthis,” and she laughed and steppedback.

I turned and left the case andVika, as was proper, fell into stephappily two paces behind me.

We walked down the ramp to thetransportation disk.

Al-Ka closely scrutinised Vika.“She is very healthy,” I said.“Her legs do not look too

strong,” said Al-Ka, regarding thatlovely thighs, calves and ankles ofthe slave girl.

“But I do not object,” I said.“Nor do I,” said Al-Ka. “After

all, you can always have her run upand down and that will strengthenthem.”

“That is true,” I said.“I think some day,” he said, “I

too will fetch a female Mul.” Thenhe added, “But one with strongerlegs.”

“A good idea,” I said.Al-Ka guided the transportation

disk out of the Vivarium and webegan the journey toward Misk’scompartment, the Gur Carriersfollowing overhead.

I held Vika in my arms. “Did you

know,” I asked, “that I would returnfor you?”

She shivered and looked ahead,down the darkened tunnel.

“No,” she said, “I knew only thatyou would do what you wished.”

She looked up at me.“Maya poor slave girl beg,” she

whispered softly, “that she be againcommanded to your lips?”

“It is so commanded,” I said, andher lips again eagerly sought mine.

It was later in the same afternoonthat Mul-Ba-Ta, now simply Ba-Ta,made his appearance, leading longlines of former Muls. They came

from the Pastures and the FungusChambers and they, like the GurCarriers, sang as they came.

Some men from the FungusChambers carried on their backsgreat bags filled with choicespores, and other labored under theburdens of huge baskets of freshlyreaped fungus, slung on polesbetween them; and those from thePastures drove before them withlong pointed goads huge, shamblinggray arthropods, the cattle of Priest-Kings; and others from the Pasturescarried in long lines on theirshoulders the ropelike vines of theheavy-leaved Sim plants, on which

the cattle would feed.“We will have lamps set up

soon,” said Ba-Ta. “It is merely amatter of changing the chambers inwhich we pasture.”

“We have enough fungus to last,”said one of the Fungus growers,“until we plant these spores andreap the next harvest.”

“We burned what we did nottake,” said another.

Misk looked on in wonder asthese men presented themselves tome and marched past.

“We welcome your aid, “he said,“but you must obey Priest-Kings.”

“No,” said one of them, “we no

longer obey Priest-Kings,”“But,” said another, “we will

take our orders from Tarl Cabot ofKo-ro-ba.”

“I think you would be welladvised,” I said, “to stay out of thiswar between Priest-Kings.”

“Your war is our war,” said Ba-Ta.

“Yes,” said one of the Pasturers,who held a pointed goad as thoughit might be a spear.

One of the Fungus Growerslooked up at Misk. “We were bredin this Nest,” he told the Priest-King, “and it is ours as well asyours.”

Misk’s antennae curled.“I think he speaks the truth,” I

said.“Yes,” said Misk, “that is why

my antennae curled. I too think hespeaks the truth.”

And so it was that the formerMuls, humans, bringing with themthe basic food supplies of the1Nest, began to flock to the side ofthe Priest-King Misk and his fewcohorts.

The battle would, I supposed,given the undoubted stores of foodavailable to Sarm and his forces,ultimately hinge on the firepower ofthe silver tubes, of which Misk’s

side had few, but still I conjecturedthat the skills and courage of formerMuls might yet play their part in thefierce issues to be decided in thatsecret Nest that lay beneath theblack Sardar.

As Al-Ka had predicted, theenergy bulbs in the Nest, exceptwhere they had actually beendestroyed by the fire of Sarm’ssilver tubes, came on again.

Former Mul engineers, trained bythe Priest-Kings, had constructed anauxiliary power unit and had fed itsenergy into the main system.

When the lights flickered andthen burst into clear, vital radiance

there was a great cheer from thehumans in Misk’s camp, with theexception of the Gur Carriers towhom the energy bulbs were not ofgreat importance.

Intrigued by the hardness of thecage plastic encountered in theVivarium I spoke to Misk and heand I, together with other Priest-Kings and humans, armoured a fleetof transportation disks, whichwould be extremely effective if asilver tube were mounted in themand which, even if not armed, mightyet serve acceptably as scoutingvehicles or relatively safetransports. The fiery blast of the

silver tubes would wither andwrinkle the plastic but unless theexposure were rather lengthy theycould not penetrate it. And a simpleheat torch, as I had earlier leaned,could scarcely mark the obduratematerial.

In the third week of the War,equipped with the armouredtransportation disks, we began tocarry the battle to the forces ofSarm, though they still outnumberedus greatly.

Our intelligence was vastlysuperior to theirs and the networksof ventilation shafts provided thequick nimble men of the Fungus

Chambers and the uncanny GurCarriers access to almost anywherein the Nest they cared to go.Moreover, all former Muls whofought with us were clad in scent-free tunics, which in effect suppliedthem with a most effectivecamouflage in the Nest. Forexample, at different times,returning from a raid, perhapsbringing another captured silvertube, no longer needed by one ofSarm’s slain cohorts, I would findmyself unremarked even by Miskthought I might stand but feet fromhim.

Somewhat to their

embarrassment but for their ownsafety the Priest-Kings who hadjoined Misk wore painted on theback and front of their thorax theblock letter which in the Goreanalphabet would be the first letter ofMisk’s name. Originally some ofthem had objected to this but after afew had almost stepped on thesilent Gur Carriers, or wanderedunbeknownst beneath them, some ofthe spidery humanoids being armedperhaps with silvers tubes, theiropinions changed and they becamezealous to have the letter paintedboldly and repainted promptly if itshowed the least signs of fading. It

unnerved the Priest-Kings to passunknowingly within feet of, say, apale, agile fellow from the FungusChambers, who might be crouchingin a nearby ventilator shaft with aheat torch, who might have burnedtheir antennae for them if he hadpleased; or to suddenly findthemselves surrounded by a ring ofquiet herdsmen who might at asignal transfix them with a dozen ofthe spearlike cattle goads.

Together the humans and thePriest-Kings of Misk made aremarkable effective fighting team.What sensory data might escapetheir antennae might well be

discovered by the sharp-eyedhuman, and what subtle sent mightescape the human senses wouldlikely be easily picked up by thePriest-King in the group. And asthey f1ought together they came, ascreatures will, to respect oneanother and to rely on one another,becoming, incredibly enough,friends. Once a brave Priest-Kingof Misk’s forces was slain and thehumans who had fought with himwept. Another time a Priest-Kingbraved the fire of a dozen silvertubes to rescue one of the spideryGur Carriers who had been injured.

Indeed in my opinion, the greatest

mistake of Sarm in the War in theNest was in his poor handling of theMuls.

As soon as it became clear tohim that the Muls of the FungusChambers and pastures, and the GurCarriers, were coming over to Miskhe apparently assumed, for no goodreason, that all Muls in the Nestwere to be regarded as enemies.Accordingly he set aboutsystematically exterminating thosewho fell within the ranges of hissilvers tubes and this drove manyMuls, who would undoubtedly haveserved him, and well, into Misk’scamp.

With these new Muls, not fromthe Fungus Chambers and thePastures, but from the complexes ofthe Nest proper, came a newmultitude of capacities and talents.Further, from reports of theseincoming Muls, the food sources ofthe Priest-Kings of Sarm were notas extensive as we had supposed.Indeed, many of the canisters offungus now in the stores of Sarmwere canisters of simples MulFungus taken from the cases of Mulswho had been killed or fled.Rumour had it that the only Mulswhom Sarm had not ordered slainon sight were the implanted Ones,

among whom would be suchcreatures as Parp, whom I had metlong ago when first I entered thelair of the Priest-Kings.

One of the most marvellous ideasto further our cause was providedby Misk who introduced me to whatI had only heard rumoured before,the Priest-Kings’ mastery of thepervasive phenomena of gravity.

“Would it not be useful at times,”he asked, “if the armouredtransportation disk could fly?”

I thought he joked, but I said,“Yes, at times it would be veryuseful.”

“Then we shall do it,” said Misk,snapping his antennae.

“How?” I asked.“Surely you have noted the

unusual lightness of thetransportation disk for its size?” heasked.

“Yes,” I said.“It is,” he said, “built with a

partially gravitationally resistantmetal.”

I admit I laughed.Misk looked at me with

puzzlement.“Why do you curl your

antennae?” he asked.“Because,” I said, “there is no

such things as a gravitationallyresistant metal.”

“But what of the transportationsdisk?” he asked.

I stopped laughing.Yes, I asked myself, what of the

transportation disk?I looked at Misk. “Response to

gravity,” I said to him, “is as mucha characteristic of material objectsas size and shape.”

“No,” said Misk.“Therefore,” I said, “there is no

such thing as a gravitationallyresistant metal.”

“But there is the transportationdisk,” he reminded me.

I thought Misk was mostannoying. “Yes,” I said, “there isthat.”

“On your old 1world,” saidMisk, “gravity is still as unexploreda natural phenomenon as electricityand magnetism once were, and yetyou have mastered to some extentthose phenomena — and we Priest-Kings have to some extent masteredgravity.”

“Gravity is different,” I said.“Yes, it is,” he said, “and that is

why perhaps you have not yetmastered it. Your own work withgravity is still in the mathematicaldescriptive stage, not yet in the

stage of control and manipulation.”“You cannot control gravity,” I

said, “the principles are different; itis pervasive; it is simply there to bereckoned with.”

“What is gravity?” asked Misk.I thought for some time. “I don’t

know.” I admitted.“I do,” said Misk, “let us get to

work.”In the fourth week of the War in

the Nest our ship was outfitted andarmoured. I am afraid it was ratherprimitive, except that the principleson which it operated were far moreadvanced than anything nowavailable to Earth’s, as I now

understand, somewhat painfullyrudimentary science. The ship wassimply a transportation disk whoseunderside was coated with cageplastic and whose top was atransparent dome of the samematerial. There were controls in theforward portion of the ship andports about the sides for silvertubes. There were no propellers orjets or rockets and I find it difficultto understand or explain the drivesave that it used forces of gravityagainst themselves in such a waythat the amount, if one may use soinept an expression for thegravitational primitive, remains

constant though redistributed. I donot think force, or charge, or any ofthe other expressions which occurto one’s mind is a good translationfor Ur, and I prefer to regard it asan expression best left untranslated,though perhaps on could say that Uris whatever it was that satisfied thegravitational equations of Misk.Most briefly the combined driveand guidance system of the diskfunctioned by means of the focusingof gravitational sensors on materialobjects and using the gravitationalattraction of these objects while ineffect screening out the attraction ofothers. I would not have believed

the ships was possible but I found itdifficult to offer the arguments ofmy old world’s physics against thefact of Misk’s success.

Indeed, it is through the controlof gravity that the Priest-Kings had,long ago, brought their world intoour system, and engineering featwhich might have been otherwiseimpossible without perhaps thedraining of the gleaming Thassaitself for its hydrogen nuclei.

The flight of the disk itself isincredibly smooth and the effect ismuch as if the world and notyourself were moving. When onelifts the craft it seems the earth

moves from beneath one; when onemoves it forward it seems asthrough the horizon rushed towardon; if one should place it in reverse,it seems the horizon glides away.Perhaps one should not expatiate onthis matter but the sensation tends tobe an unsettling one, particularly atfirst. It is much as if one sat still ina room and the world whirled andsped about one. This is undoubtedlythe effect of lacking the resistanceof gravitational forces, whichnormally account for the sometimesunpleasant, but reassuring effects ofacceleration and deceleration.

Needless to say, although

ironically, the first transportationdisk prepared for flight was a shipof war. It was manned by myselfand Al-Ka and Ba-Ta. Misk wouldpilot the craft upon occasion but itwas, in fact, rather cramped for himand he couldn’t not stand within it,a fact that bothered him no end for aP1riest-King, for some reason,becomes extremely agitated whenhe cannot stand. I gathered it wouldbe something like a man beingforced to lie on his back whensomething of importance is talkingplace. To lie on one’s back is tofeel exposed and vulnerable,helpless, and the nervousness we

would feel in such a posture isundoubtedly due as much to ancientinstinct as to rational awareness.On the other hand, since Misk didnot construct the craft large enoughfor him to stand in, I suspect he didnot really wish to take part in itsadventures. To be sure, a smallerdome would make the craft moremanoeuvrable in the tunnels, but Ithink Misk did not trust himself todo battle with his former brethren.He might intellectually recognizethat he must slay but perhaps hesimply could not have pressed thefiring switch of the silver tube.Unfortunately Sarm’s cohorts and

perhaps fortunately, most of Misk’sdid not suffer from this perilousinhibition. To be so inhibitedamong a field of foes, none ofwhom suffered from the sameinhibition, seemed to me a goodway to get one’s head burned off.

When we had constructed theship we felt that now we had whatmight prove to be, in this strangesubterranean war, the decisiveweapon. The fire of the silver tubescould damage and in time destroythe ship but yet its cage plasticoffered considerable protection toits crew who might, with somedegree of safety, mete out

destruction to all that crossed itspath.

Accordingly it seemed to Misk,and I concurred, that an ultimatumshould be issued to Sarm’s troopsand that, if possible, the ship shouldnot be used in battle. If we had usedit immediately, decisively, wemight have wrought great damage,but neither of us wished to take theenemy by devastating surprise ifvictory might be won withoutbloodshed.

We were considering this matterwhen suddenly without warning onewall of Misk’s compartmentseemed suddenly to blur and lift and

then silently vanish into powder, solight and fine that some of it driftedupward to be withdrawn through theventilator shaft through which usedair was drawn from thecompartment.

Misk seized me and with theharrowing speed of the Priest-Kingleaped across the room, buffetingthe case I had occupied ten yardsacross the chamber, bent down andflung up the trap and, carrying me,darted into the passage below.

My senses were reeling but nowin the distance I could hear criesand shouts, the screaming of dying,the unutterably horrifying noises of

the broken, the torn and maimed.Misk clung to the wall below the

trap door, holding me to his thorax.“What is it?” I demanded.“Gravitational disruptions,” said

Misk. “It is forbidden even toPriest-Kings.”

His entire body shook withhorror.

“Sarm could destroy the Nest,”said Misk, “even the planet.”

We listened to the screams andcries. We could hear no fall ofbuildings, no clatter of rubble. Weheard only human sounds and theextent and fearfulness of these wereour only index to the destruction

being wrought above.

Chapter Twenty-NineANETHESITIZATION

“SARM IS DESTROYING THEUR bonding,” said Misk.

“Lift me up!” I cried.“You will be slain, “said Misk.“Quickly!” I cried.Misk obeyed and I crawled out

of the trap and to my wonder gazedon the patterns of desolation thatmet my eyes. Misk’s compartmentwas gone, only powdery stains

marking the place where the wallshad been. Through the very stone ofthe tunnel which lay outside Misk’scompartment, now opened like adeep window, I could see the nextlarge Nest complex which laybeyond. I ran across the flooring ofthe tunnel and through the swatch ofnothingness that had been cutthrough the stone and looked on thecomplex. Over it hung ten ships,perhaps the sort used forsurveillance on the surface, and inthe nose of each of these ships wasmounted a conelike projection.

I could see no beam extend fromthese projections but where they

pointed I saw material objects seemto shake and shudder and thenvanish in a fog of dust. Clouds ofparticles from this destruction hungin the air, gray under the energybulbs. The cones were methodicallycutting geometrical patterns throughthe complex. Here and there wherea human or Priest-King would dartinto the open the cone nearest tohim would focus on him and thehuman of Priest-King, like thebuildings and walls, would seem tobreak apart into powder.

I ran toward the workshop whereMisk and I had left the ship we hadfashioned from the transportation

disk.At one point I was faced with a

ditch, cut by the disruption coneswith geometrical precision in thevery stone of the Nest. It lay acrossmy path, perhaps thirty-five feetwide, perhaps forty feet deep.

I cried out with dismay but knewwhat I must do, and retraced mysteps to try the ditch. Gor issomewhat smaller than the earthand, accordingly, its gravitationalpull is less. If it were not for what Iintended to hazard would possiblyhave been beyond human capacity.As it was I could not be sure that Icould make the leap but I knew that

I must try.I took a long run and with a great

bound cleared the ditch by perhapstwo feet and was soon speeding onmy way to Misk’s workshop.

I passed a group of huddledhumans, crouched behind theremains of a wall which had beensheared away but two feet from thefloor for a length of a hundred feet.

I saw one man who lacked anarm, lying on the floor groaning, thelimb having been lost to the unseenbeam of the ships above. “Myfingers,” he cried, “my fingershurt!” One of the humans by thewall, a girl, knelt by him, holding a

cloth, trying to staunch the bleeding.It was Vika! I rushed to her side.“Quick, Cabot!” she cried, “I mustmake a tourniquet!” I seized thelimb of the man and pressing theflesh together managed to retard thebleeding. Vika took the cloth fromhis wound and, ripping it and usinga small steel bar from the shearedwall, quickly fashioned atourniquet, wrapping it securelyabout the remains of the man’s arm.The physician’s daughter did thework swiftly, expertly. I rose toleave.

“I must go,” I said.“May I come?” she asked.

“You are needed here,” I said.“Yes, Cabot,” she said, “You are

right.”As I turned to go she lifted her

hand to me. She did not ask where Iwas going nor did she ask again toaccompany me, “Take care,” shesaid. “I will,” I said. There wasanother groan from the man and thegirl turned to comfort him.

Had it truly been Vika of Treve?I raced to the workshop of Misk

and flung open the double doors andleaped into the ship and secured thehatch, and in a moment it seemedthe floor dropped a foot beneath meand the doors rushed forward.

In less than a few Ihn I hadbrought the ship into the large nestcomplex where the ten ships ofSarm still followed their grim,precise, destructive pattern, asplacidly and methodically as onemight paint lines on a surface ormow a lawn.

I knew nothing of the armamentof the ships of Sarm and I knew Ihad only the silver tube in my owncraft, a weapon far outclassed indestructive potential by thegravitational disruptors mounted inthe ships of Sarm. Moreover, Iknew that the plastic with which myown ship was protected would be

no more protection than tissuepaper against Sarm’s weapons, thenature of which was not to pierce ormelt but, from a given center,radiating outwards, to shattermaterial gravitationally, breaking itapart and scattering it.

I broke into the open and thefloor of the complex shot awayfrom beneath me and I hung near theenergy bulbs at the very apex of thedome. None of the ships of Sarmhad apparently noted me.

I took the lead ship into my sightsand dropped toward it, narrowingthe range to increase theeffectiveness of the silver tube. I

was within two hundred yards whenI opened fire, attacking from therear, away from the destructivecone in its bow.

To my joy I saw the metalblacken and burst apart likeswollen tin as I passed beneath itand began to climb rapidly towardthe belly of the second craft which Iripped open with a sizzling burst offire. The first craft began to turnslowly, uncontrollably, in the airand then plunged toward the ground.I hoped Sarm himself might havebeen in that flagship. The secondcraft shot wildly toward the ceilingof the complex and shattered on the

stone ceiling, falling back to theground in a shower of wreckage.

The other eight craft suddenlystopped their destructive work andseemed to hover in indecision. Iwondered if they were incommunication with one another. Isupposed so. Undoubtedly they hadnot expected to be met withopposition. They may not even haveseen me. While they seemed to hangundecided in space, almost likepuzzled cells in a droplet of water,I dove again, and the third shipbroke apart as thought it were a toybeneath a falling cutlass of fire, andI climbed once more, the flame of

the silver tube stabbing ahead of mehitting the fourth ship amidships andflinging it burning a hundred yardsfrom my path.

Now the remaining six shipshovered closely together, disruptorcones radiating outward in differentdirections, but I was above them.

This time should I dive again, Iknew it would be impossible toconceal my position from them, forthey would then know I was belowthem and at least one of the shipswould be almost certain to coverme with its weapon.

It would be but a moment beforethey would discover my position.

Even now two of the ships weremoving their place, one to cover thearea beneath the small fleet and theother above. In a moment therewould be no avenue of attack whichwould not mean sure death.

The ceiling of the complex leaptaway from above me and I foundmyself in the very center of the sixships, surrounded on the four sides,and above and below.

I could see the scanners mountedin the noes of the ships probingabout.

But I was nowhere to be found.From the distance I could see

hatches in the ships, on the top, and

there was sufficient oxygen in thecomplex to permit exposed visualobservation, but none of the Priest-Kings peered out of any of thehatches. Rather they continued toconcentrate on their instruments.They must have been puzzled by thefailure of the instrumentation todetect me.

Two hypotheses would seemmost likely to explain thisphenomenon to them, first that I hadfled the complex, second that I wasnestled among them, and I smiled tomyself, for I was certain that thesecond hypothesis would neveroccur to a Priest-King, for it was

too improbably and Priest-Kingswere too rational a kind of creature.

For half a Gorean Ahn we hungthere, none of us moving. Then for afull Gorean Ahn did we remainthere, motionless above thecomplex? Again I smiled to myself.For once I was sure I could outwaita Priest-King.

Suddenly the ship beneath meseemed to quiver and then it blurredand disappeared.

My heart leaped!Ground fire!I could imagine Misk hastening to

his tools and the vast assemblage ofinstrumentation in his shop, or

perhaps sending an outraged Priest-King to some secret arsenal wherelay a forbidden weapon, on towhich Misk would never have hadrecourse were it not for the hideousprecedent of Sarm!

Almost immediately theremaining five ships fell into a lineand raced down toward one of thetunnel exits that led from thecomplex.

The first ship to near the exitseemed to burst into a cloud ofpowder but the next four ships, andmyself, who had fallen into linewith them, pierced the veil ofpowder and found ourselves

coursing through the tunnel backtoward Sarm’s domain.

There were now four ships aheadof me in the tunnel fleeing.

With satisfaction I noted thewidth of the tunnel did not permitthem to turn.

With grim decision I pressed thefiring switch of the silver tube andthere was a shattering burst of fireand I heard and felt branches ofsteel and tubing flying against myarmoured transportation disk.

Some of the materials flew withsuch force that gashes were cut inthe obdurate cage plastic and theship was buffeted and jostled but it

cut its way through this jungle offlying parts and found itself againstreaming down the tunnel.

Now the three ships were farahead and I thrust open the speedvalve on the armouredtransportation disk to overtakethem.

Just as the three ships burst intothe open of another huge complex Icaught up with them and opened fireon the third ship but my fire seemedless effective this time and though Igave it a full burst the charging ofthe tube seemed at last almostexhausted. The third ship movederratically, one side black and

wrinkled with the scar of my attack.Then it seemed to come undercontrol and turned like a corneredrat to face me. In an instant I wouldbe within the firing radius of thedisruptor cone. I took my ship upover the craft and tried anotherburst, which was even weaker thanthe last. I tried to keep above theship, staying away from thedisruptor cone on its bow. I wasdimly aware of the other two shipsnow turning to bring me withinrange.

At the moment I saw the hatch onthe injured but threatening ship flyup and the head of a Priest-King

emerge. I suppose that some of thescanning instrumentation had beendamaged in the ship. His antennaeswept the area 1and focussed on meat the same time that I pressed thefiring switch, and it seemed thegolden head and antennae blewaway in ashes and the golden bodyslumped downward in the hatch.The silver tube might be draining itspower but it was still a fearsomeweapon against an exposed enemy.Like an angry hornet I flew to theopen hatch of the injured ship andblasted away into the hatch, fillingthe insides with fire. It tumbledaway like a balloon and exploded

in the air as I dropped my shipalmost to the ground. I was quickbut not quick enough because theplastic dome of my ship above meseemed to fly away in the windleaving a trail of particles behind.Now, in the shattered rim of theplastic dome, scarcely protectedagainst the rushing wind, I fought toregain control of the craft. Thesilver tube still lay intact in thefiring port but its power was soconsiderably reduced that it was nolonger a menace to the ships ofSarm. A few yards from theflooring of the plaza I brought thecraft again into order and, throwing

open the speed valve, darted intothe midst of a complex of building,where I stopped, hovering a fewfeet above the street passingbetween them.

The ship of Sarm passedoverhead like a hawk and thenbegan to circle. I would have had aclean burst at the ship but the tubewas, for all practical purposes, nolonger and effective weapon.

A building on my left seemed toleap into the air and vanish.

I realised there was little I coulddo so I took the ship up and underthe attacker.

He turned and twisted but I kept

with him, close, too close for him touse his disruptor cone.

The wind whistled past and Iwas almost pulled from the controlof the ship.

Then I saw what I would nothave expected.

The other ship of Sarm wasturning slowly, deliberately, on itsfellow.

I could not believe what I sawbut there was no mistaking theelevation of the disruptor cone, thecalm, almost unhurried manner inwhich the other ship was drawing abead on its fellow.

The ship above me seemed to

tremble and tried to turn and fleeand then sensing the futility of this itturned again and tried to train itsown disruptor cone on its fellow.

I flashed my ship to the groundonly an instant before the entire shipabove me seemed to explodesilently in a storm of metallic dustglinting in the light of the energybulbs above.

In the cover of the driftingremains of the ship shattered aboveme I darted among the streets of thecomplex and rose behind the lastship. This time my own craftseemed sluggish, and it was onlytoo clear that it was not responding

properly to the controls. To mydismay I saw the last ship turningslowly toward me and I saw thedisruptor cone rise and focus onme. It seemed I hung helpless in theair, floating, waiting to bedestroyed. I knew I could not evadethe wide-angle scope of thedisruptor beam. I savagely hurledmy weight against the controls butthey remained unresponsive. Ifloated above the enemy craft but ittipped, keeping me in the focus ofits beam. Then without warning itseemed the stern of my craftvanished and I felt the decksuddenly give way and as half of

the craft vanished in powder andthe other half crumbled to thebuildings below I seized the silvertube from the firing port and leapeddownward to the back of the enemyship.

I crawled to the hatch and tuggedat the hatch ring.

It was locked!The ship began to bank. Probably

the pilots had heard wreckage hittheir ship and were banking to dropit into the streets below, or perhapsthey were actually aware that I hadboarded them.

I thrust the silver tube to thehinges on the hatch and pressed the

firing switch.The ship banked more steeply.The tube was almost drained of

power but the point-blank range andthe intensity of even the diminishedbeam melted the hinges from thehatch.

I wrenched the hatch open and itswung wildly out from its lockedside and suddenly I hung there, onehand on the rim, one hand on thesilver tube, as the ship lay on itsside in the air. Then before the shipcould roll I tossed the tube insideand squirmed in after it. The shipwas now on its back and I wasstanding inside on its ceiling and

then the ship righted itself and Ifound the silver tube again. Theinside of the ship was dark for itsonly intended occupants werePriest-Kings, but the open hatchpermitted some light.

A forward door opened and aPriest-King stepped into view,puzzled, startled at the sensing ofthe open hatch.

I pressed the firing switch of thesilver tube and it gave forth with ashort, abortive scorching blast andwas cold, but the golden body of thePriest-King stepped into view,puzzled, startled at the sensing ofthe open hatch.

I pressed the firing switch of thesilver tube and it gave forth with ashort, abortive scorching blast andwas cold, but the golden body of thePriest-King blackened and halfsliced through, reeled against thewall and fell at my feet.

Another Priest-King followed thefirst and I pressed the firing switchagain but there was no response.

IN the half darkness I could seehis antennae curl.

I threw the useless tube at himand it bounded from his thorax.

The massive jaws opened andclosed once.

The hornlike projections on the

grasping appendages snapped intoview.

I seized the sword which I hadnever ceased to wear and utteringthe war cry of Ko-ro-ba rushedforward but as I did so I suddenlythrew myself to the ground beneaththose extended projections andslashed away at the Priest-Kingsposterior appendages.

There was a sudden fearfulscream of odour from the signalglands of the Priest-King and hetipped to one side reaching for mewith his grasping appendages.

His abdomen now dragged on theground but he pushed himself

toward me, jaws snapping, bymeans of the two forwardappendages and the remains of hisposterior appendages.

I leaped between the bladedprojections and cut halfway throughits skull with my sword.

It began to shiver.I stepped back.So this was how a Priest-King

might be slain, I thought, somehowhere one must sever the ganglionicnet in mortal fashion. And then itseemed to me not improbably thatthis might be the case, for the majorsensory apparatus, the antennae, liein this area.

Then, as though I were a pet Mul,the Priest-King extended hisantennae toward me. There wassomething piteous in the gesture.Did it wish me to comb theantennae? Was it conscious? Was itmad with pain?

I stood not understanding andthen the Priest-King did what hewished: with a toss of his greatgolden head he hurled his antennaeagainst my blade, cutting them fromhis head, and then after a moment,having closed himself in the worldof his own pain, abandoning theexternal world in which he was nolong master, he slipped down to the

steel flooring of the ship, dead.The ship, as I discovered, had

been manned by only two Priest-Kings, probably one at the controls,the others at the weapon. Now thatit was not being controlled ithovered where the second Priest-King, probably its pilot, had left it,when he had come to investigate thefate of his companion.

It was dark in the ship except inthe vicinity of the opened hatch.

But, groping my way, I wentforward to the controls.

There, to my pleasure, I foundtow silver tubes, fully charged.

Feeling what seemed to be a

blank area of the ceiling of thecontrol area I fired a blast upward,using the simple expedient of thetube to open a hole in the craftthrough which light might enter.

In the light which now enteredthe control area I examined thecontrols.

There were numerous scent-needles and switches and buttonsand dials, none of which mademuch sense to me. The controls onmy own craft had been designed fora primarily visually orientedcreature. Nonetheless, reasoninganalogously from my own controls,I managed to locate the guidance

sphere, by means of which oneselects any one of the theoreticallyinfinite number of direction from agiven point and the dials for theheight and speed control. Once Ibumped the craft rather severelyinto the wall of the complex and Icould see the explosion of anenergy bulb outside through mymakeshift port, but I soon managedto bring the ship down safely. Sincethere was, from my point of view,no way of seeing just where I wasgoing, since I could not use thesensory instrumentation of Priest-Kings, without cutting more holes inthe ship and perhaps starting a fire

or causing an explosion of somesort, I decided to abandon the ship.I was particularly worried aboutguiding it back through the tunnel.Moreover, if I could bring it to thefirst Nest complex, Misk wouldprobably destroy it on sight with hisown disruptor. Accordingly, itseemed safest to leave the ship andfind some ventilator shaft and makemy way back to Misk’s area bymeans of it.

I crawled out of the ship throughthe hatch and slid over the side tothe ground.

The buildings in the complexwere deserted.

I looked about myself, at theempty streets, the empty windows,the silence of the once bustlingcomplex.

I thought I heard a noise andlistened for some time, but therewas nothing more.

It was hard to rid my mind of thefeeling that I was followed.

Suddenly I heard a voice, amechanically transmitted voice.“You are my prisoner, Tarl Cabot,”it said.

I spun the silver tube ready.A strange odour came to my

nostrils before I could press thefiring switch. Standing nearby I saw

Sarm, and behind him the creatureParp, he whos eyes had been likedisks of fiery copper.

Though my finger was on thefiring switch it lacked the strengthto depress it.

“He has been suitablyanaesthetised,” said the voice ofParp.

I fell at their feet.

Chapter ThirtySARM’S PLAN

“YOU HAVE BEEN

IMPLANTED.”I heard the words from

somewhere, vague, distant, and Itried to move but could not.

I opened my eyes to find myselflooking into the twin fiery disks ofthe sinister-appearing, rotund Parp.Behind him I saw a battery ofenergy bulbs that seemed to burninto my eyes. To one side I saw abrownish Priest-King, very thin andangular, wearing the appearances ofage but yet his antennae seemed asalert as those of any one of thegolden creatures.

My arms and legs were boundwith bands of steel to a flat,

narrow, wheeled platform; mythroat and waist were similarlylocked in place.

“May I introduce the Priest-KingKusk,” said Parp, gesturing to thetall, angular figure who loomed toone side.

So it was he, I said to myself,who formed Al-Ka and Ba-Ta, hethe biologist who was among thefirst in the Nest.

I looked about the room, turningmy head painfully, and saw that theroom was some sort of operatingchamber, filled withinstrumentation, with racks ofdelicate tongs and knives. In one

corner there was a large drumlikemachine with a pressurised doorwhich might have been a steriliser.

“I am Tarl Cabot of Ko-ro-ba,” Isaid weakly, as though to assuremyself of my own identity.

“No longer,” smiled Parp. “Youare now honoured to be as I, acreature of Priest-Kings.”

“You have been implanted,”came from the translator of the tall,brownish figure beside Parp.

I felt suddenly sick and helpless.Though I felt no pain nor any of

the discomfort I would haveexpected I now understood thatthese creatures had infused into the

very tissues of my brain one of thegolden control webs that could beoperated from the ScanningChamber of the Priest-Kings. Irecalled the man from Ar, met onthe lonely road to Ko-ro-ba longago, who like a robot had beenforced to obey the signals of Priest-Kings until at last he had tried tothrow over the net, and its overloadhad burned away the insides of hisskull, giving him at last the freedomof his own mortal dust.

I was horrified at what had beendone and I wondered what thesensations would be or even if Iwould be aware of what I was

doing when under the control ofPriest-Kings. But most I feared howI might now be used to injure Miskand my friends. I might be sent backamong them to spy, to foil theirplans, perhaps even to destroy,perhaps even to slay Misk, Al-Kaand Ba-Ta and other leaders, myfriends all. My frame shook withthe horror of what I had become andseeing this Parp chuckled. I wantedto get my hands on his fat throat.

“Who has done this?” I asked.“I,” said Parp. “The operation is

not as difficult as you might expectand I have performed it manytimes.”

“He is a member of the Caste ofPhysicians,” said Kusk, “and hismanual dexterity is superior even tothat of Priest-Kings.”

“Of what city?” I asked.Parp looked at me closely.

“Treve,” he said.I closed my eyes.It seemed to me that under the1

circumstances, while I was still myown master, I should perhaps slaymyself. Otherwise I would be usedas a weapon by Sarm, used to injureand destroy my friends. The thoughtof suicide has always horrified me,for life seems precious, and themortal moments that one has, so

brief a glimpse of the vistas ofreality, it seems to me should becherished, even though they mightbe lived in pain or sorrow. Butunder the circumstances — itseemed that I should perhapssurrender the gift of life, for thereare some things more precious thanlife, and were it not so I think thatlife itself would not be as preciousas it is.

Kusk, who was a wise Priest-King and perhaps aware of thepsychology of humans, turned toParp.

“It must not be permitted to endits own life before the control web

is activate,” he said.“Of course not,” said Parp.My heart sank.Parp wheeled the platform on

which I lay from the room.“You are a man,” I said to him,

“slay me.”He only laughed.Out of the room he took a small

leather box from his pouch,removed a tiny sharp blade from itand scratched my arm.

It seemed the ceiling began torotate.

“Sleen,” I cursed him.And was unconscious.

* * *

My prison was a rubber disk,perhaps a foot thick and ten feet indiameter. In the center of this disk,recessed so I could not dash myhead against it, was an iron ring.Running from this ring was a heavychain attached to a thick metalcollar fastened about my throat.Further, my ankles wore manaclesand my wrists were fastened behindmy back with steel cuffs.

The disk itself lay in Sarm’scommand headquarter and I thinkthat he was pleased to have it so.He would occasionally loom above

me, gloating, informing me of thesuccess of his battle plans andstrategies.

I noted that the appendage whichI had severed with my sword in theChamber of the Mother had nowregrown.

Sarm brandished the appendage,more golden and fresh then the restof his body. “It is anothersuperiority of Priest-Kings overhumans,” he said, his antennaecurling.

I conceded the point in silence,amazed at the restorative powers ofthe Priest-Kings, those redoubtablegolden foes against which mere men

had dared to pit themselves.How much of what Sarm told me

in those days was true I could notbe sure but I was confident of a fewthings, and others I learnedinadvertently from the reports ofPriest-Kings and the few ImplantedMuls who served him. There wasnormally a translator on in theheadquarters and it was not difficultto follow what was said. Thetranslator was for the benefit ofcreatures such as Parp, who spent agood deal of time in theheadquarters.

For days in impotent fury I kneltor lay chained on the disk while the

battles raged outside.Still, for some reason, Sarm had

not activated the control net andsent me to do his bidding.

The creature Parp spent a greatdeal of time in the vicinity, puffingon that small pipe, keeping it litinterminably with the tiny silverlighter which I had once mistakenfor a weapon.

In the W1ar gravitationaldisruption was now no longer used.It turned out that Misk, not trustingSarm from the very beginning, hadprepared a disruption device whichhe would not have used had it notbeen for Sarm’s employment of that

devastating weapon. But now thatMisk’s forces possessed a similarweapon. Sarm, in fear, set his ownsimilar devices aside.

There were new ships flying inthe Nest, I understood, ships thathad been built by Misk’s men anddisks that had now been armouredby those of Sarm. I gathered therewere no more availablesurveillance craft hangard in theNest. On the other hand the ships ofthe two forces tended, it seemed, toneutralise one another and the warin the air, far from being decisive,as Misk and I had hoped, had begunto turn into the same stalemate that

had developed on the ground.Not long after the failure of his

gravitational disruption attack Sarmhad spread throughout Misk’sportions of the Nest various diseaseorganisms, many of which had nothad a free occurrence in centuries.On the other hand, vicious as werethese invisible assailants, theextreme habitual hygiene of Priest-Kings and Muls, coupled withMisk’s use of bactericidal rays,dissolved this new threat.

Most savage and unnatural of all,at least to the mind of a Priest-King,was the release of the GoldenBeetles from their various tunnels

in the vicinity of the Nest. Thesecreatures, perhaps two hundred ormore, were loosed and by means ofcovered transportation disks,piloted by Priest-Kings usingoxygen systems internal to the disks,were driven toward the quarters ofthe Nest controlled by theunsuspecting Misk and his forces.

The exudate which forms on themane hair of the Golden Beetle,which had overcome me in theclose confines of the tunnel,apparently has a most intense and,to a human mind, almostincomprehensibly compelling effecton the unusually sensitive antennae

of Priest-Kings, luring themhelplessly, almost as if hypnotised,to the jaws of the Beetle, who thanpenetrates their body with itshollow, pincerlike jaws and drainsof body-fluid.

Misk’s Priest-Kings began toleave their hiding places and theirposts of vantage and come into thestreets, their bodies incliningforward, their antennae dipped inthe direction of the lure of theBeetles. The Priest-Kingsthemselves said nothing, explainednothing, to their dumbfoundedhuman companions but merely laidaside their weapons and

approached the Beetles.Then it seems that a brave

female, a former Mul, unidentified,had grasped the situation andseizing a cattle goad from one of theconfused, puzzled herdsmen, hadrushed upon the Beetles jabbing andstriking them, driving them awaywith the long spearlike object, andsoon the herdsmen had rushed tojoin her and prod away thecumbersome, domelike predators,turning them back in the directionwhence they had come.

It was not more than a day laterbefore one of Sarm’s own scoutslaid aside his weapon and, as the

Priest-Kings say, succumbed to thePleasures of the Golden Beetle.

Now the Beetles roamed atrandom throughout the Nest, moreof a threat to Sarm’s own forcesthan Misk’s, for now none ofMisk’s Priest-Kings venturedabroad without a human to protect itshould it encounter a GoldenBeetle.

In the next days the GoldenBeetles began, naturally enough intheir hunt for food, to drift towardthose portions of the Nest occupiedby Sarm’s Priest-Kings, for in thoseportions of the Nest theyencountered no shouting humans, no

jabbing cattle goads.The danger became so great that

all the Implanted Muls, includingeven the creat1ure Parp, were sentinto the streets to protect Sarm’sPriest-Kings.

Oddly enough, to human thinking,neither Misk nor Sarm wouldpermit their humans to slay theBeetles, for Priest-Kings, for areason which I will later relate,find themselves normally unwillingto slay or order the destruction ofthe dangerous, fused-wingedcreatures.

The Golden Beetles, free withinthe Nest, forced Sarm, in sheer

regard for survival, to turn tohumans for help, for humans,particularly in the well-ventilatedareas of the Nest, are relativelyimpervious to the narcotic odour ofthe Beetle’s mane, an door which isapparently almost utterlyoverpowering to the particularsensory apparatus of Priest-Kings.

Accordingly Sarm broadcastthroughout the Nest his generalamnesty for former Muls, offeringthem again the opportunity tobecome the slaves of Priest-Kings.To this generous proposal headded, sensing it might not in itselfbe irresistible, a tub of salt per man

and two female Muls, to beprovided after the defeat of Misk’sforces, which presumably therewould be captured females todistribute to the victors. To thefemales of Misk’s forces he offeredgold, jewellery, precious stones,delicious silks, the permission toallow their hair to grow, and maleslaves, the latter again to beprovided after the projected defeatof Misk’s forces. To theseproposals he added the verydefinite considerations that hisforces still substantiallyoutnumbered those of Misk in bothnumber of Priest-Kings and

firepower, and that victory wouldbe his inevitably, and this it wouldbe well at such a time to be in hisgood favour.

Whereas I would not haveabandoned Misk and freedom tojoin the forces of Sarm I was forcedto admit that the probably victory inthe end would be him, and that hisproposals might well be attractiveto some former Muls, particularlythose who had occupied a positionof some importance in the Nestprior to the War.

I should not have been surprised,but I was, when the first deserterfrom the forces of Misk proved to

be the treacherous Vika of Treve.My first knowledge of this came

one morning when suddenly Iawakened in my chains to the fiercebite of a leather lash.

“Awake, Slave!” cried a voice.With a cry of rage I struggled in

my chains to my knees, pullingagainst the metal collar that held meto my place. Again and again thelash struck me, wielded by thegloved hand of a girl.

Then I heard her laugh and knewwho was my tormentor.

Though her features wereconcealed in the folds of a silkenveil, and she wore the Robes of

Concealment there was nomistaking her voice, her eyes, hercarriage. The woman who stoodover me with the whip, the womanclad in the most marvellous array ofthe most beautiful silks, wearinggolden sandals and purple gloves,was Vika of Treve.

She shook the veil from her faceand threw back her head andlaughed.

She struck me again.“Now,” she hissed, “it is I who

am Master!”I regarded her evenly.“I was right about you,” I said. “I

had hoped that I was not.”

“What do you mean?” shedemanded.

“You are worthy only to be aslave girl,” I said.

Her face was transformed withrage and she struck me again, thistime across the face. I could ta1stethe blood from the wound of thewhip.

“Do not yet injure him severely,”said Sarm, standing to one side.

“He is my slave!” she said.Sarm’s antennae curled.“He will be delivered to you

only after my victory,” said Sarm.“In the meantime I have use forhim.”

Vika threw him a glance ofimpatience, almost of contempt, andshrugged. “Very well,” she said, “Ican wait.” She sneered down at me.“You will pay for what you did tome,” she said.” “You will pay,” shesaid. “You will pay as only I, Vikaof Treve, know how to make a manpay.”

I myself was pleased that it hadtaken a Priest-King to have mechained at Vika’s feet, that it hadnot been I myself, who, in the hopeof her favours, had fastened aboutmy own throat the collar of a slave.

Vika turned with a swirl of herrobes and left the headquarters

chamber.Sarm stalked over. “You see,

Mul,” said he, “how Priest-Kingsuse the instincts of men againstthem.”

“Yes,” I see, “I see,”Though my body burned from the

whip I was more hurt by the thoughof Vika, surprisingly perhaps, hurtby the thought that I had known whoand what she was all along, thoughsomewhere in my heart I hadalways hoped I was wrong.

Sarm then strode to a panel set inone wall. He twiddled a knob. “Iam activating your control net,” hesaid.

In my chains I tensed.“These preliminary tests are

simple,” said Sarm, “and may be ofinterest to you,”

Parp had now entered the roomand stood near me, puffing on hispipe. I saw him turn off the switchon his translator.

Sarm turned a dial.“Close your eyes,” whispered

Parp.I felt no pain. Sarm was

regarding me closely.“Perhaps more power,” said

Parp, raising his voice so that hiswords might be carried by Sarm’sown translator.

Sarm, at this suggestion, touchedthe original knob again. Then hereached for the dial again.

“Close your eyes,” whisperedParp, more intensely.

For some reason I did so.“Open then,” said Parp.I did so.“Lower your head,” he said.I did so.“Now rotate your head

clockwise,” said Parp. “Nowcounterclockwise.”

Mystified, I did as herecommended.

“You have been unconscious,”Parp informed me. “Now you are

no longer controlled.”I looked about myself. I saw that

Sarm had turned off the machine.“What do you remember?” asked

Sarm.“Nothing,” I said.“We will check sensory data

later,” said Sarm.“The initial responses,” said

Parp, raising his voice, “seem quitepromising.”

“Yes,” said Sarm, “You havedone excellent work,”

Sarm then turned and left theheadquarters room.

I looked at Parp, who wassmiling and puffing on that pipe of

his.“You did not implant me,” I said.“Of course not,” said Parp.“What of Kusk?” I asked.“He too is one of us,” said Parp.“But why?” I asked.“You saved his children,” said

Parp.“But he has no sex, no children,”

I said.“Al-Ka and Ba-Ta,” said Parp.

“Do you think a Priest-King isincapable of love?”

Now my imprisonment on therubber disk seemed less irritatingthan it had.

Parp had again been sent into thestreets to fend off Golden Beetlesshould they approach too closelyany of the Priest-Kings of Sarm.

I learned from conversation inthe headquarters room that not manyof the humans who fought withMisk’s forces had responded to theblandishments of Sarm, thoughsome like Vika of Treve, haddeserted to cast their fortune withwhat appeared to be the winningside. From what I could gather onlya handful of humans, some men,some women, had actually crossedthe lines and taken service withSarm.

Sarm, one day, brought downfrom the Halls of the Priest-Kingsabove, all the humans who werequartered there, mostly ChamberSlaves, to aid his cause. The latter,of course terrified, bewildered,would be of little servicethemselves, but they were offeredas inducements to the males ofMisk’s forces to encourage theirdesertion; the girls were, so tospeak, a bounty for treachery, andsince the beauty of Chamber Slavewas well known in the Nest, Isupposed they might well provequite effective in this role; yet,somewhat to my surprised and

pleasure, no more than a half dozenor so men came forth to claim theselovely prizes. As the War continuedI became more and more impressedwith the loyalty and courage of themen and women serving Misk, whofor a bit of fungus and water andfreedom, were willing to sell theirlives in one of the strangestconflicts ever fought by men, boldlyserving one of the most unusualcauses that had ever asked for theallegiance of human kind.

Vika would come to torment meeach day but no longer was shepermitted to whip me.

I supposed that there was reason

for her hatred of me but still Iwondered at its depth and fury.

She was later given charge of myfeeding and she seemed to enjoythrowing me scraps of fungus orwatching me lap at the water in thepan she placed on the disk. I atebecause I wished to keep what Icould of my strength, for I mighthave need of it again.

Sarm, who was normally in theroom, seemed to take great pleasurein Vika’s baiting me, for he wouldstand by, antennae curling, as shewould insult me, taunt me,sometimes strike me with her smallfist. He apparently became rather

fond of the new female Mul and,upon occasion, he would order herto groom him in my presence, a taskwhich she seemed to enjoy.

“What a piteous thing you are,”she said to me, “and how goldenand strong and brave and fine is aPriest-Kings!”

And Sarm would extend hisantennae down to her that mightdelicately brush the small g1oldenhairs which adorned them.

For some reason Vika’sattentions to Sarm irritated me andundoubtedly I failed to conceal thissufficiently because Sarm oftenrequired this task of her in my

presence and, I noted with fury, sheseemed invariably delighted tocomply with his request.

Once I called angrily to her. “PetMul!”

“Silence, Slave,” she respondedhaughtily. Then she looked at meand laughed merrily. “For that,” shesaid, “you will go hungry tonight!”

I remembered, smiling to myself,how when I was master I had once,to discipline her, refused her foodone night. Now it was I who wouldgo hungry, but I told myself, it wasworth it. Let her think over that, Isaid to myself, think over that —Vika of Treve — Pet Mul!

I found myself wanting to takeher body in my arms and shatter itto my breast, forcing back her head,taking her lips in the kiss of amaster as though I once moreowned her.

I shook these thoughts from myhead.

Meanwhile, slowly, incredibly,the War in the Nest began to turnagainst Sarm. The most remarkableevent was a delegation of Sarm’sPriest-Kings, led by Kusk himself,who surrendered to Misk, pledgingthemselves to his cause. Thistransfer of allegiance wasapparently the result of long

discussion and consideration by thegroup of Priest-Kings, who hadfollowed Sarm because he wasFirst Born, but had at many pointsobjected to him conduct of the War,in particular to his treatment of theMuls, his use of the gravitationaldisruption devices, his attempt tospread disease in the Nest and last,his, to a Priest-King’s thinking,hideous recourse to the GoldenBeetles. Kusk and his delegationwent over to Misk while thefighting still hung in stalemate andthere was no question, at that time,of their decision being motivated byconsiderations of personal interest.

Indeed, at that time, it seemed theyhad, almost unaccountably, forreasons of principle, joined a causewhich was in all probability a lostone. But not long after this tookplace other Priest-Kings, startled bythe decision of Kusk, began tospeak of ending the War, and someothers too began to cross the lines.Growing more desperate, Sarmrallied his forces and armoured sixdozen transportation disks andswept into Misk’s domain.Apparently Misk’s forces werewaiting form the, as might havebeen expected given the superiorintelligence afforded by the

numerous humans in Misk’s campand the disks were stropped bybarricades and withered in theintense fire from nearby rooftops.Only four disks returned.

It now became clear that Sarmwas on the defensive, for I heardorders being issued to block thetunnels leading into the areas of theNest he controlled. Once I heard thehiss of silver tubes not more than afew hundred yards away. Istruggled, enraged, against thechains and collar that held me ahelpless prisoner while the issuesof the day were being decided byfire in the streets outside.

Then there came a calm in thewar and I gathered that Misk’sforces had been driven back.

My rations of Mul-Fungus hadbeen cut by two-thirds since I hadbeen captured. And I noted thatsome of Sarm’s Priest-Kings wereless golden than I had known them,having now a slightly brownish caston the thorax and abdomen, signs Iknew to be associate with thirst.

I think it was only now that theabsence of the supplies captured ordestroyed by the Fungus Growersand Herdsmen had begun to makeitself keenly felt.

At last Sarm made clear to me

why I had been kept 1alive, why Ihad not been destroyed long ago.

“It is said that there is Nest Trustbetween you and Misk, “he said.“Now we will see if that is trulyso.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.“If there is Nest Trust between

you,” said Sarm, his antennaecurling, “Misk will be ready to diefor you.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.“His life for yours,” said Sarm.“Never,” I said.“No,” cried Vika, who had been

standing in the background, “he ismine!”

“Do not fear, Little Mul,” saidSarm. “We will have Misk’s lifeand you will still have your slave.”

“Sarm is treacherous,” I said.“Sarm is a Priest-King,” he said.

Chapter Thirty-OneSARM’S REVENGE

THE PLACE OF THEMEETING WAS arranged.

It lay in one of the plazas in thearea controlled by the forces ofSarm.

Misk was to come alone to the

plaza, to be met by myself andSarm. No one was to bear arms.Misk would surrender himself toSarm and I, theoretically, wouldthen be allowed to go free.

But I knew that Sarm had nointention of keeping his part of thebargain, and that he intended to slayMisk, destroying hopefully therebythe effective leadership of theopposition, and then either keep meas a slave for Vika or, more likely,killing me as well, even though thatmight disappoint the expectations ofvengeance nourished in the bosomof his pet Mul.

When I was unchained I was

informed by Sarm that the small boxhe carried activated my control netand at the first sigh of disobedienceor difficulty he would simply raisethe power level — literally boilingmy brain away.

I said that I understood.I wondered what Sarm would say

if he knew that Parp and Kusk hadnot actually implanted me.

In spite of the agreement aboutarms, Sarm hung from the back ofhis translator strap, invisible fromthe front, a silver tube.

To my surprise his pet Mul, Vikaof Treve, demanded to accompanyher golden master. I supposed that

she feared he might slay me, thusdepriving her of her revenge forwhich she had waited so long. Hewould have refused her, but shepleaded so earnestly that at last heagreed that she might accompany us.“I wish to see my master triumph!”she begged, and that argumentseemed to sway golden Sarm, andVika found herself a member of ourparty.

I myself was forced to walkperhaps a dozen paces in front ofSarm, who held his graspingappendage near the control boxwhich would, he supposed, activatethe golden net he believed to be

fused into the tissues of my brain.Vika waled at his side.

At last I saw, far across theplaza, the slowly stalking figure ofMisk.

How tender I felt toward thegolden giant in that moment as Irealised that he, though a Priest-King, had come to give his life formine, simply because we had oncelocked antennae, simpl1y becausewe were friends, simply becausethere was Nest Trust between us.

He stopped and we stopped.And then we began to walk

slowly towards one another againacross the square tiles of the plaza

in the secret nest of Priest-Kings.When he was still out of range of

the silver tube of Sarm but closeenough, I hoped, to be able to hearme, I ran forward, throwing myhands high. “Go back!” I cried, “Itis a trick! Go back!”

Misk stopped in his tracks.I heard Sarm’s translator behind

me, “You will die for that, Mul,” itsaid.

I turned and I saw Sarm, hisentire golden bladelike formconvulsed with rage. Two of thetiny hooklike appendages on hisforeleg spun the power dial on thecontrol box. “Die, Mul,” said Sarm.

But I stood calmly before him.It took Sarm but an instant to

realise he had been tricked and hehurled the box from him and itshattered on the tiles of the plaza.

I stood ready now to receive theblast of Sarm’s silver tube which hehad whipped from its place ofconcealment and trained on mybreast.

“Very well,” said Sarm, “let it bethe silver tube.”

I tensed myself for the suddenburst of fire, that incandescenttorrent that would burst and burn theflesh from my bones.

The firing switch was depressed

and I heard the soft click but thetube failed to fire. Once again,desperately, Sarm pressed the firingswitch.

“It does not fire!” came fromSarm’s translator and his entireframe was startled, shaken withincomprehension.

“No,” cried Vika, “I dischargedit this morning!”

The girl ran to my side in a swirlof many-colored silks and frombeneath the Robes of Concealmentshe withdrew my sword andkneeling at my side lowered herhead and placed it in my hand.“Cabot my Master!” she cried.

I took the blade.“Rise,” I said, “Vika of Treve —

you are now a free woman.”“I do not understand,” came from

Sarm’s translator.“I came to see my Master

triumph!” cried Vika of Treve, hervoice thrilled with emotion.

Gently I thrust the girl to oneside.

“I do not understand,” came fromSarm’s translator.

“That is how you have lost,” Isaid.

Sarm hurled the silver tube at myhead and I ducked and heard itclatter across the tiles of the plaza

for perhaps a hundred yards.Then to my amazement Sarm

turned and though I was but a humanhe fled from the plaza.

Vika was in my arms weeping.In a moment we were joined by

Misk.The War was at an end.Sarm had disappeared and with

his disappearance, and presumeddeath, the opposition to Miskevaporated, for it had been heldtogether only by the dominance ofSarm’s mighty personality and theprestige that was his in virtue ofbeing First Born.

The Priest-Kings who had

ser1ved him had, on the whole atleast, believed that what they weredoing was required by the law ofthe Nest, but now with Sarm’sdisappearance Misk, though onlyFifth Born, acceded to the title ofhighest born, and it was to him now,according to the same laws of theNest, that their allegiance was nowowed.

There was a greater problem asto what to do with the former Mulswho had deserted to join the forcesof Sarm, for the blandishments hehad offered, and because they hadthought that his side was the onewhich was winning. I was pleased

to see that here were only aboutseventy-five or eighty wretches inthis latter category. About two-thirds of them were men, and therest women. None of them,interestingly enough, were GurCarriers, or from the FungusChambers or the Pastures.

Al-Ka and Ba-Ta arrived withtwo prisoners, female Muls,frightened, sullen girls, lovely, cladnow only in brief, sleevelessplastic, who knelt at their feet. Theywere joined together by a length ofchain that had been, by means oftwo padlocks, fastened about theirthroats. Their wrists were secured

behind their backs by slavebracelets.

“Deserters,” said Al-Ka.“Where now,” asked BA-Ta of

the girls, “is your gold, yourjewellery and silks?”

Sullenly they looked down.“Do we kill them now?” asked

Al-Ka.The girls looked at one another

and trembled in fear.I looked at Al-Ka and Ba-Ta

rather closely.They winked at me. I winked

back at them. I perceived their plan.I could see that neither of them hadthe least intention of injuring one of

the lovely creatures in their power.“If you wish —” I said.A cry of fear escaped the girls.“Please don’t!” said one, looking

up, pleasing, and the other pressedher head to the floor at Ba-Ta’sfeet.

Al-Ka regarded them. “Thisone,” he said, “had strong legs,”

Ba-Ta regarded the other. “Thisone,” he said, “seems healthy.”

“Do you wish to live?” asked Al-Ka of the first girl.

“Yes!” she said.“Very well,” said Al-Ka, “you

will do so — as my slave,”“— Master!” said the girl.

“And you?” asked Ba-Ta sternlyof the second girl.

Without raising her head shesaid, “I am your slave girl, Master.”

“Look up,” commanded Al-Ka,and both of the girls lifted theirheads trembling.

Then to my surprise Al-Ka andBa-Ta, from their pouches,produced golden collars, only tooobviously prepared in advance.There were two heavy, short clicksand the lovely throats of the twogirls were encircled. I gathered itwas the only gold they would seefor some time. On one collar therewas engraved “Al-Ka” and on the

other “Ba-Ta”.Then Al-Ka unlocked the throat

chain worn by the female Muls andhe went off in one direction and Ba-Ta in the other. No longer did itseem the two former Muls wereinseparable. Each departed,followed by his girl, her wrists stillbound behind her back.

“And what,” laughed Vika ofTreve, “is to be my1 fate?”

“You are free,” I reminded her.“But my fate?” she asked, smiling

at me.I laughed. “It is similar to that of

the others, “I said, and swept herfrom her feet and carried her,

Robes of Concealment swirling,from the room.

Misk and I had been trying todecide, for the past five days, howto organise the nest in the wake ofthe War. The simplest matters hadto do with restoring its services andits capacity to sustain both Priest-Kings and humans. The moredifficult matters had to do with thepolitical arrangements that wouldallow these two diverse species toinhabit peaceably and prosperouslythe same dwelling. Misk was quiteready, as I was afraid he might notbe, to allow humans a voice inaffairs of the Nest and, moreover, to

arrange for the return to their citiesof those humans who did not wishto remain in the Nest.

We were considering thesematters when suddenly the entirefloor of the compartment in whichwe sat seemed to buckle and breakapart. At the same time two wallsshattered and fell crumbling inrubble to the floor. Misk coveredmy body with his own and then withhis great strength, reared up, stonesfalling from his back like waterfrom the body of a swimmer.

The entire Nest seemed to shiver.“An earthquake!” I cried.“Sarm is not dead,” said Misk.

Dusty, covered with whitishpowder, he looked about himselfdisbelievingly at the ruins. In thedistance we could hear the domedside of a complex begin to crumble,raining down huge blocks of stoneon the buildings beneath. “He isgoing to destroy the Nest,” saidMisk. “He is going to break apartthe planet.”

“Where is he?” I demanded.“The Power Plant,” said Misk.I climbed over the fallen stones

and ran from the room and leapedon the first transportation disk Iwould find. Though the path it hadto travel was broken and littered the

cushion of gas on which the diskflowed lifted the vehicle cleanly,though bucking and tilting, over thedebris.

In a few moments, though the diskwas damaged by falling stone and Icould barely see through thepowdery drifts of rock hanging inthe collapsing tunnels, I had cometo the Power Plant and leaped fromthe disk and raced to its doors.They were locked but it was only amoment’s work to find the nearbyventilator shaft and wrench awaythe screen. In less than a minute Ihad kicked open another grille anddropped inside the great domed

room of the Power Plant. I saw nosight on Sarm. I myself would notknow how to repair his damage so Iwent to the doors of the chamber,which were locked on the inside,and thrust up the latchingmechanism. I swung them open.Now Misk and his engineers wouldbe able to enter the room. I hadscarcely thrust up the latch when aburst of fire from a silver tubescorched the door over my head. Ilooked up to see Sarm on thatnarrow passage that traced itsprecarious way around the greatblue dome that covered the powersource. Another flash of fire burned

near me, leaving a rupture of moltenmarble in the floor not five feetfrom where I stood. Runningirregularly, dodging burst of fire, Iran to the side of the dome whereSarm, from his position somewhereabove, would not be likely to beable to reach me with his fire.

Then I saw him through the sidesof the blue dome that covered thepower source, far above, a goldenfigure on the narrow walkway at thecrest of the dome. He fired at me,burning a hole in the dome nearhim, exposing the power 1source,and the same flashing burst of firetore at the area of the dome behind

which I stood. The burst had spentitself and only managed to scorchthe dome, but the next, fired throughthe hold already made above, mightdo more damage, so I changed myposition. Then Sarm seemed to loseinterest in me, perhaps thinking Ihad been slain, more likely toconserve the charge in the silvertube for more important matter, forhe then began, methodically, to fireat the paneling across from thedome, destroying one area afteranother. As he was doing this theentire Nest seemed to shift and theplanted convulsed, and the firespurted from the paneling. Then he

fired a burst directly down into thepower source and it began torumble and throw geysers of purplefire up almost to the hole whichSarm had burned in the globe. Toone side, though I scarcely noticedit at the time, I saw a vague,domelike golden shape, one of theBeetles, which, undoubtedlyconfused and terrified, had creptinto the room of the Power Plantfrom the tunnel outside, through thedoor I had opened for Misk and hisPriest-Kings. Where were they? Isurmised the tunnels might havecollapsed and they were even nowtrying to cut their way through to the

Chamber of the Power Plant.I knew that somehow I must try to

stop Sarm but what could I do? Hewas armed with a silver tube and Iwith nothing but the steel of aGorean sword.

Sarm kept firing long, persistentbursts of fire at the paneling againstthe walls, undoubtedly attempting todestroy the instrumentation. I hopedthat such firing might exhaust thecharge of the weapon.

I left cover and rushed to thewalkway and was soon climbing upthe narrow path that crept aroundthe surface of the globe that nowbarely contained the frenzied,

bubbling fury, the turbulence of thehissing, erupting substance thatleaped and smote against thesmooth enclosing walls.

I climbed the walkway rapidlyand soon could see Sarm clearly atthe very the very top of the some,whence he had once displayed tomethe majesty of the Priest-Kings’accomplishments, where he hadonce indicated to me themodifications of the ganglionic netby means of which his people hadwon to the enormous power theypossessed. He was not yet aware ofmy approach, perhaps not believingI would be fool enough to climb the

exposed walkway in pursuit.Then suddenly he wheeled and

saw me and seemed startled butthen the silver tube flew up and Ithrew myself rolling back down thewalkway, the steel stairs bubblingaway following me. Then I had thecurve of the dome between me andthe Priest-King. His weapon firedagain, slicing through the top of thedome in his vicinity and strikingbeneath me, melting a hold in thedome below me. Twice more Sarmfired and twice more I scrambledabout on the walkway trying to keepthe two surfaces of the globebetween myself and his weapon.

Then angrily I saw him turn awayand commence firing again at thepanelling. As he did so, I began toclimb once more. As I climbed, tomy elation, I saw the tube’s flamesputter and stop and knew theweapon was at last discharged.

I wondered what more Sarmcould do now.

Nothing from his position at thetop of the globe, though it had beenan ideal vantagepoint for firing thetube into the instrumentation.

I wondered if he regrettedwasting a large part of hisweapon’s charge on firing at me. Todo more damage he would now

have to descend the walkway andreach the paneling itself, perhapsthat on the other side of the room,but to do this he would have to passme, and I was determined that Ishould not, if possible, allow that tohappen.

Slowly I climbed the walkway1,stepping with care past the ruinedportions of the steel steps leading tothe crest of the dome.

Sarm seemed in no hurry. Heseemed quite content to wait for me.

I saw him toss the silver tubeaway, and saw if fall through one ofthe great holes he had blasted in theglobe and disappear in the violent,

bubbling purple mass seethingbelow.

At last I stood not more than adozen yards from the Priest-King.

He had been watching meapproach and now his antennaefocused on me and he drew himselfup to his full golden height.

“I knew you would come,” hesaid.

One wall to the left began tocrumble, fitted stone from its sidesedging outwards and breaking looseto clatter down the ramps andtumble even to the floor so farbeneath.

A drift of dust from the rubble

obscured Sarm’s figure for amoment.

“I am destroying the planet,” hesaid. “It has served its purpose.”He regarded me. “It has shelteredthe Nest of the Priest-Kings but nowthere are no more Priest-Kings —only I only Sarm is left.”

“There are still many Priest-Kings in the Nest,” I said.

“No,” he said, “there is only onePriest-King, the First Born, Sarm— he who did not betray the Nest,he who was beloved of the Mother,he who kept and honoured theancient truths of his people.”

The bladelike figure of the

Priest-King seemed to waver on thewalkway and the antennae seemedblown about as though by the wind.

More stones fell from the ceilingof the chamber now, clattering andbouncing off the surface of the blue,scarred seething dome.

“You have destroyed the Nest,”said Sarm, looking wildly down atme.

I said nothing. I did not evendraw my sword.

“But now,” said Sarm, “I willdestroy you.”

The weapon left my sheath.Sarm reached to the steel bar that

formed the railing to his left on the

walkway and with the incrediblestrength of the Priest-Kings withone motion twisted and tore free alength or perhaps eighteen feet. Heswung this lightly, as easily as Imight have lifted and moved a stickof wood.

The bar he wielded was afearsome weapon and with it hecould strike me, his antennaecurling, “but fitting.”

I knew I could not retreat backdown the walkway for Sarm wasmuch faster than I and would beupon me perhaps even before Icould turn.

I could not leap to the sides for

there was only the smooth sheercurve of the blue globe and I wouldslide to my death and fall like oneof the stones from the roof above tothe dusty, smoking rubble below.

And ahead of me stood Sarm, hisclub ready. If his first blow missedperhaps I could get close enough tostrike but it did not seem probablehis blow would miss.

It did not seem to me a bad placeto die.

If I had dared to take my eyesfrom Sarm I might have lookedabout at the wonder of the Nest andthe destruction in which it wasbeing consumed. Drifts of rock

powder hung in the air, fitted stonetumbled to the flooring far below,the walls trembled, the very globeand walkway fastened to it seemedto shift and 1shudder. I supposedthere might be tidal waves in thedistant Thassa, that crags in theSardar and the Voltai and ThentisRanges might be collapsing, thatmountains might be falling and newones rising, that the Sa-Tarna fieldsmight be broken apart, that towersof cities might be falling, that thering of black logs which encircledthe Sardar might rupture and burstopen in a hundred places. Iimagined the panic in the cities of

Gor, the pitching ships at sea, thestampedes of animals, and only I, ofall humans, was at the place wherethis havoc had begun, only I wasthere to gaze upon the author of thedestruction of a world, the goldendestroy of a planet.

“Strike,” I said. “Be done withit.”

Sarm lifted the bar and I sensedthe murderous intensity thattransformed his entire being, howeach of those golden fibres likesprings of steel would leap intoplay and the long bar would slash ina blur toward my body.

I crouched, sword in hand,

waiting for the blow.But Sarm did not strike.Rather to my wonder the bar of

steel lowered and Sarm seemedfrozen suddenly in an attitude of themost rapt perception. His antennaequivered and tensed but not stifflyand each of the sensory hairs on hisbody lifted and extended. His limbsseemed suddenly weak.

“Kill it,” he said. “Kill it.”I thought he might be telling

himself to be done with me, butsomehow I knew this could not be.

Then I too sensed it and I turned.Behind me, inching its way up the

narrow walkway, clinging with its

six small legs, slowly lifting itsheavy domelike golden body a stepat a time came the Golden Beetle Ihad seen below.

The mane hairs on its back werelifted like antennae and they movedas strangely, as softly, asunderwater plants might lift and stirin the tides and currents of the coldliquid of the sea.

The narcotic odour emanatingfrom that lifted, waving mane shookeven me though I stood in the midstof free air on the top of that greatblue globe.

The steel bar fell from Sarm’sappendage and slid from the top of

the dome to fall with a distant crashfar below in the rubble.

“Kill it, Cabot,” came fromSarm’s translator. “Kill it, Cabot,please,” The Priest-King could notmove. “You are human,” said thetranslator. “You can kill it. Kill it,Cabot, please.”

I stood to one side, standing onthe surface of the globe, clinging tothe rail.

“It is not done,” I said to Sarm.“It is a great crime to kill one.”

Slowly the heavy body with itsdomed, fused wings pressed pastme, its tiny, tuftlike antennaeextending towards Sarm, its long,

hollow pincerlike jaws opening.“Cabot,” came from Sarm’s

translator.“It is thus,” I said, “That men use

the instincts of Priest-Kings againstthem.”

“Cabot — Cabot — Cabot,”came from the translator.

Then to my amazement when theBeetle neared Sarm the Priest-Kingsank down on his supportingappendages, almost as if he were onhis knees, and suddenly plunged hisface and antennae into the midst ofthe waving manehair of the GoldenBeetle.

I watched the pincerlike jaws

grip and punctu1re the thorax of thePriest-King.

More rock dust drifted betweenme and the pair locked in theembrace of death.

More rock tumbled to the domeand bounced clattering to the debrisbelow.

The very globe and walkwayseemed to lift and tremble butneither of the creatures lockedtogether above me seemed to takethe least notice.

Sarm’s antennae lay immersed inthe golden hair of the Beetle; hisgrasping appendages with theirsensory hairs caressed the golden

hair; even did he take some of thehairs in his mouth and with histongue try to lick the exudate fromthem.

“The pleasure,” came fromSarm’s translator, “The pleasure,the pleasure,”

I could not shut out from my earsthe grim sound of the sucking jawsof the Beetle.

I knew now why it was that theGolden Beetles were not permittedto live in the Nest, why it was thatPriest-Kings would not slay the,even though it might mean their ownlives.

I wondered if the hairs of the

Golden Beetle, heave with thedroplets of that narcotic exudate,offered adequate recompense to aPriest-King for the asceticmillennia in which he might havepursued the mysteries of science, ifthey provided an acceptableculmination to one of those long,long lives devoted to the Nest, to itslaws, to duty and the pursuit andmanipulation of power.

Priest-Kings, I knew, had fewpleasures, and now I guessed thatforemost among them might bedeath.

Once as though by some supremeeffort of will Sarm, who was a

great Priest-King, lifted his headfrom the golden hair and stared atme.

“Cabot,” came from histranslator.

“Die, Priest-Kings,” I said softly.The last sound I heard from

Sarm’s translator was — “Thepleasure.”

Then in the last spasmodic throbof death Sarm’s body broke free ofthe jaws of the Golden Beetle andreared up once more to its gloriousperhaps twenty feet of goldenheight.

He stood thusly on the walkwayat the top of the vast blue dome

beneath which burned and hissedthe power source of Priest-Kings.

One last time he looked abouthimself, his antennae surveying thegrandeur of the Nest, and thentumbled from the walkway and fellto the surface of the globe and sliduntil he fell to the rubble below.

The swollen, lethargic Beetleturned slowly to face me.

With one stroke of my blade Ibroke open its head.

With my foot I tumbled its heavybody from the walkway andwatched it slide down the side ofthe globe and fall like Sarm to therubble below.

I stood there on the crest of theglobe and looked about thecrumbling Nest.

Far below, at the door to thechamber, I could see the goldenfigures of Priest-Kings, Misk amongthem. I turned and retraced my stepsdown the walkway.

Chapter Thirty TwoTO THE SURFACE

“IT IS THE END,” SAID Misk,“the end.” He frantically adjustedthe contr1ols on a major panel, his

antennae taut with concentrationreading the scent-needle on aboxlike gauge.

Other Priest-Kings workedbeside him.

I looked to the body of Sarm,golden and broken. Lying among therubble on the floor, half covered inthe powdery dust that hung like fogin the room.

I heard the choking of a girl nextto me and put my arm about theshoulders of Vika of Treve.

“It took time to cut through toyou,” said Misk, “Now it is toolate.”

“The planet?” I asked.

“The Nest — the World,” saidMisk.

Now the bubbling mass insidethe purple globe began to burnthrough the globe itself and therewere cracking sounds and rivuletsof think, hissing substance, like bluelava, began to press through thebreaks in the globe. Elsewheredroplets of the same materialseemed to form on the outside of theglobe.

“We must leave the chamber,”said Misk, “for the globe willshatter,”

He pointed an excited foreleg atthe scent-needle which I, of course,

could not read.“Go,” came from Misk’s

translator.I swept Vika up and carried her

from the trembling chamber and wewere accompanied by hurryingPriest-Kings and those humans whohad accompanied them.

I turned back only in time to seeMisk leap from the panel and rushto the body of Sarm lying among therubble. There was a great splittingsound and the entire side of theglobe cracked open and began topour forth its avalanche of thick,molten fluid into the room.

Still Misk tugged at the broken

body of Sarm among the rubble.The purple mass of bubbling fury

poured over the rubble toward thePriest-King.

“Hurry!” I cried to him.But the Priest-King paid me no

attention, trying to move a greatblock of stone which had fallenacross one of the supportingappendages of the dead Sarm.

I thrust Vika behind me andleaped over the rubble, running toMisk’s side.

“Come!” I cried, pounding myfist against his thorax, “Hurry!”

“No,” said Misk.“He is a Priest-King,” said Misk.

Together Misk and I, as the bluelavalike mass began to hiss over therubble bubbling towards us, forcedaside the great block of stone andMisk tenderly gathered up thebroken carcass of Sarm in hisforelegs and he and I sped towardthe opening, and the blue moltenflux of burning, seething, hissingsubstance engulfed where we hadstood.

Misk, carrying Sarm, and theother Priest-Kings and humans,including Vika and myself, madeour way from the Power Plant andback toward the complex which hadbeen the heart of Sarm’s territory.

“Why?” I asked Misk.“Because he is a Priest-King,”

said Misk.“He was a traitor,” I said, “and

betrayed the Nest and would haveslain you by treachery and has nowdestroyed your Nest and world,”

“But he was a Priest-King,” saidMisk, and he touched the crushed,torn figure of Sarm gently with hisantennae. “And 1he was FirstBorn,” said Misk. “And he wasbeloved of the Mother.”

There was a huge explosion frombehind us and I knew that the globehad now burst and the chamber thathoused it was shattered in its

destruction.The very tunnel we walked in

pitched and buckled under our feet.We came to the hole where Misk

and his fellow Priest-Kings andhumans had cut through fallendebris and climbed out through it,finding ourselves in one of themajor complexes again.

It was cold and the humans,including myself, shivered in thesimple plastic we wore.

“Look,” cried Vika pointingupward.

And we looked, all of us, andsaw, far above, perhaps more than amile above, the open blue sky of

Gor. A great opening, from thesides of which stones fell, hadappeared in the ceiling of the Nestcomplex, opening the thick,numerous strata above it until at lastthrough that rupture could be seenthe beautiful calm sky of the worldabove.

Some of the humans with us criedaloud in wonder for never had theyseen the sky.

The Priest-Kings shielded theirantennae from the radiation of thesunlit heavens far above.

It sprang into my mind suddenlywhy they needed men, howdependent they were upon us.

Priest-Kings could not stand thesun!

I looked up at the sky.And I understood, as I had not

before what must be the pain, theglory and the agony of the NuptialFlight. His wings, she had said, hadbeen like showers of gold.

“How beautiful it is!” cried Vika.“Yes,” I said, “it is very

beautiful.”I recalled that it would have been

nine years since the girl had lookedupon the sky.

I put my arm about her shoulders,holding her as she wept, her facelifted to the distant blue sky.

At this moment, skimming overthe buildings in the complex, nomore than a few feet from theirroofs, came one of the ships ofMisk, piloted by Al-Ka,accompanied by his woman.

It landed near us.A moment later another ship,

piloted by Ba-Ta, appeared andsettled by its sister ship. He too hadhis woman with him.

“It is now time to choose,” saidMisk, “where one will die.”

The Priest-Kings, of course,would not leave the Nest, and, tomy surprise, most of the humans,many of whom had been bred in the

Nest or now regarded it as theirhome, insisted also on remainingwhere they were.

Others, however, eagerlyboarded the ships to be flownthrough the opening to the mountainsabove.

“We have made many trips,” saidAl-Ka, “and so have others in theother ships, for the Nest is brokenin a dozen places and open to thesky.”

“Where will you choose to die?”I asked Vika of Treve.

“At your side,” she said simply.Al-Ka and Ba-Ta, as I would

have expected, turned their ships

over to others to pilot, for theywould choose to remain in the Nest.Their women, too, to myamazement, freely elected to remainby the sides of the men who hadfastened gol1den collars about theirthroats.

I saw Kusk in the distance, andboth Al-Ka and Ba-Ta, followed bytheir women, began to walktowards him. They met perhaps ahundred yards from where I stoodand I saw the Priest-King place aforeleg on the shoulder of each andtogether they stood and waited forthe final crumbling of the Nest.

“There is no safety above,” said

Misk.“Nor any here,” I said.“True,” said Misk.In the distance we could hear

dull explosions and the crash offalling rock.

“The entire Nest is beingdestroyed,” said Misk.

I saw tears in the eyes of humans.“Is there nothing that can be

done?” I demanded.“Nothing,” said Misk.Vika looked up at me. “Where

will you choose to die, Cabot?” sheasked.

I saw that the last ship waspreparing to take flight through the

hold torn above in the ceiling of thecomplex. I would have liked tohave seen once more the surface ofthe world, the blue sky, the greenfields beyond the black Sardar, butrather I said, “I choose to remainhere with Misk, who is my friend.”

“Very well,” said Vika, puttingher head against my shoulder. “Iwill also remain.”

“Something you have said doesnot translate,” said Misk, hisantennae dipping towards me.

I looked up into the huge, peeringgolden eyes of Misk, the left onelined with a whitish seam whereSarm’s bladed projection had once

torn it open in the battle in theChamber of the Mother.

I could not even tell him how Ifelt about him, for his language didnot contain the expression I needed.

“I said,” I told him, “I choose toremain here with you — and I saidsomething like “There is Nest Trustbetween us”.”

“I see,” said Misk, and touchedme lightly with his antennae.

With my right hand I gentlypressed the sensory appendagewhich rested on my left shoulder.

Then together we watched theship float swiftly upward like asmall white star and disappear in

the blue distance beyond.Now Kusk, Al-Ka and Ba-Ta,

and their women slowly walkedacross the rubble to join us.

We stood now on the uneven,shifting stones of the floor. To oneside, high in the domed wall someenergy bulbs burst, emitting acascade of sparks that loopeddownwards burning themselves outbefore striking the floor. Somemore tons of stone fell from the holetorn in the ceiling, raining down onthe buildings beneath, breakingthrough the roofs, shattering to thestreets. Drifting dust obscured thecomplex and I drew the folds of

Vika’s robes more about her facethe she might be better protected.Misk’s body was coated with dustand I felt it in my hair and eyes andthroat.

I smiled to myself, for Miskseemed now to busy himself withhis cleaning hooks. His world mightbe crumbling about him but hewould not forgo his grooming. Isupposed the dust that clung to histhorax and abdomen, that adhered tothe sensory hairs on his appendagesmight be distressing to him, more soperhaps than the fear that he mightbe totally crushed by one of thegreat blocks of stone that

occasionally fell clattering 1nearus.

“It is unfortunate,” said Al-Ka tome, “that the alternative powerplant is not near completion.”

Misk stopped grooming, andKusk, too, peered down at Al-Ka.

“What alternative power plant?”I asked.

“The plant of the Muls,” said Al-Ka, “which we have been readyingfor five hundred years, preparingfor the revolt against Priest-Kings.”

“Yes,” said Ba-Ta, “built by Mulengineers trained by Priest-Kings,constructed of parts stolen overcenturies and hidden in an

abandoned portion of the old Nest.“I did not know of this,” said

Misk.“Priest-Kings often

underestimate Muls,” said Al-Ka.“I am proud of my sons,” said

Kusk.“We are not engineers,” said Al-

Ka.“No,” said Kusk, “but you are

humans.”“As far as that goes,” said Ba-

Ta, “No more than a few Mulsknew of the plant. We ourselves didnot find out about it until sometechnicians joined out forces in theNest War.”

“Where are these techniciansnow!” I demanded.

“Working,” said Al-Ka.I seized him by the shoulders. “Is

there a chance the plant can becomeoperational?”

“No,” said Al-Ka.“Then why are they working?”

asked Misk.“It is human,” said Ba-Ta.“Foolish,” observed Misk.“But human,” said Ba-Ta.“Yes, foolish,” said Misk, his

antennae curling a bit, but then hetouched Ba-Ta gently on theshoulders to show him that he meantno harm.

“What is needed?” I demanded.“I am not an engineer,” said Al-

Ka, “I do not know.” He looked atme, “But it has to do with UrForce.”

“That secret,” said Ba-Ta, “hasbeen well guarded by Priest-Kings.

Misk lifted his antennaemeditatively. “There is the Urdisruptor I constructed in the War,”came from his translator. He andKusk touched antennae quickly andheld them locked for a moment.Then Misk and Kusk separatedantennae. “The components in thedisruptor might be realigned,” hesaid, “but there is little likelihood

that the power loop could besatisfactorily closed,”

“Why not?” I asked.“For one things,” said Misk, “the

plant built by Muls is probablyfundamentally ineffective to beginwith; for another if it is constructedof parts stolen over centuries itwould be probably impossible toachieve satisfactory componentintegration with the elements in theUr disruptor.”

“Yes,” said Kusk, and hisantennae dipped disconsolately,“the probabilities are at all in ourfavour.”

A huge boulder fell from the roof

and bounded, almost like a giantrubber ball, past our group. Vikascreamed and I pressed her moretightly against me. More thananything I began to be exasperatedwith Misk and Kusk.

“Is there any chance at all?” Idemanded of Misk.

“Perhaps,” said Misk, “for I havenot seen the plant they have built.”

“But in all probability,” pointedout Kusk, “there is really nochance.”

“An extremely small but yet finitepossibility,” speculated Misk,grooming one foreleg.

“I think so,” acknowledged Kusk.

I seized Misk, stopping him fromthat infernal grooming. “If there isany chance at all,” I cried, “Youmust try!”

Misk peered down at me and hisantennae seemed to lift withsurprise. “I am a Priest-King,” hesaid. “The probability is not suchthat a Priest-King, who is a rationalcreature, would act upon it.”

“You must act!” I cried.Another boulder fell clattering

down a hundred yards from us andbounded past.

“I wish to die with dignity,” saidMisk, gently pulling his forelegaway and recommencing his

grooming. “It is not becoming to aPriest-King to scramble about like ahuman — still scratching here andthere when there is no likelihood ofsuccess.”

“If not for your own sake,” I said,“then for the sake of humans — inthe Nest and outside of it — whohave no hope but you.”

Misk stopped grooming andlooked down. “Do you wish thisthing, Tarl Cabot?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.And Kusk looked down at Al-Ka

and Ba-Ta. “Do you, too, wish thisthing?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Al-Ka and Ba-Ta.

At that moment, through thedrifting rock dust, I saw the heavy,domed body of one of the GoldenBeetles, perhaps fifty yards away.

Almost simultaneously both Miskand Kusk lifted their antennae andshuddered.

“We are fortunate,” came fromKusk’s translator.

“Yes,” said Misk, “now it willnot be necessary to seek on of theGolden Beetles.”

“You must not yield to theGolden Beetle!” I cried.

I could now see the antennae ofboth Misk and Kusk turning towardsthe Beetle, and I could see the

Beetle stop, and the mane hairsbegin to lift. Suddenly, through therock dust, I could scent that strangenarcotic odour.

I drew my sword, but gentlyMisk seized my wrist, notpermitting me to rush upon theBeetle and slay it, “No,” said Misk.

The Beetle drew close, and Icould see the mane hairs wavingnow like the fronds of some marineplant caught in the currents of itsunderwater world.

“You must resist the GoldenBeetle,” I said to Misk.

“I am going to die,” said Misk,“do not begrudge me this pleasure.”

Kusk took a step toward theBeetle.

“You must resist the GoldenBeetle to the end!” I cried.

“This is the end,” came fromMisk’s translator. “And I havetried. And I am tired now. Forgiveme, Tarl Cabot.”

“Is this how our father chooses todie?” asked Al-Ka of Kusk.

“You do not understand, mychildren,” said Kusk, 1“what theGolden Beetle means to a Priest-King.”

“I think I understand,” I cried,“but you must resist!”

“Would you have us die working

at a hopeless task,” asked Misk,“die like fools deprived of the finalPleasures of the Golden Beetle?”

“Yes!” I cried.“It is not the way of Priest-

Kings,” said Misk.“Let it be the way of Priest-

Kings!” I cried.Misk seemed to straighten

himself, his antennae waved aboutwildly, every fiber of his bodyseemed to shiver.

He stood shuddering in thedrifting rock dust, amid the crashingof distant rocks. He surveyed thehumans gathered about him, theheavy golden hemisphere of the

approaching Beetle.“Drive it away,” came from

Misk’s translator.With a cry of joy I rushed upon

the Beetle and Vika and Al-Ka andBa-Ta and their women joined meand together, kicking and pushing,avoiding the tubular jaws, hurlingrocks, we forced away the globe ofthe Golden Beetle.

We returned to Misk and Kuskwho stood together, their antennaetouching.

“Take us to the plant of theMuls,” said Misk.

“I will show you,” cried Al-Ka.Misk turned again to me. “I wish

you well, Tarl Cabot, human,” hesaid.

“Wait,” I said, “I will go withyou.”

“You can do nothing to help,” hesaid. Misk’s antennae inclinedtoward me. “Go to the surface,”said Misk. “Stand in the wind andsee the sky and sun once more.”

I lifted my hands and Misktouched the palms gently with hisantennae.

“I wish you well, Misk, Priest-King,” I said.

Misk turned and hurried off,followed by Kusk and the others.

Vika and I were left alone in the

crumbling complex. Over our headsit seemed suddenly that, splittingfrom the hole already there, theentire roof suddenly shattered apartand seemed for a moment to hangthere.

I seized Vika, sweeping her intomy arms, and fled from thechamber.

With uncanny speed it seemedwe almost floated to a tunnelentrance and I looked behind us andsaw the ceiling descending withincredible softness, almost like asnowfall of stones.

I sensed the difference in thegravitation of the planet. I

wondered how long it would takebefore it broke apart and scatteredin a belt of dust across the solarsystem, only to bend inward at lastand spiral like a falling bird into thegases of the burning sun.

Vika had fainted in my arms.I rushed onwards through the

tunnels, having no clear idea ofwhat to do or where to go.

Then I found myself in the firstNest Complex, where first I hadlaid eyes on the Nest of Priest-Kings.

Moving as though in a dream, myfoot touching the ground onlyperhaps once in thirty or forty

yards, I climbed the circling rampupward toward the elevator.

But I found only the dark openshaft.

The door had been broken awayand there was ru1bble in the shaft.There were no hanging cables in theshaft and I could see the shatteredroof of the elevator some half ahundred feet below.

It seemed I was trapped in theNest, but then I noted, perhaps fiftyyards away, a similar door, thoughsmaller.

With one slow, strange bound Iwas at the door and threw theswitch which was placed at the side

of the door.It opened and I leaped inside and

pushed the highest disk on a line ofdisks mounted inside.

The door closed and thecontrivance swiftly sped upward.

When the door opened I foundmyself once more in the Hall of thePriest-Kings, though the great domeabove it was now broken andportions of it had fallen to the floorof the hall.

I had found the elevator, whichhad originally been used by Parp,whom I had learned, was aphysician of Treve, and who hadbeen my host in my first hour in the

domain of Priest-Kings. Parp, Irecalled, with Kusk, had refused toimplant me, and had formed aportion of the underground whichhad resisted Sarm. When he hadfirst spoken to me I knew now hewould have been under the controlof Priest-Kings, that his control netwould have been activated and hiswords and actions dictated, at leastsubstantially, from the ScanningRoom below, but now the ScanningRoom, like most of the Nest, wasdemolished, and even if it had notbeen, there were none who wouldnow care to activate his net. Parpwould now be his own master.

Vika still lay unconscious in myarms and I had folded her robesabout her in order to protect herface and eyes and throat from therock dust below.

I walked before the throne ofPriest-Kings.

“Greetings, Cabot,” said a voice.I looked up and saw Parp,

puffing on his pipe, sitting calmlyon the throne.

“You must not stay here,” I saidto him, uneasily looking up at theremnants of the dome.

“There is nowhere to go,” saidParp, puffing contentedly on thepipe. He leaned back. A puff of

smoke emerged from the pipe butinstead of drifting up seemedinstead almost immediately to popapart. “I would have liked to enjoya last, proper smoke,” said Parp.He looked down at me kindly and ina step or two seemed to float downthe steps and stood beside me. Helifted aside the fold of Vika’s robeswhich I had drawn about her face.

“She is very beautiful,” saidParp, “much like her mother.”

“Yes,” I said.“I wished that I could have

known her better,” said Parp. Hesmiled at me. “But then I was anunworthy father for such a girl.”

“You are a very good and braveman,” I said.

“I am small and ugly and weak,”he said, “and fit to be despised bysuch a daughter.”

“I think now,” I said, “she wouldnot despise you.”

He smiled and replaced the foldof the garment over her face.

“Do not tell her that I saw her,”he said. “Let her forget Parp, thefool.”

In a bound, almost like a smallballoon, he floated up, and twistingabout, reseated himself in thethrone. He pounded on the armsonce and the movement almost

thrust him up off the throne.“Why have you returne1d here?”

I asked.“To sit once more upon the

throne of Priest-Kings,” said Parp,chuckling.

“But way?” I asked.“Perhaps vanity,” said Parp.

“Perhaps memory.” Then hechuckled again and his eyes,twinkling, looked down at me.

“But I also like to think,” he said,“it may be because this is the mostcomfortable chair in the entireSardar.”

I laughed.I looked up at him. “You are

from Earth, are you not?” I asked.“Long, long ago,” he said. “I

never did get used to that businessof sitting on the floor.” He chuckledagain. “My knees were too stiff.”

“You were English,” I said.“Yes,” he said, smiling.“Brought here on one of the

voyages of Acquisition?”“Of course,” he said.Parp regarded his pipe with

annoyance. It had gone out. Hebegan to pinch some tobacco fromthe pouch he wore at his belt.

“How long ago?” I asked.He began to try to stuff the

tobacco into the bowl of the pipe.

Given the gravitational alterationthis was no easy task. “Do youknow of these things?” asked Parp,without looking up.

“I know of the StabilisationSerums,” I said.

Parp glanced up from the pipe,holding his thumb over the bowl toprevent the tobacco from floatingout of it, and smiled. “Threecenturies,” he said, and thenreturned his attention to the pipe.

He was trying to thrust moretobacco into it but was havingdifficulty because the tiny brownparticles tended to lie loosely abouta quarter of an inch above the bowl.

At last he wadded enough in for thepressure to hold it tight and, usingthe silver lighter, sucked a streamof flame into the bowl.

“Where did you get tobacco anda pipe?” I asked, for I knew of nonesuch on Gor.

“As you might imagine,” saidParp, “I have acquired the habitoriginally on Earth and, since, Ihave returned to Earth several timesas an Agent of the Priest-Kings, Ihave had the opportunity to indulgeit. On the other hand, in the last fewyears, I have grown my owntobacco below in the Nest underlamps.”

The floor buckled under my feetand I changed my position. Thethrone tilted and then fell back intoplace again.

Parp seemed more concernedwith his pipe, which seemed againin danger of going out, than he didwith the world that was crumblingabout him.

At last he seemed to get the pipeunder control.

“Did you know,” he asked, “thatVika was the female Mul whodrove away the Golden Beetleswhen Sarm sent them against theforces of Misk?”

“No,” I said, “I did not know.”

“A fine, brave girl,” said Parp.“I know,” I said. “She is truly a

great and beautiful woman.”It seemed to please Parp that I

had said this.“Yes,” he said, “I believe she

is.” And he added, rather sadly Ithought, “And such was h1ermother.”

Vika stirred in my arms.“Quick,” said Parp, who seemed

suddenly afraid, “take her from thechamber before she regainsconsciousness. She must not seeme!”

“Why?” I asked.“Because,” said Parp, “she

despises me and I could not endureher contempt.”

“I think not,” I said.“Go,” he begged, “go!”“Show me the way,” I said.Hurriedly Parp knocked the ashes

and sparks from his pipe against thearm of the throne. The ashes andunused tobacco seemed to hang inthe air like smoke and then driftapart. Parp thrust the pipe in hispouch. He seemed to float down tothe floor and, touching onesandalled foot to the ground onlyevery twenty yards or so, began toleave the chamber in slowdreamlike bounds. “Follow me,” he

called after him.Vika in my arms I followed the

bounding body of Parp, whoserobes seemed to lift and fluttersoftly about him as he almostfloated down the tunnel before me.

Soon we had reached a steelportal and Parp threw back a switchand it rolled upward.

Outside I saw the two snow larlsturn to face the portal. They wereunchained.

Parp’s eyes widened in horror. “Ithought they would be gone,” hesaid. “Earlier I freed them from theinside in order that they might notdie chained.”

He threw the switch again andthe portal began to roll down butone of the larls with a wild roarthrew himself towards it and gothalf his body and one long, rakingclawed paw under it. We leapedback as the clawed paw swepttowards us. the portal struck theanimal’s back and, frightened itreared up, forcing the portal up,twisting it in the frame. The larlbacked away but the portal, in spiteof Parp’s efforts, now refused toclose.

“You were kind,” I said.“I was a fool,” said Parp.

“Always the fool!”

“You could not have know,” Isaid.

Vika’s hang went to the folds ofthe robe and I could feel her squirmto regain her feet.

I set her down and Parp turnedaway, covering his face with hisrobe.

I stood at the portal, sworddrawn, to defend it against the larlsshould they attempt to enter.

Vika now stood on her feet, a bitbehind me, taking in at a glance thejammed door and the two unchainedlarls without. Then she saw thefigure of Parp and cried out with atiny gasp, and looked back again at

the larls, and then to the figure.Out of the corner of my eye I saw

her put out her hand gently andapproach Parp. She pulled aside thefolds of his robe and I saw hertouch his face which seemed filledwith tears.

“Father!” she wept.“My daughter,” he said, and took

the girl gently in his arms.“I love you Father,” she said.And Parp uttered a great sob, his

head falling against the shoulder ofhis daughter.

One of the larls roared, thehunger roar that precedes the roarof the charge.

This was the1 sound I knew well.“Stand aside,” said Parp, and I

barely knew the voice that spoke.But I stood aside.Parp stood framed in the

doorway holding that tiny silverlighter with which it seemed I hadseen him fumble and light his pipe athousand times, that small cylinder Ihad once mistaken for a weapon.

Parp reversed the cylinder andleveled it at the breast of the nearestlarl. He turned it suddenly and a joltof fire that threw him five feet backinto the cave leapt from that tinyinstrument and the nearest larlsuddenly reared, its paws lifted

wildly, its fangs bared, its snowypelt burned black about the hole thathad once housed its heart, and thenit twisted and fell sprawling fromthe ledge.

Parp threw the tine tube away.He looked at me. “Can you strike

through to the heart of a larl?” heasked.

With a sword it would be a greatblow.

“If I had the opportunity,” I said.The second larl, enraged, roared

and crouched to spring.“Good,” said Parp, not flinching,

“follow me!”Vika screamed and I cried out for

him to stop but Parp dashedforward and threw himself into thejaws of the startled larl and it liftedhim its jaws and began to shake himsavagely and I was at its feet andthrust my sword behind its ribsplunging it deep into its heart.

The body of Parp, half torn apart,neck and limbs broken, fell from thejaws of the larl.

Vika rushed upon it weeping.I drew out the sword and thrust it

again and again into the heart of thelarl until at last it lay still.

I went to stand behind Vika.Kneeling by the body she turned

and looked up at me. “He so feared

larls,” she said.“I have known many brave men,”

I said to her, “but none was morebrave than Parp of Treve.”

She lowered her head to the tornbody, its blood staining the silksshe wore.

“We will cover the body withstones,” I said. “And I will cutrobes from the pelt of the larl. Wehave a long way to go and it will becold.”

She looked up at me and, hereyes filled with tears nodded heragreement.

Chapter Thirty ThreeOUT OF THE SARDAR

VIKA AND I, CLAD IN robescut from the pelt of the snow larl Ihad slain, set out for the great blackgate in the sombre timber palisadethat encircles the Sardar. It was astrange but rapid journey, and as weleaped chasms and seemed almostto swim in the cold air I told myselfthat Misk and his Priest-Kings andthe humans that were engineers inthe Nest were losing the battle thatwould decided whether men andPriest-Kings might, working

together, save a world or whetherin the end it would be sabotage ofSarm, First Born, that would betriumphant and the world I lovedwould be scattered into fugitivegrains destined for the flaming pyreof the sun.

Whereas it had taken four daysfor me to climb to the lair of Priest-Kings in the Sardar it was on themorning of the sec1ond day thatVika and I sighted the remains ofthe great gate, fallen, and thepalisade, now little more thanbroken and uprooted timbers.

The speed of our return journeywas not due primarily to the fact

that we were now on the wholedescending, though this helped, butrather to the gravitational reductionwhich made it possible for me,Vika in my arms, to move with aswift disregard for what, undermore normal conditions, wouldhave been at times a dangerous,tortuous trail. Several times, in fact,I had simply leaped from oneportion of the trail to float morethan a hundred feet downward toland lightly on another portion ofthe trail, a point which, on foot,might have been separated by morethan five pasangs from the pointabout from which I had leaped.

Sometimes I even neglected the trailaltogether and leaped from one cliffto another in improvised short cuts.It was late in the morning of thesecond day, about the time that wesighted the black gate, that thegravitational reduction reached itsmaximum.

“It is the end, Cabot,” said Vika.“Yes,” I said. “I believe so,”From where Vika and I stood

together on the rock trail, nowscarcely able to keep our feet on thepath, we could see vast crowds,robed in all the caste colours ofGor, clustered outside the remainsof the palisade, looking fearfully

within. I supposed there might havebeen men from almost all of Gor’scities in that frightened, teemingthrong. In the front, several deep, inlines that extended as far as I couldsee in both directions, were thewhite robes of the Initiates. Evenfrom where we stood I could smellthe innumerable fires of theirsacrifices, the burning flesh ofbosks, smell the heady fumes of theincense they burned in brasscensers swinging on chains, hearthe repetitious litanies of theirpleas, observe their continualprostrations and grovelling bywhich they sought to make

themselves and their petitionspleasing to Priest-Kings.

I swept Vika again to my armsand, half-walking, half-floating,made my way downward towardthe ruins of the gate. There was agreat should from the crowd whenthey saw us and then there wasenormous quiet and every pair ofeyes in that teeming throng wasfixed upon us.

It suddenly seemed to me thatVika was a bit heavier than she hadbeen and I told myself that I must betiring.

I descended with Vika from thetrail and, as I floated down to the

bottom of a small crevice betweenthe trail and the gate, the bottoms ofmy sandals stung when I hit therock. I had apparently slightlymisjudged the distance.

The top of the crevice was onlyabout thirty feet away. It should takeone leap and a step to clear it, butwhen I leaped, my leap carried meonly about fifteen feet and wheremy foot scraped the side a pebble,dislodged, bounded downward andI could hear it strike the floor of thecrevice. I took another leap, thistime putting some effort into it, andcleared the top of the crevice bysome ten feet to land between it and

the gate.In my heart something seemed to

be speaking, but I could not dare tolisten.

Then I looked through the ruins ofthe palisade and over the fallengate, at the smoke from thecountless sacrificial fires thatburned there, at the smoke from theswinging censers. No longer did itseem to pop apart and dissipate.Now it seemed to lift in slenderstrands towards the sky.

A cry of joy escaped my lips.“What is it Cabot?” cried Vika.“Misk has won!” I cried. “We

h1ave won!”

Not stopping even to set her onher feet I now raced in long, softbounds towards the gate.

As soon as I reached the gate Iplaced Vika on her feet.

Before the gate, facing me, I sawthe astonished throng.

I knew that never before in thehistory of the planet had a man beenseen to return from the Sardar.

The Initiates, hundreds of them,knelt in long lines to the crags of theSardar, to the Priest-Kings. I sawtheir shaven heads, their facesdistraught in the bleak white of theirrobes, their eyes wide and filledwith fear, their bodies trembling in

the robes of their caste.Perhaps they expected me to be

cut down by the Flame Death beforetheir very eyes.

Behind the Initiates, standing, asbefits the men of other castes, I sawmen of a hundred cities, joined herein the common fear and plea to thedenizens of the Sardar. Well could Isuppose the terror and upheavalsthat had brought these men,normally so divided against oneanother in the strife of their warringcities, to the palisade, to the darkshadows of the Sardar — theearthquakes, the tidal waves, thehurricanes and atmospheric

disturbances, and the uncannylessening of the gravitationalattraction, the lessening of thebonding that held the very earthtogether beneath their feet.

I looked upon the frightenedfaces of the Initiates. I wondered ifthe shaven heads, traditional forcenturies with Initiates, held somedistant connection, lost now in time,with the hygienic practices of theNest.

I was pleased to see that the menof other castes, unlike the Initiates,did not grovel. There were men inthat crowd from Ar, from Thentis,from Tharna, recognised by the two

yellow cords in their belt; from PortKar; from Tor, Cos, Tyros; perhapsfrom Treve, Vika’s home city;perhaps even from fallen, vanishedKo-ro-ba; and the men in thatcrowd were of all castes, and evenof castes as low as Peasants, theSaddle Makers, the Weaves, theGoat Keepers, the Poets andMerchants, but none of themgrovelled as did the Initiates; howstrange, I thought — the Initiatesclaimed to be most like Priest-Kings, even to be formed in theirimage, and yet I knew that a Priest-King would never grovel; it seemedthe Initiates, in their efforts to be

like gods, behaved like slaves.One Initiate stood on his feet.I was pleased to see that.“Do you come from Priest-

Kings?” he asked.He was a tall man, rather heavy,

with bland soft features, but hisvoice was very deep and wouldhave been quite impressive in oneof the temples of the Initiates,constructed to maximise theacoustical effects of such a voice.His eyes, I noted, in contrast withhis bland features, his almost pudgysoftness, were very sharp andshrewd. He was no man’s fool. Hisleft hand, fat and soft wore a heavy

ring set with a large, white stone,carved with the sign of Ar. He was,I gathered, correctly as it turned out,the High Initiate of Ar, he who hadbeen appointed to fill the post of theformer High Initiate whom I hadseen destroyed by the Flame Deathyears earlier.

“I come from the place of thePriest-Kings,” I said, raising myvoice so that as many could hear aspossible. I wanted to carry on noprivate conversation with thisfellow, which he might later reportas he saw fit.

I saw his eye furtively flit to thesmoke of one of the sacrificial fires.

It was now ascending in a gentleswirl to the blue sky of Gor.

He knew!He knew as well as I that the

gravitational field of the planet wasre-established.

“I wish to speak!” I cried.“Wait,” he said, “oh welcome

messenger of Priest-Kings!”I kept silent, waiting to see what

he wanted.The man gestured with his fat

hand and a white bosk, beautifulwith its long, shaggy coat and itscarved, polished horns, was ledforward. Its shaggy coat had beenoiled and groomed and colored

beads were hung about it horns.Drawing a small knife from his

pouch the Initiate cut a strand ofhair from the animal and threw itinto a nearby fire. Then he gesturedto a subordinate, and the man, witha sword opened, opened the throatof the animal and it sank to itsknees, the blood from its throatbeing caught in a golden laver heldby a third man.

While I waited impatiently twomore men cut a thigh from the slainbeast and this, dripping with greaseand blood, was ordered cast uponthe fire.

“All else has failed!” cried the

Initiate, weaving back and forth, hishands in the air. Then he began tomumble prayers very quickly inarchaic Gorean, a language inwhich the Initiates converse amongthemselves and conduct theirvarious ceremonies. At the end ofthis long but speedily deliveredprayer, refrains to which wererapidly furnished by the Initiatesmassed about him, he cried, “OhPriest-Kings, let this our lastsacrifice turn aside your wrath. Letthis sacrifice please your nostrilsand now consent to hear our pleas!It is offered by Om, Chief among allthe High initiates of Gor!”

“No!” cried a number of otherInitiates, the High Initiates ofvarious other cities. I knew that theHigh Initiate of Ar, following thepolicies of the High Initiate beforehim, wished to claim hegemonyover all other Initiates, and claimedto possess this already, but hisclaim, of course, was denied by theother High Initiates who regardedthemselves as supreme in their owncities. I surmised that, pendingsome form of military victory of Arover the other cities or some formof large-scale political victory ofAr over the other cities or someform of large-scale political

reordering of the planet, the Initiateof Ar’s claims would remain amatter of dispute.

“It is the sacrifice of all of us!”Cried one of the other HighInitiates.

“Yes!” cried several of theothers.

“Look!” cried the High Initiate ofAr. He pointed to the smoke whichwas now rising in an almost naturalpattern. He jumped up once andcame down, as though to illustrate apoint. “My sacrifice has beenpleasing to the nostrils of the Priest-Kings!” he cried.

“Our sacrifice!” cried the other

Initiates, joyfully.A wild, glad shout broke from

the throats of the assembledmultitude as the men suddenlybegan to understand that their worldwas returning to its normal order.There were thousands of cheers andcries of gratitude to the Priest-Kings.

“See!” cried the High Initiate ofAr. He pointed to the smoke which,as the wind had changed somewhat,was now drifting toward theSardar. “The Priest-Kings inhalethe smoke of my sacrifice.

“Our sacrifice!” insisted theother High Initiates.

I smiled to myself. I could we1llimagine the antennae of the Priest-Kings shuddering with horror at thevery thought of that greasy smoke.

Then somewhat to his momentaryembarrassment the wind shiftedagain and the smoke began to blowaway from the Sardar and outtoward the crowd.

Perhaps the Priest-Kings areexhaling now, I thought to myself,but the High Initiate had morepractise in the interpretation ofsigns than myself.

“See!” he cried. “Now thePriest-Kings blow the breath of mysacrifice as a blessing upon you,

letting it travel to the ends of Gor tospeak of their wisdom and mercy!”

There was a great cry of joy fromthe crowed and shouts of gratitudeto the Priest-Kings.

I had hoped that I might haveused those moments, that pricelessopportunity, before the men of Gorrealised the restoration of gravityand normal conditions wasoccurring, to command them to giveup their warlike ways and turn tothe pursuit of peace andbrotherhood, but the moment, beforeI realised it, had been stolen fromme by the High Initiate of Ar, andused for his own purposes.

Now as the crowd rejoiced andbegan to disband I knew that I wasno longer important, that I was onlyanother indication of the mercy ofthe Priest-Kings, that someone —who had it been? — Had returnedfrom the Sardar.

At that moment I suddenlyrealised I was ringed by Initiates.

Their codes forbade them to killbut I knew that they hired men ofother castes for this purpose.

I faced the High Initiate of Ar.“Who are you, Stranger?” he

asked.The words for “stranger” and

“enemy” in Gorean, incidentally,

are the same word.“I am no one,” I said.I would not reveal to him my

name, my caste, nor city.“It is well,” said the High

Initiate.His brethren pressed more

closely about me.“He did not truly come from the

Sardar,” said another Initiate.I looked at him, puzzled.“No,” said another. “I saw him.

He came from the crowd and onlywent within the ring of the palisadeand wandered towards us. He wasterrified. He did not come from themountains.”

“Do you understand?” asked theHigh Initiate.

“Perfectly,” I said.“But it is not true,” cried Vika.

“We were in the Sardar. We haveseen Priest-Kings!”

“She blasphemes,” said one ofthe Initiates.

I cautioned Vika to silence.Suddenly I was very sad, and I

wondered what would be the fate ofhumans from the Nest, if they shouldattempt to return to their cities orthe world above. Perhaps, if theywere silent, they might return to thesurface, but even then, probably nottheir own cities, for the Initiates of

their cities would undoubtedlyrecall that they had left for, andperhaps entered, the Sardar.

With great suddenness I realisedthat what I knew, and what othersknew, would make no difference tothe world of Gor.

The Initiates had their way oflife, their ancient traditions, theirgi1ven livelihood, the prestige oftheir caste, which they claimed tobe the highest on the planet, theirteachings, their holy books, theirservices, their role to play in theculture. Suppose that even now ifthey knew the truth — what wouldchange? Would I really expect them

— at least on the whole — to burntheir robes, to surrender theirclaims to secret knowledge andpowers, to pick up hoes ofPeasants, the needles of the ClothWorkers, to bend their energies tothe humble task of honest work?

“He is an impostor,” said one ofthe Initiates.

“He must dies,” said another.I hoped that those humans who

returned from the Nest would not behunted by Initiates and burned orimpaled as heretics andblasphemers.

Perhaps they would simply betreated as fanatics, as daft homeless

wanderers, innocent in the madnessof their delusions. Who wouldbelieve them? Who would take theword of scattered vagrants againstthe word of the mighty Caste ofInitiates? And, if he did believethem, who would dare to speak outthat he did so?

The Initiates, it seemed, hadconquered.

I supposed many of the humansmight even return to the Nest, wherethey could live and love and behappy. Others, perhaps to keep theskies of Gor over their head, mightconfess to deceit; but I suspectedthere would be few of those; yet I

was sure that there would indeed beconfessions and admissions of guilt,from individuals never within theSardar, but hired by Initiates todiscredit the tales of those whoreturned. Most who had returnedfrom the Sardar would, eventuallyat least, I was sure, try to gainadmittance in new cities, wherethey were not known, and attempt towork out new lives, as though theydid not keep in their hearts thesecret of the Sardar.

I stood amazed at the greatnessand smallness of man.

And then with shame I realisedhow nearly I myself had come to

betraying my fellow creatures. I hadintended to make use of that momentmyself, pretending to have comewith a message from Priest-Kings,to encourage man to live as Iwished him to live, to respecthimself and others, to be kind and tobe worthy of the heritage of arational animal, and yet of whatworth would these things be if theycame not from the heart of manhimself, but from his fear of Priest-Kings or his desire to please them?NO, I would not try to reform manby pretending that my wishes forhim were the wishes of Priest-Kings, even though this might be

effective for a time, for the wishesthat reform man, that make him whathe is capable of becoming, and hasnot yet become, must be his ownand not those of another. If manrises, he can do so only on his owntwo feet.

And I was thankful that the HighInitiate of Ar had interfered.

I thought how dangerous might bethe Initiates if, intertwined withtheir superstitious lore and theirnumerous impressive ceremonies,there had been a truly moralmessage, something that might havespoken to the nobility of men.

The High Initiate of Ar gestured

to the others who crowded about,pressing in on me.

“Stand back,” he said, and hewas obeyed.

Sensing that he wished to speakto me I asked Vika to withdrawsomewhat, and she did so.

The High Initiate of Ar andmyself regarded one another.

Suddenly I did no feel him as anenemy any longer and I sensed thatsomehow he did not regard meeither as a threat or foe.

“Do you know of the Sardar?” Iasked him.

“Enough.” he said.“Then why?” I asked.

“It would be hard for you tounderstand,” he said.

I could smell the smoke from theburning thigh of the bosk as ithissed and popped on the sacrificialfire.

“Speak to me.” I said.“With most,” he said, “it is as

you think, and they are simple,believing members of my caste, andthere are others who suspect thetruth and will pretend — but I, Om,High Initiate of Ar, and certain ofthe High Initiates are like none ofthese.”

“And how do you differ?” Iasked.

“ I — and some others —” hesaid, “wait for man.” He looked atme. “He is not yet ready.”

“For what?” I asked.“To believe in himself,” said

Om, incredibly. He smiled at me. “Iand others have tried to leave openthe gap that he might see and fill it— and some have — but not many.”

“What gap is this?” I asked.“We speak not to man’s heart,”

said Om, “but only to his fear. Wedo not speak of love and courage,and loyalty and nobility — but ofpractice and observance and thepunishment of the Priest-Kings —for if we so spoke, it would be that

much harder for man to growbeyond us. Thus, unknown to mostmembers of my caste, we exist to beovercome, thus in our way pointingthe way to man’s greatness.”

I looked at the Initiate for a longtime, and wondered if he spoke thetruth. These were the strangestthings I had heard from the lips ofan Initiate, most of whom seemedinterminably embroiled in therituals of their caste, in thearrogance and archaic pedantry oftheir kind.

I trembled for a moment, perhapsfrom the chill winds sweepingdown the Sardar.

“It is for this reason,” said theman, “that I remain and Initiate.”

“There are Priest-Kings,” I saidat last.

“I know,” said Om, “but whathave they to do with what is mostimportant for man?”

I thought about it for a moment. “Isuppose,” I said, “— very little.”

“Go in peace,” said the Initiate,stepping aside.

I extended my hand to Vika andshe joined me.

The High Initiate of Ar turned tothe other Initiates about.

He raised his voice. “I saw noone emerge from the Sardar,” he

said.The other Initiates regarded us.“Nor did I,” said several of them.They parted, and Vika and I

walked between them, and throughthe ruined gate and palisade whichhad once encircled the Sardar.

Chapter Thirty FourMEN OF KO-RO-BA

“MY FATHER!” I CRIED. “Myfather!”

I rushed to the arms of MatthewCabot who, weeping, caught me inhis arms and held me1 as though he

might never let me go.Once again I saw the strong,

lined face, that square jaw, thatwild, flowing mane of fiery hair somuch like my own, that spare, readyframe, those gray eyes, now rimmedwith tears.

I felt a sudden blow on my backand nearly lost my breath andtwisted to see the gigantic brawnyOlder Tarl, my former Master atArms, who clapped me on theshoulders, his hands like the talonsof tarns.

There was a tugging at my sleeveand a blubbering and I looked downand nearly poked a scroll in my eye

which was carried by the smallblue-clad figure at my side.

“Torm!” I cried.But the little fellow’s sandy hair

and pale, watery eyes were hiddenin the vast sleeve of his blue robeas he leaned against my side andwept unabashedly.

“You will stain your scroll,” Icautioned him.

Without looking up or missing asob he shifted the scroll to a newposition under his other arm.

I swept him off his feet and spunhim around and the robes flew fromhis head and Torm of the Caste ofScribes cried aloud in joy and that

sandy hair whoofed in the wind andtears ran sideways down his faceand he never lost hold of the scrollalthough he nearly batted the OlderTarl with it in one of his orbits andthen he began to sneeze and I gentlyput him down.

“Where is Talena!” I begged myfather.

Vika, as I scarcely noted, steppedback when I had said this.

But in that instant my joy wasgone, for my father’s face becamegrave.

“Where is she!” I demanded.“We do no know,” said the Older

Tarl, for my father could not bring

himself to say the words.My father took me by the

shoulders. “My son,” he said,” hesaid, “the people of Ko-ro-ba werescattered and none could betogether and no stone of that citymight stand upon another stone.”

“But you are here,” I said, “threemen of Ko-ro-ba.”

“We met here,” said the OlderTarl, “and since it seemed theworld would end we decided thatwe would stand together one lastt i me — in spite of the will ofPriest-Kings — that we wouldstand together one last time as menof Ko-ro-ba.”

I looked down at the little scribe,Torm, who had stopped sneezing,and was now wiping his nose on theblue sleeve of his robes. “Even you,Torm?” I asked.

“Of course,” said Torm, “afterall a Priest-King is only a Priest-King.” He rubbed his nosemeditatively. “Of course,” headmitted, “that is quite a bit to be.”He looked up at me. “Yes,” he said,“I suppose that I am brave.” Helooked at the Older Tarl. “You mustnot tell other members of the Casteof Scribes,” he cautioned.

I smiled to myself. How clearlyTorm wished to keep caste lines

and virtues demarcated.“I will tell everyone,” said the

Older Tarl kindly, “that you are thebravest of the Caste of Scribes.”

“Well,” said Torm, “thusqualified, perhaps the informationwill do no harm.”

I looked at my father. “Do yousuppose Talena is here?” I asked.

“I doubt it,” he said.I knew how dangerous it would

be for a woman to travel unattendedon Gor.

“Forgive me, Vika,” I said, andintroduced her to my father, to theOlder Tarl and Torm, the Scribe,and explained briefly as I could

what had befallen us in the Sardar.My father, the Older Tarl and

Torm listened amazed to myaccount of the truths of the Sardar.

When I had finished I looked atthem, to see if they believed me.

“Yes,” said my father, “I believeyou.”

“And I,” said the Older Tarl.“Well,” said Torm, thoughtfully,

for it did not behove a member ofhis caste to volunteer an opinion toorapidly on any matter, “it does notcontradict any text with which I amfamiliar.”

I laughed and seized the littlefellow by the robes of his caste and

swung him about.“Do you believe me?” I asked.I swung him about by the hood of

his garment twice more.“Yes!” he cried. “I do! I do!”I set him down.“But are you sure?” he asked.I reached for him again and he

leaped backwards.“I was just curious,” he said.

“After all,” he muttered, “it is notwritten down in a text.”

This time the Older Tarl liftedhim up by the scruff of his robesand held him dangling, kicking, afoot from the ground. “I believehim!” cried Torm. “I believe him!”

Once safely down Torm cameover to me and reached up andtouched my shoulder.

“I believed you,” he said.“I know,” I said, and gave his

sandy-haired head a rough shake.He was, after all, a Scribe, and hadthe properties of his caste toobserve.

“But,” said Matthew Cabot, “Ithink it would be wise to speaklittle of these matters.”

All of us agreed to this.I looked at my father. “I am

sorry.” I said, “That Ko-ro-ba wasdestroyed.”

My father laughed. “Ko-ro-ba

was not destroyed,” he said.I was puzzled, for I myself had

looked upon the valley of Ko-ro-baand had seen that the city hadvanished.

“Here,” said my father, reachinginto a leather sack that he woreslung about his shoulder, “is Ko-ro-ba,” and he drew forth the small,flat Home Stone of the city, inwhich Gorean custom invests themeaning, the significance, thereality of a city itself. “Ko-ro-bacannot be destroyed,” said myfather, “for its Home Stone has notperished!”

My father had taken the Stone

from the City before it had beendestroyed. For years he had carriedit on his own person.

I took the small stone in my handsand kissed it, for it was the HomeStone of the city to which I hadpledged my sword, where I hadridden my first tarn, where I hadmet my father after an interval ofmore than twenty years, where I hadfound new friends, and to which Ihad taken Talena, my love, thedaughter of Marlenus, once Ubar ofAr, as my Free Companion.

“And here, too is Ko-ro-ba,” Isa1id, pointing to the proud giant,the Older Tarl, and the tiny, sandy-

haired scribe, Torm.“Yes,” said my father, “here too

is Ko-ro-ba, not only in theparticles of its Home Stone, but inthe hearts of its men.”

And we four men of Ko-ro-baclasped hands.

“I understand,” said my father,“from what you have told us, thatnow once more a stone may standupon a stone, that two men of Ko-ro-ba may once again stand side byside.”

“Yes,” I said, “that is true.”My father and the Older Tarl and

Torm exchanged glances. “Good,”said my father, “for we have a city

to rebuild.”“How will we find others of Ko-

ro-ba?” I asked.“The word will spread,” said my

father, “and they will come in twosand threes from all corners of Gor,singing each carrying a stone to addto the walls and cylinders of theircity.”

“I am glad,” I said.I felt Vika’s hand on my arm. “I

know what you must do, Cabot,”she said. “And it is what I want youto do.”

I looked down at the girl fromTreve. She knew that I must searchout Talena, spend my life need be in

the quest for she whom of allwomen I had chosen for my FreeCompanion.

I took her in my arms and shesobbed. “I must lose all,” she wept.“All!”

“Do you wish me to stay withyou?” I asked.

She shook the tears from hereyes. “No,” she said. “Seek the girlyou love.”

“What will you do?” I asked.“There is nothing for me,” said

Vika. “Nothing.”“You may return to Ko-ro-ba, I

said. “My father and Tarl, theMaster-of-Arms, are two of the

finest swords on Gor.”“No,” she said, “for in your city I

would think only of you and if youshould return there with your love,then what should I do?” she shookwith emotion. “How strong do youthink I am, dear Cabot?” she asked.

“I have friends in Ar,” I said,“even Kazrak, the Administrator ofthe City. You can find a homethere.”

“I shall return to Treve,” saidVika. “I shall continue there thework of a physician from Treve. Iknow much of his craft and I shalllearn more.”

“In Treve,” I said, “you might be

ordered slain by members of he castof Initiates.”

She looked up.“Go to Ar,” I said. “You will be

safe there,” And I added, “And Ithink it will be a better city for youthan Treve.”

“Yes Cabot,” she said, “you areright. It would be hard to live nowin Treve.”

I was pleased that she would goto Ar, where she, though a woman,might learn the craft of medicineunder masters appointed by Kazrak,where she might found a new lifefor herself far from warlike,plundering Treve, where she might

work as befitted the daughter of askilled, courageous father, whereshe might perhaps forget a simplewarrior of Ko-ro-ba.

“It is only Cabot,” she said,“because I love you so much that Ido not fight to keep you.”

“I kn1ow,” I said, holding herhead to my shoulder.

She laughed. “If I loved you onlya little less,” she said, “I wouldfind Talena of Ar myself and thrusta dagger into her heart.”

I kissed her.“Perhaps some day,” she said, “I

will find a Free Companion such asyou.”

“Few,” I said, “would be worthyof Vika of Treve.”

She burst into tears and wouldhave clung to me but I handed hergently into the arms of my father.

“I will see that she gets to Arsafely,” he said.

“Cabot!” cried Vika and brokeaway from him and hurled herselfinto my arms weeping.

I held her and kissed her again,gently, tenderly, and then wiped thetears from her eyes.

She straightened herself.“I wish you well, Cabot,” she

said.“And I,” I said, “wish you well,

Vika, my girl of Treve.”She smiled and turned away and

my father gently put his arm abouther shoulder and led her away.

For some unaccountable reasontears had formed in my own eyes,though I was a Warrior.

“She was very beautiful,” saidthe Older Tarl.

“Yes,” I said, “she was verybeautiful.” I wiped the back of myhand across my eyes.

“But,” said the Older Tarl, “youare a Warrior.”

“Yes,” I said, “I am a Warrior.”“Until you fine Talena,” he said,

“your companion is peril and

steel.”It was an old Warrior saying.I drew the blade and examined it.The Older Tarl’s eyes, like mine,

ran the edge, and I saw that heapproved.

“You carried it at Ar,” he said.“Yes,” I said. “The same.”“Peril and steel,” said he.“I know,” I said. “I have before

me the work of a Warrior.”I resheathed the blade.It was a lonely road that I now

had to walk, and I wished to set outupon it as soon as possible. I toldthe Older Tarl and Torm to saygood-bye to my father, as I did not

trust myself to see him longer, forfear that I would not wish so soonto part from him again.

And so it was that I wished mytwo friends well.

Though I had met them only for amoment in the shadow of theSardar, we had renewed ouraffection and comradeship, on to theother, in the timeless instantfriendship.

“Where will you go?” askedTorm. “What will you do?”

“I don’t know,” I said, and Ispoke honestly.

“It seems to me,” said Torm,“that you should come with us to

Ko-ro-ba and wait there. PerhapsTalena will find her way back.

The Older Tarl smiled.“It is a possibility,” said Torm.Yes, I sai1d to myself, it is a

possibility, but not a likely one. Theprobability of so beautiful a womanas Talena finding her way throughthe cities of Gor, over the lonelyroads, among the open fields to atlast return to Ko-ro-ba was nothigh.

Somewhere even now she mightbe facing danger that she would notface in Ko-ro-ba and there might benone to protect her.

Perhaps she was even now

threatened by savage beasts or evenmore savage men.

Perhaps she, my FreeCompanion, even now lay chainedin one of the blue and yellow slavewagons, or serve Paga in a tavernor was a belled adornment to somewarrior’s Pleasure Gardens.Perhaps even now she stood uponthe block in some auction in Ar’sStreet of Brands.

“I will return to Ko-ro-ba fromtime to time,” I said, “to see if shehas returned.”

“Perhaps,” said the Older Tarl,“she attempted to reach her father,Marlenus, in the Voltai.”

That was possible, I thought, forMarlenus, since his deposition fromthe throne of Ar, had lived as anOutlaw Ubar in the Voltai. It wouldbe natural for her to try to reachhim.

“If that is true,” I said, “and it isheard that Ko-ro-ba is being rebuiltMarlenus will see that she reachesthe city.”

“That is true,” said the OlderTarl.

“Perhaps she is in Ar,” suggestedTorm.

“If so, and Kazrak knows of it,” Isaid, “he will return her.”

“Do you wish me to accompany

you?” asked the Older Tarl.I thought his sword might indeed

have been welcome, but I knew hisfirst duty lay to his city. “No,” Isaid.

“Well then,” said torm,shouldering his scroll like a lance,“that leaves only two of us.”

“No,” I said to him. “Go withTarl, the Master-of-Arms.”

“You have no idea how useful Imight be,” said Torm.

He was right, I had no idea.“I am sorry,” I said.“There will be many scrolls to

examine and catalogue when thecity is rebuilt,” observed the Older

Tarl. “Of course,” he added, “Imight do the work myself.”

Torm shook with horror.“Never!” he cried.

The Older Tarl roared withlaughter and swept the little scribeunder his arm.

“I wish you well,” said the OlderTarl.

“And I wish you well,” I said.He turned and strode off, saying

no more, Torm’s chest and headsticking out behind from under hisarm. Torm hit him several timeswith the scroll but the blowsseemed not to phase him. At lastTorm, before he disappeared from

sight, waved his scroll in farewell.I lifted my hand to him. “I wish

you well, little Torm,” I said, Iwould miss him, and the OlderTarl. And my father, my father. “Iwish all of you well,” I said softly.

Once more I looked to theSardar.

I was alone again.There were a few, almost none

on Gor, who would believe mystory.

I supposed that there1 would befew on my Old World — Earth —too, who would believe it.

Perhaps it was better that way.Had I not lived these things, did I

not know whereof I speak, I askmyself if I — Tarl Cabot himself —would accept them, and I tell myselffrankly, in all likelihood, No. Sothen why have I written them? I donot know, save that I thought thesethings worth recording whether theyare to be believed or not.

There is little more to tell now.I remained some days beside the

Sardar, in the camp of some menfrom Tharna, whom I had knownseveral months before. I regret thatamong them was not the dour,magnificent, yellow-haired Kron ofTharna, of the Caste of Metal

Workers, who had been my friend.These men of Tharna, mostly

small tradesmen in silver, had comefor the autumn fair, the Fair ofSe`Var, which was just being set upat the time of the gravitationallessening. I remained with them,accepting their hospitality, whilegoing out to meet variousdelegations from different cities, asthey came to the Sardar for the fair.

Systematically and persistently Iquestioned these men of variouscities about the whereabouts ofTalena of Ar, hoping to find someclue that might lead me to her, evenif it might be only the drunken

memory of some herdsmen of avision of beauty once encounteredin a dim and crowded tavern in Cosor Port Kar. But in spite of my bestefforts I was unable to uncover theslightest clue to her fate.

This story is now, on the whole,told.

But there is one last incidentwhich I must record.

Chapter Thirty FiveTHE NIGHT OF THE

PRIEST-KING

IT OCCURRED LATE LAST

NIGHT.I had joined a group of men from

Ar, some of whom remembered mefrom the Siege of Ar more thanseven years before.

We had left the Fair of Se`Varand were making our way aroundthe perimeter of the Sardar Rangebefore crossing the Vosk on the wayto Ar.

We had made camp.We were still within sight of the

crags of the Sardar.It was a windy, cold night and the

three moons of Gor were full andthe silvery grasses of the fieldswere swept by the chill blasts of the

passing wind. I could smell the coldtang of approaching winter. Therehad already been a heavy frost thenight before. It was a wild,beautiful autumn night.

“By the Priest-Kings!” should aman, pointing to a ridge. “What isit?”

I and the others leaped to ourfeet, swords drawn, to see where hehad pointed.

About two hundred yards abovethe camp, toward the Sardar, whosecrags could be seen looming in thebackground against the black, star-shattered night was a strange figure,outlined against one of the white,

rushing moons of Gor.There were gasps of

astonishment and horror from allsave myself. Men seized weapons.

“Let us rush on it and kill it!”They cried.

I sheathed my sword.Outlined against the largest of

Gor’s three hurtling moons was theblack silhouette, as sharp as a knife,of1 a Priest-King.

“Wait here!” I shouted and I ranacross the field and climbed theknoll on which it stood.

The two peering eyes, golden andluminous, looked down at me. Theantennae, whipped by the wind,

focussed themselves. Across theleft eye disk I could see the whitishseam that was the scar left from theslashing bladelike projection ofSarm.

“Misk!” I cried, rushing to thePriest-King and lifting my hands toreceive the antennae, which wasgently placed in them.

“Greetings, Tarl Cabot,” comesfrom Misk’s translator.

“You have saved our world,” Isaid.

“It is empty for Priest-Kings,” hesaid.

I stood below him, looking up,the wind lifting and tugging my hair.

“I came to see you one last time,”he said, “for there is Nest Trustbetween us.”

“Yes,” I said.“You are my friend,” he said.My heart leaped!“Yes,” he said, “the expression

is now ours as well as yours andyou and those like you have taughtus its meaning.”

“I am glad,” I said.That night Misk told me of how

affairs stood in the Nest. It wouldbe long before the powers of thebroken Nest could be restored,before the Scanning Chamber couldfunction again, before the vast

damages done to the Nest could berepaired, but men and Priest-Kingswere even now at work, side byside.

The ships that had sped from theSardar had now returned, for as Ihad feared, they were not madewelcome by the cities of Gor, norby the Initiates, and those who hadridden the ships had not beenaccepted by their cities. Indeed, theships were regarded as vehicles ofa type forbidden to men by Priest-Kings and their passengers wereattacked in the name of the Priest-Kings from which they had come. Inthe end, those humans who wished

to remain on the surface had landedelsewhere, far from their nativecities, and scattered themselves asvagabonds about the roads andalien cities of the planet. Others hadreturned to the Nest, to share in thework of its rebuilding.

The body of Sarm, I learned, hadbeen burned in the Chamber of theMother, according to the custom ofPriest-Kings, for he had been FirstBorn and beloved of the Mother.

Misk apparently bore him not theleast ill will.

I was amazed at this, until itoccurred to me that I did not either.He had been a great enemy, a great

Priest-Kings, and had lived as hehad thought he should. I wouldalways remember Sarm, huge andgolden, in the last agonising minutewhen he had pulled free of theGolden Beetle and had stoodupright and splendid in thecrumbling, perishing Nest that hewas determined must be destroyed.

“He was the greatest of thePriest-Kings,” said Misk.

“No,” I said, “Sarm was not thegreatest of the Priest-Kings.”

Misk looked at me quizzically.“The Mother,” he said, “was not aPriest-King — she was simply theMother.”

“I know,” I said. “I did not meanthe Mother.”

“Yes,” said Misk, “Kusk isperhaps the greatest of the livingPriest-Kings.”

“I did no mean Kusk,” I said.Misk looked at me in puzzlement.

“I shall never understand humans,”he said.

I laughed.I truly believe it never occurred

to Misk that I meant that he himself,Misk, was the greatest of the Priest-Kings.

But I truly believe he was.He was one of the greatest

creatures I had known, brilliant,

courageous, loyal, selfless,dedicated.

“What of the young male?” Iasked, “Was he destroyed?”

“No,” said Misk. “He is safe.”For some reason this pleased me.

Perhaps I simply was pleased thatthere had not been furtherdestruction, further loss of life.

“Have you had the humans slaythe Golden Beetles?” I asked.

Misk straightened. “Of coursenot,” he said.

“But they will kill other Priest-Kings,” I said.

“Who am I,” asked Misk, “todecide how a Priest-King should

live — or die?”I was silent.“I regret only,” said Misk, “that I

never learned the location of thelast egg, but that secret died withthe Mother. Now the race of Priest-Kings itself must die.

I looked up at him. “The motherspoke to me,” I said. “She wasgoing to tell me the location of theegg but could not.”

Suddenly Misk was frozen in theattitude of utter attention, theantennae lifted, each sensory hairalive on his golden body.

“What did you learn?” came fromMisk’s translator.

“She only said,” I told him, “Goto the Wagon Peoples.”

Misk’s antennae movedthoughtfully. “Then,” he said, “itmust be with the Wagon Peoples —or they must know were it is.”

“By now,” I said, “any life in theegg would surely have perished.”

Misk looked at me withdisbelief. “It is an egg of Priest-Kings,” he said. Then his antennaefell disconsolately. “But it couldhave been destroyed,” he said.

“By this time,” I said, “itprobably has been.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Misk.“Still,” I said, “you are not sure.”

“No,” said Misk, “I am not.”“You could send Implanted Ones

to spy,” I suggested.“There are no more Implanted

Ones,” said Misk. “We haverecalled them and are removing thecontrol nets. They may return totheir cities or remain in the Nest, asthey please.”

“Then you are voluntarily givingup a valuable surveillance device,”I said.

“Yes,” said Misk.“But why?” I asked.“It is wrong to implant rational

creatures,” said Misk.“Yes,” I said, “I think that is

true.”“The Scanning Chamber,” said

Misk, “will not be operational foran indefinite period —1 and evenso we can scan only objects in theopen.”

“Perhaps you could develop adepth scanner,” I suggested, “Onethat could penetrate walls, ground,ceilings.”

“We are working on it,” saidMisk.

I laughed.Misk’s antennae curled.“If you should regain your

power,” I asked, “what do youpropose to do with it? Will you set

forth the law in certain matter formen?”

“Undoubtedly,” said Misk.I was silent.“We must protect ourselves and

those humans who live with us,”said Misk.

I looked down the hill to wherethe campfire gleamed in thedarkness. I could see human figureshuddled about it, looking up at thehill.

“What of the egg?” asked Misk.“What of it?” I asked.“I cannot go myself,” said Misk.

“I am needed in the Nest and evenso my antennae cannot stand the sun

— not for more than a few hours atmo s t — and if I so much asapproached a human being it wouldprobably fear me and try to slayme.”

“Then you will have to find ahuman,” I said to him.

Misk looked down at me.“What of you, Tarl Cabot?” he

asked.I looked up at him.“The affairs of Priest-Kings,” I

said, “— are not mine.”Misk looked about himself, and

lifted his antennae toward themoons and the wind-swept grass.He looked down at the distant

campfire. He shivered a bit in thecold wind.

“The moons are beautiful,” Isaid, “are they not?”

Misk looked back at the moons.“Yes,” he said, “I think so.”“Once you spoke to me,” I said,

“of random elements.” I looked upat the moons. “Is that —” I asked,“— seeing that the moons arebeautiful — is that a randomelement in man?”

“I think,” said Misk, “it is part ofman.”

“You spoke once of machines,” Isaid.

“Howsoever I spoke,” said Misk,

“words cannot diminish men orPriest-Kings — for who cares whatwe are — if we can act, decided,sense beauty, seek right, and havehopes for our people?”

I swallowed hard, for I knew Ihad hopes for my race, and I sensedhow Misk must have them for his,only his race was dying, and wouldsooner or later, one by one, meetwith accident or succumb to thePleasures of the Golden Beetle.

And my race — it would live onGor — at least for the time, becauseof what Misk and Priest-Kings haddone to preserve their world forthem.

“Your affairs,” I told him, butspeaking to myself, “are youraffairs — and not mine,”

“Of course,” agreed Misk.If I should attempt to help Misk,

what would this mean, ultimately?Would it not be to surrender myrace to the mercies of the people ofSarm and the Priest-Kings who hadserved him, or would it beultimately to p1rotect my race untilit had learned to live with itself,until it had reached the maturity ofhumanity, until it, together with thepeople who called themselvesPriest-Kings, could address itself toa common world, and to the galaxy

beyond?“Your world is dying,” I said to

Misk.“The universe itself will die,”

said Misk.He had his antennae lifted to the

white fires that burned in the blacknight over Gor.

I surmised he was speaking ofthose entopic regularities thatapparently prevailed in reality, aswe know it, the loss of energy, itstransformation into the ashes of thestellar night.

“It will grow cold and dark,”said Misk.

I looked up at him.

“But in the end,” said he, “life isas real as death and there will be areturn of the ultimate rhythms, and anew explosion will cast forth theprimitive particles and we shallhave another turn of the wheel, andsome day, sometime, in eons whichdefy the calculations even of Priest-Kings, there may be another nest,and another Earth, and Gor, andanother Misk and another TarlCabot to stand upon a windy hill inthe moonlight and speak of strangethings.”

Misk’s antennae looked down atme.

“Perhaps,” he said, “we have

stood here, on this hill, thuslytogether, unknown to either of us,already an infinite number oftimes.”

The wind seemed now very coldand very swift.

“And what did we do?” I asked.“I do not know what we did,”

said Misk. “But I think I would nowchoose to do that action which Iwould be willing that I should doagain and again with each turning ofthe wheel. I would choose so tolive that I might be willing that Ishould live that life a thousandtimes, even forever. I would chooseto live that I might stand boldly with

my deed without regret throughouteternity.”

The thoughts that he had spokenhorrified me.

But Misk stood, the windwhipping his antennae, as though hewere exalted.

Then he looked down at me. Hisantennae curled. “But I speak veryfoolishly,” he said. “Forgive me,Tarl Cabot.”

“It is hard to understand you,” Isaid.

I could see climbing the hilltowards us, a warrior. He grasped aspear.

“Are you all right?” He called.

“Yes,” I called back to him.“Stand back,” he cried, “so I can

have a clean cast.”“Do not injure it!” I called to

him. “It is harmless.”Misk’s antennae curled.“I wish you well, Tarl Cabot,” he

said.“The affairs of Priest-Kings,” I

said to him, more insistently thanever, “are not my affairs.” I lookedup at him. “Not mine!” I cried.

“I know,” said Misk, and hegently extended his antennaetowards me.

I touched them.“I wish you well, Priest-Kings,”

I said.Abruptly I turned from Misk and

rushed down the hill, almostblindly. I stopp1ed only when Ireached the side of the warrior. Hewas joined by two or three more ofthe men from the camp below, whowere also armed. We were alsojoined by an Initiate, of unimportantranking.

Together we watched the tallfigure on the hill, outlined againstthe moon, not moving, standing inthe uncanny, marvellous immobilityof the Priest-Kings, only itsantennae blowing back down overits head in the wind.

“What is it?” asked one of themen.

“It looks,” said the Initiate, “likea giant insect.”

I smiled to myself. “Yes,” I said,“it does look like a giant insect.”

“May the Priest-Kings protectus,” breathed the Initiate.

One of the men drew back hisspear arm but I stayed his arm.“No,” I said, “Do not injure it.”

“What is it?” asked another of themen.

How could I tell him that helooked with incredulity and horror,on one of the awesome denizens ofthe grim Sardar, on one of the

fabulous and mysterious monarchsof his very world, on one of thegods of Gor — On a Priest-Kings?

“I can hurl my spear through it,”said the man with the spear.

“It is harmless,” I said.“Let’s kill it anyway,” said the

Initiate nervously.“No,” I said.I lifted my arm in farewell to

Misk, and, to the surprise of themen with me, Misk lifted onforeleg, and then turned and wasgone.

For a long time I, and the others,stood there in the windy night,almost knee-deep in the flowing,

bending grass, and watched theknoll, and the stars behind it, andthe white moons above.

“It’s gone,” said one of the menat last.

“Yes,” I said.“Thank the Priest-Kings,”

breathed the Initiate.I laughed and the men looked at

me as though I might be mad.I spoke to the man with the spear.

He was also the leader of the smallgroup.

“Where,” I asked him, “is theland of the Wagon People?”

Table of ContentsCONTENTSChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter Twelve1p>Chapter ThirteenChapter Fourteen

Chapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyChapter Twenty-OneChapter Twenty-TwoChapter Twenty-ThreeChapter Twenty-FourChapter Twenty-FiveChapter Twenty-SixChapter Twenty-SevenChapter Twenty-EightChapter Twenty-NineChapter ThirtyChapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty TwoChapter Thirty ThreeChapter Thirty FourChapter Thirty Five

Table of ContentsCONTENTSChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter Ten

Chapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyChapter Twenty-OneChapter Twenty-TwoChapter Twenty-ThreeChapter Twenty-FourChapter Twenty-FiveChapter Twenty-SixChapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-EightChapter Twenty-NineChapter ThirtyChapter Thirty-OneChapter Thirty TwoChapter Thirty ThreeChapter Thirty FourChapter Thirty Five