Beasts Of Gor

2
The Message Of The Scytale; I Converse With Samos

"The arrogance of Kurii may yet prove their undoing," said Samos.

He sat, cross-legged, behind the low table. On It were hot bread, yellow and fresh, hot black wine, steaming, with its sugars, slices of roast bosk, the scrambled eggs of vulos, pastries with creams and custards.

"It is too easy," I said. I did not speak clearly with my mouth full.

"It is a sport for them," he said, "this war." He looked at me, grimly. "As it seems to be for some men."

"Perhaps to some," I said, "those who are soldiers, but surely not to Kurii in general. I understand their commitment in these matters to be serious and one involving their deep concern."

"Would that all men were as serious," said Samos.

I grinned, and washed down the eggs with a swig of hot black wine, prepared from the beans grown upon the slopes of the Thentis mountains. This black wine is quite expensive. Men have been slain on Gor for attempting to smuggle the beans out of the Thentian territories.

"Kurii were ready once," said I, "or some party of them, to destroy Gor, to clear the path to Earth, a world they would surely favor less. Willingness to perform such an act, I wager, fits in not well with the notion of vain, proud beasts."

"Strange that you should speak of vain, proud beasts," said Samos.

"I do not understand," I said.

"I suppose not," said Samos. He then drank from his cup, containing the black wine. I did not press him to elucidate his meaning. He seemed amused.

"I think the Kurii are too clever, too shrewd, too determined," said I, "to be taken at their face value in this matter. Such an act, to deliver such a message, would be little better than a taunt, a gambit, intended to misdirect our attention."

"But can we take this risk?" he asked.

"Perhaps not," I said. With a Turian eating prong, used in the house of Samos, I speared a slice of meat, and then threaded it on the single tine.

Samos took from his robes a long, silken ribbon, of the sort with which a slave girl might bind back her hair. It seemed covered with meaningless marks. He gestured to a guardsman. "Bring in the girl," he said.

A blond girl, angry, in brief slave livery, was ushered into the room.

We were in Samos' great hall, where I had banqueted many times. It was the hall in which was to be found the great map mosaic, inlaid in the floor.

She did not seem a slave. That amused me.

"She speaks a barbarous tongue," said Samos.

"Why have you dressed me like this?" she demanded. She spoke in English.

"I can understand her," I said.

"That is perhaps not an accident," said Samos.

"Perhaps not," I said.

"Can none of you fools speak English?" she asked.

"I can communicate with her, if you wish," I told Samos.

He nodded.

"I speak English," I informed her, speaking in that intricate, beautiful tongue.

She seemed startled. Then she cried out, angrily, pulling downward at the edges of the livery in which she had been placed, as though that would hide more of her legs, which were lovely. "I do not care to be dressed like this," she said. She pulled away, angrily, from the guard, and stood before us. "I have not even been given shoes," she said. "And what is the meaning of this?" she demanded, pulling at a plain ring of iron which had been hammered about her throat. Her throat was slender, and white, and lovely.

Samos handed the hair ribbon to a guardsman, gesturing to the girl. "Put it on," he said to her, in Gorean.

I repeated his command, in English.

"When am I to be permitted to leave?" she asked.

Seeing the eyes of Samos she angrily took the ribbon, and winding it about her head, fastened back her hair. She blushed, angrily, hotly, knowing that, as she lifted her hands gracefully to her hair, she raised the lovely line of her breasts, little concealed in the thin livery. Then she stood before us, angrily, the ribbon in her hair.

"Thus it was she came to us," said Samos, "save that she was clad in inexplicable, barbarous garments." He gestured to a guardsman, who fetched and spilled open a bundle of garments on the edge of the table. I saw that there were pants of some bluish, denim-type material, and a flannel, long-sleeved shirt. There was also a white, light shirt, short-sleeved. Had I not realized them to have been hers, I would have assumed them the clothing of an Earth male. They were male-imitation clothing.

The girl tried to step forward but the shafts of two spears, wielded by her flanking guardsmen, barred her way.

There was also a pair of shoes, plain, brown and low, with darker-brown laces. They were cut on a masculine line, but were too small for a man. I looked at her feet. They were small and feminine. Her breasts, too, and hips, suggested that she was a female, and a rather lovely one. Slave livery makes it difficult for a girl to conceal her sex.

There was also a pair of colored socks, dark blue. They were short.

She again tried to step forward but this time the points of the guards' spears prevented her. They pressed at her abdomen, beneath the navel. Rep-cloth, commonly used in slave livery, is easily parted. The points of the spears had gone through the cloth, and she felt them in her flesh. She stepped back, for a moment frightened and disconcerted. Then she regained her composure, and stood before us.

"This garment is too short," she said. "It is scandalous!"

"It is feminine," I told her. "Not unlike these," I said. I indicated the brassiere, the brief silken panties, which completed the group of garments on the table.

She blushed redly.

"Though you imitated a man outwardly," I said to her, "I note that it was such garments you wore next to your flesh."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said.

"Here," I said, "You wear one garment, which is feminine, and where it may be seen, proclaiming your femininity, and you are permitted no other garments."

"Return my clothing to me," she demanded.

Samos gestured to a guardsman, and he tied up the bundle of clothing, leaving it on the table.

"You see," said Samos, "how she was."

He meant, of course, the ribbon in her hair. She stood very straight. For some reason it is almost impossible for a woman not to stand beautifully when she wears slave livery and is in the sight of men.

"Give me the ribbon," said Samos. He spoke in Gorean, but I needed not translate. He held out his hand. She, lifting her arms, blushing, angrily, again touched the ribbon. She freed it of her hair and handed it to a guard, who delivered it to Samos. I saw the guards' eyes on her. I smiled. They could hardly wait to get her to the pens. She, still a foolish Earth girl, did not even notice this.

"Bring your spear," said Samos to a guard. A guard, one who stood behind, gave his spear to Samos.

"It is, of course, a scytale," I said.

"Yes," said Samos, "and the message is in clear Gorean."

He had told me what the message was, and we had discussed it earlier. I was curious, however, to see it wrapped about the shaft of the spear. Originally, in its preparation, the message ribbon is wrapped diagonally, neatly, edges touching, about a cylinder, such as the staff of a marshal's office, the shaft of a spear, a previously prepared object, or so on, and then the message is written in lines parallel with the cylinder. The message, easily printed, easily read, thus lies across several of the divisions in the wrapped silk. When the silk is unwrapped, of course, the message disappears into a welter of scattered lines, the bits and parts of letters; the coherent message is replaced with a ribbon marked only by meaningless, unintelligible scraps of letters; to read the message, of course, one need only rewrap the ribbon about a cylindrical object of the same dimension as the original object. The message then appears in its clear, legible character. Whereas there is some security in the necessity for rewrapping the message about a cylinder of the original dimension, the primary security does not lie there. After all, once one recognizes a ribbon, or belt, or strip of cloth, as a scytale, it is then only a matter of time until one finds a suitable object to facilitate the acquisition of the message. Indeed, one may use a roll of paper or parchment until, rolling it more tightly or more loosely, as needed, one discovers the message. The security of the message, as is often the case, is a function not of the opacity of the message, in itself, but rather in its concealment, in its not being recognized as a message. A casual individual would never expect that the seemingly incoherent design on a girl's ribbon would conceal a message which might be significant, or fateful.

From the girl's reactions I gathered that she understood now that the ribbon bore some message, but that she had not clearly understood this before.

"It is a message?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.

"What does it say?" she asked.

"It is none of your concern," I said.

"I want to know," she said.

"Do you wish to be beaten?" I asked.

"No," she said.

"Then be silent," I said.

She was silent. Her fists were clenched.

I read the message. "Greetings to Tarl Cabot, I await you at the world's end, Zarendargar, War General of the People."

"It is Half-Ear," said Samos, "high Kur, war general of the Kurii."

"The word 'Zarendargar'," I said, "is an attempt to render a Kur expression into Gorean."

"Yes," said Samos. The Kurii are not men but beasts. Their phonemes for the most part elude representation in the alphabets of men. It would be like trying to write down the noises of animals. Our letters would not suffice.

"Return me to Earth!" demanded the girl.

"Is she still a virgin?" I asked Samos.

"Yes," he said. "She has not even been branded."

"With what brand will you mark her?" I asked.

"The common Kajira brand," he said.

"What are you talking about?" she demanded. "Give me my clothing," she demanded angrily.

Again the points of the two spears pressed against her abdomen. Again they penetrated the loosely woven cloth. Again she stepped back, for the moment disconcerted.

I gathered that she had been accustomed to having her demands met by men.

When a woman speaks in that tone of voice to a man of Earth he generally hastens to do her bidding. He has been conditioned so. Here, however, her proven Earth techniques seemed ineffectual, and this puzzled her, and angered her, and, I think, to an extent frightened her. What if men did not do her bidding? She was smaller and weaker, and beautiful, and desirable. What if she discovered that it were she, and not they, who must do now what was bidden, and with perfection? A woman who spoke in that tone to a Gorean man, if she were not a free woman, would find herself instantly whipped to his feet.

Then she was again the woman of Earth, though clad in Gorean slave livery.

"Return me to Earth," she said.

"Take her below to the pens," said Samos, "and sell her off."

"What did he say!" she demanded.

"Is she to be branded?" asked the guard.

"Yes," said Samos, "the common brand."

"What did he say!" she cried. Each of the two guards flanking her had now taken her by an arm. She looked very small between them. I thought the common Kajira mark would be exquisite in her thigh.

"Left thigh," I suggested.

"Yes, left thigh," said Samos to one of the guards. I liked the left-thigh branded girl. A right-handed master may caress it while he holds her in his left arm.

"Give me back my clothing!" she cried.

Samos glanced at the bundle of clothing. "Burn this," he said.

The girl watched, horrified, as one of the guardsmen took the clothing and, piece by piece, threw it into a wide copper bowl of burning coals. "No!" she cried. "No!"

The two guards then held her arms tightly and prepared in conduct her to the pens.

She looked with horror at the burnt remnants, the ashes, of her clothing.

She now wore only what Gorean men had given her, a scrap of slave livery, and a ring hammered about her neck.

She threw her head about, moving the ring. For the first time she seemed truly aware of it.

She looked at me, terrified. The guards' hands were on her upper arms. Their hands were tight.

"What are they going to do!" she cried.

"You are to be taken to the pens," I said.

"The pens!" she asked.

"There," I said, "you will be stripped and branded."

"Branded?" she said. I do not think she understood me. Her Earth mind would find this hard to understand. She was not yet cognizant of Gorean realities. She would learn them swiftly. No choice would be given her.

"Is she to be sold red-silk?" I asked Samos.

He looked at the girl. "Yes," he said. The guards grinned. It would be a girl who knew herself as a woman when she ascended the block.

"I thought you said I would be stripped and branded," she said, laughing.

"Yes," I said, "that is precisely what I said."

"No!" she screamed. "No!"

"Then," I said, "you will be raped, and taught your womanhood. When you have learned your womanhood, you will be caged. Later you will be sold."

"No!" she cried. "No!"

"Take her away," said Samos.

The guards' hands tightened even more on the beauty's arms. She might as well have been bound in steel. She must go as they conducted her. "Wait! Wait!" she cried. She struggled, squirming in their grasp, her feet slipping on the tiles. Samos motioned that they wait, momentarily. She looked at me, and at Samos, wildly. "What place is this?" she asked.

"It is called Gor," I told her.

"No!" she said. "That is only in stories!"

I smiled.

"No!" she cried. She looked about herself, at the strong men who held her. She threw her head back, moaning, sensing the ring on her throat. "No, no!" she wept. "I do not want to be a woman on Gor! Anything but a woman on Gor!"

I shrugged.

"You are joking," she said, wildly.

"No," I said.

"What language is it here which they speak?" she asked.

I smiled.

"Gorean," she said.

"Yes," I said.

"And I must learn it quickly?" she said.

"Yes," I said. "You must learn it quickly, or be slain. Gorean men are not patient"

"— Gorean," she said.

"It is the language of your masters," I said.

"— Of my masters?" she asked.

"Yes," I said. "Surely you know that you are a slave girl."

"No!" she cried. "No! No! No! No!"

"Take her away," said Samos.

The girl was dragged, screaming and sobbing, from our presence, to the pens.

How feminine she seemed then. No longer did she seem an imitation male. She was then only what she was, a slave girl being taken to the pens.

Samos, thoughtfully, began to unwind the long ribbon, that which the girl had worn, and which formed the scytale, from the spear's shaft.

We heard her screaming down the corridor, and then she cried out in pain, and was silent. The guards, wearied by her outcries, had simply cuffed her to silence. Sometimes a girl is permitted to scream. Sometimes she is not It depends on the will of the man. When she is branded a girl is commonly permitted to scream, at least for a time. But we would not hear that screaming, for, when it was done, she would be below, and far away, in the pens.

I dismissed her from my mind, for she was a slave. Her history as a free woman had terminated; her history as an imbonded beauty had begun.

Samos, the ribbon freed from the spear's shaft, the spear retrieved by the guardsman, looked down at the table, at the ribbon, which now seemed only a ribbon, with meaningless marks.

"Greetings to Tarl Cabot," I said, recalling the message. "I await you at the world's end. Zarendargar. War General of the People."

"Arrogant beasts," he said.

I shrugged.

"We had no clue," he said. "Now we have this." He lifted the ribbon, angrily. "Here is an explicit message."

"It seems so," I said.

We did not know where lay the world's end, but we knew where It must be sought. The world's end was said to lie beyond Cos and Tyros, at the end of Thassa, at the world's edge. No man had sailed to the world's end and returned. It was not known what had occurred there. Some said that Thassa was endless, and there was no world's end, only the green waters extending forever, gleaming, beckoning the mariner and hero onward, onward until men, one by one, had perished and the lonely ships, their steering oars lashed in place, pursued the voyage in silence, until the timbers rotted and one day, perhaps centuries later, the brave wood, warm in the sun, sank beneath the sea.

"The ship is ready," said Samos, looking at me.

Others said, in stories reminiscent of Earth, and which had doubtless there had their origin, that the world's end was protected by clashing rocks and monsters, and by mountains that could pull the nails from ships. Others said, similarly, that the end of the world was sheer, and that a ship might there plunge over the edge, to fall tumbling for days through emptiness until fierce winds broke it apart and the wreckage was lifted up to the bottom of the sea. In the maelstroms south and west of Tyros shattered planking was sometimes found. It was said that some of this was from ships which had sought the world's end.

"The ship is ready," said Samos, looking at me.

A ship had been prepared, set to sail to the world's end. It had been built by Tersites, the half-blind, mad shipwright, long scorned on Gor. Samos regarded him a genius. I knew him for a madman; whether he might be, too, a genius, I did not know. It was an unusual ship. It was deep-keeled and square-rigged, as most Gorean ships are not. Though it was a ramship it carried a foremast. It possessed great oars, which must be handled by several men, rather than one man to an oar. Instead of two side-hung rudders, or oars, it carried a single oar, slung at the vessel's sternpost. Its ram was carried high, out of the water. It would make its strike not below, but at the waterline. It was a laughing stock in the arsenal at Port Kar, but Tersites paid his critics no attention. He worked assiduously, eating little, sleeping at the side of the ship, supervising each small detail in the great structure. It was said the deep keel would slow the ship; that the two masts would take too long to remove in the case of naval combat; that so large an oar would constitute an impractical lever, that it could not be grasped by a man, that the oarsmen could not all sit during the stroke, that if more than one man controlled an oar some would shirk their work. Why one rudder rather than two? With lateen rigging one could sail closer to the wind. Of what use is a ram which makes its strikes so high?

I was not a shipwright, but I was a captain. It seemed to me such a ship would be too heavy to manage well, that it would be clumsy and slow, that it might be better fitted to cargo service when protected in a convoy than entrusted to confront, elude or brave the lean, lateen-rigged wolves of gleaming Thassa, hungry for the cargoes of the ineffectual and weak. Were I to hunt the world's end I would prefer to do so with the Dorna or the Tesephone, a sleep ship whose moods and gifts I well knew.

Yet the ship of Tersites was strong. It loomed high and awesome, mighty with its strakes, proud with its uprearing prow, facing the sea canal. Standing beside the ship, on the ground, looking up at that high prow, so far above me, it seemed sometime that such a ship, if any, might embark upon that threatening, perhaps impossible voyage to the,world's end. Tersites had chosen to build the ship in such a way that its prow faced west; it pointed thus not only to the sea canal; it pointed also between Cos and Tyros; it pointed toward the world's end.

"The eyes have not yet been painted," I said. "It is not yet alive."

"Paint its eyes," said he to me.

"That is for Tersites to do," I said. He was the shipwright. If the ship did not have eyes, how could it see? To the Gorean sailor his ships are living things. Some would see this as superstition; others sense that there is some sort of an inexplicable. reality which is here involved, a difficult and subtle reality which the man of the sea can somehow sense, but which he cannot, and perhaps should not attempt to explain to the satisfaction of men other than himself. Sometimes, late at night, on deck, under the moons of Gor, I have felt this. It is a strange feeling. It is as though the ship, and the sea, and the world were alive. The Gorean, in general, regards many things in a much more intense and personal way than, say, the informed man of Earth. Perhaps that is because he is the victim of a more primitive state of consciousness; perhaps, on the other hand, we have forgotten things which he has not. Perhaps the world only speaks to those who are prepared to listen. Regardless of what the truth should be in these matters, whether it be that man is intrinsically a mechanism of chemicals, or, more than this, a conscious, living animal whose pain and meaning, and defiance, emergent, must transcend the interactions of carbon and oxygen, the exchange of gases, the opening and closing of valves, ft Is undeniable that some men, Goreans among them, experience their world in a rich, deep way that is quite foreign to that of the mechanistic mentality. The man of Earth thinks of the world as being essentially dead; the Gorean thinks of his world as being essentially alive; one utilizes the metaphor of the blind machine, the other the metaphor of the living being; doubtless reality exceeds all metaphors; in the face of reality doubtless all metaphors are small, and must fail; indeed, what are these metaphors but instruments of fragile straw with which we, pathetic, wondering animals, would scratch at the gates of obdurate, granite mystery; yet if we must choose our way in which to fail I do not think the Gorean has made a poor choice; his choice, it seems to me, is not inferior to that of the man of Earth. He cares for his world; it is his friend; he would not care to kill it.

Let it suffice to say that to the Gorean sailor his ships are living things. Were they not, how could he love them so?

"This ship is essentially ready," said Samos. "It can sail soon for the world's end."

"Strange, is it not," I asked, "that when the ship is nearly ready that this message should come?"

"Yes," said Samos. 'That is strange."

"The Kurii wish us to sail now for the world's end," I said.

"Arrogant beasts!" cried Samos, pounding down on the small table. "They challenge us now to stop them!"

"Perhaps," I admitted.

"We have sought them in vain. We were helpless. We knew not where to look. Now they in their impatient vanity, in their mockery of our impotence, boldly announce to us their whereabouts!"

"Have they?" I asked.

"'We are here, they say. 'Come seek us, Fools, if you dare! "

"Perhaps," I said. "Perhaps."

"Do you doubt the message?" asked Samos.

"I do not know," I said. "I simply do not know."

"They taunt us," said Samos. "War is a sport for them."

"Perhaps," I said.

"We must act," he said.

"In what way?" I asked.

"You must sail immediately to the world's end." Samos looked at me, grimly. "There you must seek out Half-Ear, and destroy him."

"None have returned from the world's end," I said.

"You are afraid?" asked Samos.

"Why," I asked, "should the message be addressed to me?"

"The Kurii know you," said he. "They respect you."

I, too, respected them. I was a warrior. I enjoyed sharing with them the cruel, mortal games of war. They were cunning, and fierce, and terrible. I was a warrior. I found them precious foes.

"Does not the fate of worlds weigh upon you?" asked Samos.

I smiled.

"I know you," he said, bitterly, "you are a warrior, a soldier, a mercenary, an adventurer. You fight for the exhilaration. You are frivolous. In your way you are as despicable as the Kur."

"Perhaps I am an adventurer," I said. "I do not truly know. I have stood against the Kur. I have met men with steel. I have had the women of enemies naked at my feet, suing to be my slaves."

"You are a mercenary," he said.

"Perhaps," I said. "but I choose my wars with care."

"It is strange," said Samos.

"What?" I asked.

"We fight for civilization," said Samos, "against the barbarism of the Kur."

I smiled that Samos should see himself so.

"And yet," said he, "in the world for which we strive we would have no place."

I looked at him.

"In a civilized world, Captain," said he, "there would be no place for such as you."

"That is true," I said.

"Is it not a paradox?" asked Samos. "Men need us in order to bring about a world in which we may be scorned and disregarded."

I said nothing.

"Men seldom recall who it was who brought them the fruits of victory."

"It is true," I conceded.

"Civilized men," said Samos, "the small and pale, the righteous, the learned, the smug, the supercilious, the weak-stomached and contemptuous, stand upon the shoulders of forgotten, bloody giants."

I shrugged.

"You are such a bloody giant," he said.

"No," I said. "I am only a tarnsman, a nomad in unusual conflicts, a friend of the sword."

"Sometimes," said Samos, "I weep." He looked at me. I bad never before seen him in such a mood.

"Is our struggle, if successful," he asked, "to issue only in the victory of defeat, the triumph of the trivial and placid, the glorification of mediocrity?"

"Perhaps," I said.

"Will our blood have been shed," he asked, "to bring about so miniscule an achievement, the contentment of the herd browsing among the dunes of boredom?"

"They will have their petty concerns," I said, "which will seem important to them."

He looked down, angrily.

"And they will have their entertainments and their stimulations. There will be industries which will attempt to assuage their boredom."

"But will nothing truly matter?" he asked.

"Perhaps men must sleep before they wake," I said.

"I do not understand," he said.

"There are the stars," I said.

"The Kurii stand between us and the stars," said Samos.

"Perhaps we labor," said I, "to open the gates to the stars."

"Men will never seek them," said Samos.

"Some men will," I said.

"But the others will not help them, and the adventure will fall," said Samos.

"Perhaps," I said. "I do not know." I looked at him. "Much depends on what men are," I said.

"His measure has not yet been taken," said Samos.

"And perhaps it will never be taken," I said, "and cannot he taken. Every bound you set him will show him a place beyond which he can place his foot or hand."

"Perhaps," smiled Samos.

"I have hunted, and I have been hunted," I said.

"Why do you say this?" he asked.

"And in hunting, and in being hunted," I said, "I have been alive."

"Yes," said Samos. "But why are you saying this?"

"Do you not see?" I asked him. 'The conflict, the struggle, even if it should issue in the triumph of the leveled herd, each smiling and trying to be the same as the other, will yet have been ours, and cannot be taken from us."

"Yes," said Samos.

"Ours will have been the war," I said.

"Yes," he said.

"It is our hand that will have grasped the hilt of the sword. It is we, not they, who will have met the enemy. Let them weep that they were not there."

"Yes," said Samos, "I would not be other than I am, and I would not be other than where I am."

"The meaning of history," I said, "lies not in the future. It is like a range of mountains with many summits. Great deeds are the meaning of history. There are many meanings and many summits. One may climb different mountains at different times, but each mountain glows in the same sun."

"The Kurii must be met!" said Samos.

"Perhaps we will choose to do so," I said.

"You are a monster, Captain," he laughed.

"I am of the warriors," I said.

"I know your sort," he said. "It is the fight you relish. What a wicked sort you are, and yet how useful!"

I shrugged.

"You see a fight you want, you take it," he said. "You see a woman you like, you take her."

"Perhaps if she pleased me," I said.

"You would do as you wished," he said.

"Of course," I said.

"Warrior!" said he.

"Yes, Warrior," I said.

"The eyes will be painted, and the ship will be launched at dawn," he said.

I rose to my feet. "Let us not be precipitate," I said.

He looked at me, startled.

"Supplies must be laid in," I said. "Too, a crew must be recruited. Too, there must be an acceptable preliminary voyage, to test the handling of the ship, and its seaworthiness."

"Time is crucial!" he said. "I can give you supplies, men."

"I must think of these things," I said. "And if I am to sail with men I must pick them myself, for our lives would depend upon one another."

"Half-Ear waits at the world's end!" cried Samos.

"Let him wait," I said.

Samos looked at me, irritated.

"If he is truly waiting," I said, "there is no great hurry." I looked at Samos. "Besides," said I, "it may take months to reach the world's end, if it can be reached at all."

"That is true," said Samos.

"Besides," I said, "it is En'Kara."

"So?" asked Samos.

"It is time for the Kaissa matches at the Fair of En'Kara, at the Sardar," I said. I found it hard to think that this was not on the mind of Samos. "Centius of Cos," I said, "is defending his title against Scormus of Ar."

"How can you be concerned with Kaissa at a time like this?" he asked.

"The match is important," I pointed out. Anyone who knew anything of Kaissa knew this. It was the talk of Gor.

"I should have you whipped, and chained to an oar," said Samos.

"I have been whipped," I said, "at various times, and, too, I have been chained to an oar." I had felt the leather. I had drawn the oar.

"Apparently it taught you little," he said.

"I am difficult to teach," I admitted.

"Kaissa!" grumbled Samos.

"The planet has waited years for this match," I said.

"I have not," said Samos.

It had been delayed because of the war between Ar and Cos, having to do with piracy and competitive commercial claims on the Vosk. The war persisted but now both players had been brought to the Sardar by armed men from their respective cities, under a special flag of truce, agreed upon by Lurius of Jad, Ubar of Cos, and Marlenus of Ar, called the Ubar of Ubars, who ruled in Ar. Hostilities between the two cities were suspended for the duration of the match. Kaissa is a serious matter for most Goreans. That Samos did not seem sufficiently impressed with the monumentality of the confrontation irritated me somewhat. It is hard to understand one who is not concerned with Kaissa.

"We all have our limitations," I said.

"That is true," he said.

"What did you say?" I asked. He muttered something.

"I said," said Samos, "that Kaissa is a disease."

"Oh," I said. If it was a disease, and that seemed not unlikely, it was at least one which afflicted perhaps a majority of Goreans. I expected to have to pay a golden tarn disk for standing room in the amphitheater in which the match would take place. A golden tarn disk would purchase a trained war tarn, or several women.

"If there was a crucial act to be done at a given time," said Samos, "and the fate of two worlds hung upon that act, and it interfered with a Kaissa match, what would you do?"

I grinned. "I would have to think about it," I told him. "Who would be playing?"

Samos rose to his feet. exasperated, but grinning. "Come with me," he said.

He conducted me to a place in the hail, where he pointed down to that portion of the intricate map mosaic which lay there.

"Cos and Tyros," I said.

He pointed beyond them. For most practical purposes, except for a few small, close islands, of little or no importance, the mosaic ended there. No one knew what lay beyond Cos and Tyros to the west, once the small islands were passed.

"You should have your mind not on Kaissa," said Samos, "my dear Captain, but on the world's end." He pointed to a place on the floor. It contained only small, smooth white tiles.

"Perhaps the world's end," I said, "is on the other side of the wall."

We did not know where it might be, in the scale of the map mosaic.

"Perhaps," laughed Samos. "Perhaps."

He glanced about at the mosaic. For an instant his eye stopped, near its top.

"What is it?" I asked. I had noticed a bit of hesitation in him, a small movement in his shoulder, the sort of thing which suggests that a casual thought. unimportantly troubling, has occurred to someone.

"Nothing," he said. He had dismissed the thought.

"No," I said, curious. "What is it?"

He gestured to a guardsman to bring a lamp, for we were far from the light of the bowl of coals now, and of various torches set in the walls.

We walked slowly toward the back of the hall. The guardsman brought him the lamp there.

"As you know," said Samos, "this house is an intelligence center, in which we receive many reports. Much of what we hear is trivial and unimportant, simply meaningless. Yet we try to remain informed."

"Naturally," I said. Who knew when, or if, a pattern might emerge.

"Two items of information we have received seem to us peculiar. We have received them at different times. They are in their nature, unrelated. Yet each is provocative."

"What are they?" I asked.

"See," said Samos, crouching down, holding the lamp about a foot above the floor, "here is Kassau, and the Skerry of Vars."

"Yes," I said.

"And Torvaldsland, northwards," he said, "and Ax Glacier."

"Yes," I said.

"Have you heard," he asked, "of the herd of Tancred?"

"No," I said.

"It is a herd of northern tabuk," said Samos, "a gigantic herd, one of several. The herd of Tancred winters in the rims of the northern forests south and east of Torvaldsland. In the spring, short-haired and hungry, they emerge from the forests hind migrate northward." He indicated the map. "They follow this route," he said, "emerging from the forest here, skirting Torvaldsland here, to the east, and then moving west above Torvaldsland, to the sea. They follow the shore of Thassa north, cross Ax Glacier here, like dark clouds on the ice, then continue to follow the shore north here, until they then turn eastward into the tundra of the polar basin, for their summer grazing. With the coming of winter, long-haired and fat, they return by the same route to the forests. This migration, like others of its kind, occurs annually."

"Yes?" I said.

"It seems not to have occurred this year," he said.

I looked at him, puzzled.

"Red hunters of the polar basin, trading for tea and sugar, have reported the failure of the herd to appear."

"That is puzzling," I said.

"It is more serious than that," he said. "It means the perishing of the men of the polar basin, or their near starvation. They depend on the tabuk in the summer for food."

"Is there anything that can he done?" I asked.

"I think not," said Samos. "Their winter stores of food, from the ice hunting. will last them for a time. Then they must hunt elsewhere. Perhaps some can live by fishing until the fall, and the return of the black sea sleen."

The red hunters lived as nomads, dependent on the migrations of various types of animals, in particular the northern tabuk and four varieties of sea sleen. Their fishing and hunting were seasonal, and depended on the animals. Sometimes they managed to secure the northern shark, sometimes even the toothed Hunjer whale or the less common Karl whale, which was a four-fluked, baleen whale. But their life, at best, was a precarious one. Little was known of them. Like many simple, primitive peoples, isolated and remote, they could live or die without being noticed.

"Send a ship north," I said, "with supplies."

"The waters north of Ax Glacier are ruthless," said Samos.

"Send it," I said.

"Very well," he said.

"There was something else," I said.

"It is nothing," he said.

"Tell me," I said.

"Here," he said, moving a bit, "here." He crouched over the mosaic where it delineated the sea, an arm of Thassa, crescentlike, extending northward and eastward, tangent upon the polar shores. The sea in this area was frozen for more than half the year. Winds and tides broke the ice, crushing and piling it in fantastic shapes, wild, trackless conformations, the sport of a terrible nature at play, the dreaded pack ice of the north.

Samos put the lamp down on the floor. "Here," he said, pointing. "It lies somewhere here."

"What?" I asked. Nothing was indicated on the map.

"The mountain that does not move," he said.

"Most mountains do not move," I smiled.

"The ice mountains of the polar sea," he said, "drift eastward."

"I see," I said.

Samos referred to an iceberg. Some of these are gigantic, pasangs in width, hundreds of feet high. They break from glaciers, usually in the spring and summer, and drift in Thassa, moving with the currents. The currents generally moved eastward above the polar basin. Gorean has no expression specifically for an iceberg. The same expression is used for both mountain and iceberg. If a reference should he unclear the expression is qualified, as by saying, "ice mountain." A mountain is a mountain to Goreans, regardless of whether it be formed of soil and stone, or ice. We tend to think of mountains as being land formations. The Gorean tends to think more of them as being objects of a certain sort, rather than objects of a certain sort with a particular location. In a sense, English does, too, for the expression 'berg' is simple German for 'mountain', and the expression 'iceberg', then is a composite word which, literally translated would yield 'ice mountain' or 'mountain of ice'. 'Berg', of course, in actual German, would be capitalized, for it is a noun. Interestingly, Goreans, although they do not capitalize all nouns do capitalize many more of them than would be capitalized in, say, English or French. Sometimes context determines capitalization. Languages are diverse and interesting, idiosyncratic and fascinating.

I will generally use the expression 'iceberg' for it is easier for me to do so.

"There is here an iceberg," said Samos, pointing to the map, "which is not following the parsit current." Samos had said, literally, of course, 'ice mountain'. The parsit current is the main eastward current above the polar basin. It is called the parsit current for it is followed by several varieties of migrating parsit, a small, narrow, usually striped fish. Sleen, interestingly, come northward with the parsit. their own migrations synchronized with those of the parsit, which forms for them their principal prey. The four main types of sea sleen found in the polar seas are the black sleen, the brown sleen, the tusked sleen and the flat-nosed sleen. There is a time of year for the arrival of each, depending on the waves of the parsit migrations. Not all members of a species of sleen migrate. Also, some winter under the ice, remaining generally dormant, rising every quarter of an Ahn or so to breathe. This is done at breaks in the ice or at gnawed breathing holes.

"An iceberg which does not drift with the current, which does not move with its brothers," I said.

"Yes," said Samos.

"It is a thing of myth," I said.

"I suppose so," said Samos.

"You grow too tense with your responsibilities, Samos," I told him. "Obviously such a thing cannot be."

Samos nodded. He grinned. "You are right," he said.

"Where did you hear of this?" I asked.

"It was told by a man of the polar basin who had come south to sell skins at the Sardar."

"Had he himself seen this?" I asked.

"No," said Samos. I smiled.

"And how was it that he spoke of it," I asked.

"He was given a coin," said Samos, "to speak of anything strange or unusual of which he might have heard."

"He well earned his coin," I said.

"Wily sleen," said Samos.

I laughed. Samos, too, laughed.

"They are clever fellows," I said.

"It is not often I am outwitted," said Samos.

Samos and I rose to our feet and returned to the small table. He put the lamp down on the table.

"You will sail then, soon, for the world's end?" asked Samos.

"It is my intention," I said. I turned to leave.

"Captain," said he.

I turned to face him. "Yes," I said.

"Do you think," he asked, "that if ever the gate to the stars should be opened, that men will remember the name of Tarl Cabot?"

"No," I said.

"I wish you well," he said.

"I, too, wish you well, Samos, first captain of Port Kar," I said.

"Who will win," he asked, "Centius of Cos or Scormus of Ar?"

"Scormus of Ar," I said. "He is invincible. Centius of Cos is a fine player, but he is beyond his prime. He is weary now. He has had his day. He will be no match for Scormus."

I remembered Scormus of Ar, whom I had seen in the house of Cernus, of Ar, some years ago. He was an incredibly handsome fellow, young, brilliant, arrogant, haughty, lame. He lived much by himself. It was said he had never touched a woman. He ruled the high bridges of Ar with his Kaissa board. No other player might call «Kaissa» on those bridges until he had bested the young Scormus. His play was swift, decisive, brilliant, merciless; more than one player had given up the game after being indulged, and then toyed with and humiliated by the genius of Scormus. Kaissa was for him a weapon. He could use it to destroy his enemies. Centius of Cos, on the other hand, was an older man; no one knew how old; it was said the stabilization serums had not taken their full effect with him until he had seen fifty winters; he was slight and gray-haired; he was quite different in personality and character from the young Scormus; he was quiet, and soft-spoken, and gentle; he loved Kaissa, and its beauty. He would often ponder a board for hours, by himself, searching for a supreme combination. "It eludes me," he would say. Once he had been bested by Sabo of Turia, at the Tharna tournaments, and he had wept with joy and embraced the victor, thanking him for letting him participate in such a beautiful game. "Winning and losing," he had said, "do not matter. What matters is the game, and the beauty." Men had thought him mad. "I had rather be remembered as the loser in one beautify! game," he 'said, "then as the winner in a thousand flawed masterpieces." He had always sought for the perfect game. He had never found it. Beauty, I suspect, lies all about us. The craftsman can find it in a turning of leather, where I might never see it. A musician may find it in a sound which I cannot detect. And one who plays Kaissa may find it in the arrangements of tiny bits of wood on a board of red and yellow squares. Centius of Cos had sought always for the perfect game. He had never found it.

"When will you return?" asked Samos.

"After the matches," I said.

"You will see others, too," he asked.

"Of course," I said. "Do you know that Philemon of Teletus will play Stengarius of Ti, and that Hobart of Tharna will match wits with Boris of Turia?"

"No," said Samos, ruefully. "It escaped my attention."

I shrugged. Samos, I decided, was hopeless.

He conducted me even to the first gate of his house, where I threw about myself the cloak of the admiral.

In a few moments, I sat at the tiller of the longboat, for the simple task of guiding the craft pleased me, and was being rowed to my house. I saw the silken head of an urt in the canal, a few feet from the boat It was a large urt, some forty pounds in weight. They live on garbage cast into the canals, and on bound slaves who have not been pleasing.

I looked back at the house of Samos. The slim, blond-haired girl would have been branded by now. We had not heard her scream for she, when it was done, would have been below, far away, in the pens.

I thought of the message:

Greetings to Tarl Cabot,

I await you at the world's end.

Zarendargar.

War General of the People.

I smiled to myself.

The prow of the ship of Tersites pointed even now to the world's end.

None had returned from the world's end.

The canal turned then and I guided the craft about the corner. As we turned I glanced once more at the house of Samos. It loomed high and formidable, over the canal, a slaver's house, a high, dark, frightening fortress.

In the pens far below the fortress there was a new slave, a slim, blond-haired Earth girl. She would be caged now. I wondered if she seized the bars of her cage, pressing her face against them, trying to understand what had happened to her. She had mixed in the affairs of worlds. She was now a slave. Probably she lay naked on her stomach on the cement flooring of her kennel, her hands over her head, screaming. On the exterior of her left thigh there would be a brand. On the interior of her thigh there would be blood. She had mixed in the affairs of worlds. It had not turned out well for her. She was now a slave. She would be soon sold off.

I wondered if she would learn swiftly to be pleasing to a master.

Another urt's head, sleek and glistening, surfaced near the boat, then it submerged.

I expected she would learn swiftly.

I considered the upcoming match between Centius of Cos and Scormus of Ar.

I would wager heavily on Scormus of Ar. I did not expect, however, that I would get good odds.