Nomads Of Gor

3. The Spear Gambling

One, the Tuchuk, I might have slain with a cast of the heavy Gorean war spear; the others would have had free play with their lances. I might have thrown myself to the ground as the tart hunters from- Ar, once their weapon is cast, covering myself with the shield; but then I would have been beneath the clawed paws of four squealing, snorting kaiila, while the riders jabbed at me with lances, off my feet, helpless.

So gambling all on the respect of the Wagon Peoples for the courage of men, I made no move to defend myself but, heart pounding, blood racing, yet no sign visible of agitation on my face, without a quiver of a muscle or tendon betraying me, I stood calmly erect.

On my face there was only disdain.

At the last instant, the lances of four riders but a hand's breadth from my body, the enraged, thundering kaiila, hissing and squealing, at a touch of the control straps, arrested their fierce charge, stopping themselves, tearing into the deep turf with suddenly emergent claws. Not a rider was thrown or seemed for an instant off balance. The children of the Wagon Peoples are taught the saddle of the kaiila before they can walk.

"Aieee" cried the warrior of the Kataiil.

He and the others turned their mounts and backed away a handful of yards, regarding me.

I had not moved.

"My name is Tarl Cabot," I said. "I come in peace. The four riders exchanged glances and then, at a sign from the heavy Tuchuk, rode a bit away from me.

I could not make out what they were saying, but an argument of some sort was in progress.

I leaned on my spear and yawned, looking away toward the bosk herds.

My blood was racing. I knew that had I moved, or shown fear, or attempted to flee, I would now be dead. I could have fought. I might perhaps then have been victorious but the probabilities were extremely slim. Even had I slain two of them the others might have withdrawn and with their arrows or boles brought me to the ground. More importantly, I did not wish to introduce myself to these people as an enemy. I wished, as I had said, to come in peace.

At last the Tuchuk detached himself from the other three warriors and pranced his kaiila to within a dozen yards of me.

"You are a stranger," he said.

"I come in peace to the Wagon Peoples," I said.

"You wear no insignia on your shield," he said. "You are outlaw."

I did not respond. I was entitled to wear the marks of the city of Ko-ro-ba, the Towers of the Morning, but I had not done so. Once, long, long ago, Ko-ro-ba and Ar had turned the invasion of the united Wagon Peoples from the north, and the memories of these things, stinging still in the honest songs of camp skalds, would rankle in the craws of such fierce, proud peoples. I did not wish to present myself to them as an enemy.

"What was your city?" he demanded.

But to such a question, as a warrior of Ko-ro-ba, I could not but respond.

"I am of Ko-ro-ba," I said. "You have heard of her." The Tuchuk's face tightened. Then he grinned. "I have heard sing of Ko-ro-ba," he said.

I did not reply to him.

He turned to his fellows. "A Koroban!" he cried.

The men moved on their mounts, restlessly, eagerly said something to one another.

"We turned you back," I said.

"What is your business with the Wagon Peoples?" demanded the Tuchuk.

Here I paused. What could I tell him? Surely here, in this matter, I must bide my time.

"You see there is no insignia on my shield or tunic," I said. He nodded. "You are a fool," he said, "to flee to the Wagon Peoples."

I had now led him to believe that I was indeed an outlaw, a fugitive.

He threw back his head and laughed. He slapped his thigh. "A Koroban! And he flies to the Wagon PeopIes!" Tears of mirth ran from the sides of his eyes. "You are a fool" he said.

"Let us fight," I suggested.

Angrily the Tuchuk pulled back on the reins of the kaiila, causing it to rear, snarling, pawing at the sky. "And willingly would I do so, Koroban sleep," he spit out. "Pray thou to Priest-Kings that the lance does not fall to me!"

I did not understand this.

He turned his kaiila and in a bound or two swung it about in the midst of his fellows.

Then the Kassar approached me.

"Koroban," said he, "did you not fear our lances?" "I did," I said.

"But you did not show your fear," said he.

I shrugged.

"Yet," said he, "you tell me you feared." There was wonder on his face.

I looked away.

"That," said the rider, "speaks to me of courage." We studied each other for a moment, sizing one another up. Then he said, "Though you are a dweller of cities, a vermin of the walls, I think you are not unworthy, and thus I pray the lance will fall to me."

He turned his mount back to his fellows.

They conferred again for a moment and then the warrior of the Katau approached, a lithe, strong proud man, one in whose eyes I could read that he had never lost his saddle, nor turned from a foe.

His hand was light on the yellow bow, strung taut. But no arrow was set to the string.

"Where are your men?" he asked.

"I am alone," I said.

The warrior stood in the stirrups, shading his eyes. "Why have you come to spy?" he asked.

"I am not a spy," I said.

"You are hired by the Turians," he said.

"No," I responded.

"You are a stranger," he said.

"I come in peace," I said.

"Have you heard," he asked, "that the Wagon Peoples slay strangers?"

"Yes," I said, "I have heard that."

"It is true," he said, and turned his mount back to his fellows.

Last to approach me was the warrior of the Paravaci, with his hood and cape of white fur, and the glistening broad necklace of precious stones encircling his throat. He pointed to the necklace. "It is beautiful, is it not?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"It will buy ten bosks," said he, "twenty wagons covered with golden cloth, a hundred she-slaves from Turia." I looked away.

"Do you not covet the stones," he prodded, "these riches?" "No," I said.

Anger crossed his face. "You may have them," he said. "What must I do?" I asked.

"Slay me!" he laughed.

I looked at him steadily. "They are probably false stones," I said, "amber droplets, the pearls of the Vosk sorp, the polished shell of the Tamber clam, glass colored and cut in Ar for trade with ignorant southern peoples."

The face of the Paravaci, rich with its terrible furrowed scars, contorted with rage.

He tore the necklace from his throat and flung it to my feet.

"Regard the worth of those stones!" he cried. I fished the necklace from the dust with the point of my sword, it in the sun. It hung like a belt of light, sparkling with a spectrum of riches hundred merchants. "Excellent," I admitted, handing it back to him on the tip of the spear.

Angrily he wound it about the pommel of the saddle. "But I am of the Caste of Warriors," I said, "of a high city and we do not stain our spears for the stones of men not, even such stones as these."

The Paravaci was speechless.

"You dare to tempt me," I said, feigning anger, "as if I beyond the dreams of a man, were of the Caste of Assassins or a commonthief with his dagger in the night." I frowned at him. "Beware," Iwarned, "lest I take your words as insult."

The Paravaci, in his cape and hood of white fur, with the priceless necklace wrapped about the pommel of his saddle, sat stiff, not moving, utterly enraged. Then, furiously, the scars wild in his face, he sprang up in the stirrups and lifted both hands to the sky. "Spirit of the Sky," he cried, "let the lance fall to motto mel" Then abruptly, furious, he wheeled the kaiila and joined the others, whence he turned to regard me.

As I watched, the Tuchuk took his long, slender lance and thrust it into the ground, point upward. Then, slowly, the four riders began to walk their mounts about the lance, watching it, right hands free to seize it should it begin to fall. The wind seemed to rise.

In their way I knew they were honoring me, that they had respected my stand in the matter of the charging lances, that now they were gambling to see who would fight me, to whose weapons my blood must flow, beneath the paws of whose kaiila I must fall bloodied to the earth.

I watched the lance tremble in the shaking earth, and saw the intentness of the riders as they watched its Lightest movement. It would soon fall.

I could now see the herds quite clearly, making out indi- vidual animals, the shaggy humps moving through the dust, see the sun of the late afternoon glinting off thousands of horns. Here and there I saw riders, darting about, all mounted on the swift, graceful kaiila. The sun reflected from the horns in the veil of dust that hung over the herds was quite beautiful.

The lance had not yet fallen.

Soon the animals would be turned in on themselves, to mill together in knots, until they were stopped by the shaggy walls of their own kind, to stand and grew until the morning. The wagons would, of course, follow the herds. The herd forms both vanguard and rampart for the advance of the wagons. The wagons are said to be countless, the animals without number. Both of these claims are, of course, mistaken, and I the Ubars of the Wagon Peoples know well each wagon and the number of branded beasts in the various herds; each herd is, incidentally, composed of several smaller herds, each |watched over by its own riders. The bellowing seemed now to come from the sky itself, like thunder, or from-the horizon, like the breaking of an ocean into surf on the rocks of the shore. It was like a sea or a vast natural phenomenon slowly approaching. Such indeed, I suppose, it was. Now, also, for the first time, I could clearly smell the herd, a rich, vast, fresh, musky, pervasive odor, compounded of trampled grass and torn earth, of the dung, urine and sweat of perhaps more than a minion beasts. The magnificent vitality of that smell, so offensive to some, astonished and thrilled me; it spoke to me of the insurgence and the swell of life itself, ebullient, raw, overflowing, unconquerable, primitive, shuffling, smell- ing, basic, animal, stamping, snorting, moving, an avalanche of tissue and blood and splendor, a glorious, insistent, invinci- ble cataract of breathing and walking and seeing and feeling on the sweet, flowing, windswept mothering earth. And it was in that instant that I sensed what the bask might mean to the Wagon Peoples.

"Ho!" I heard, and spun to see the black lance fall and scarcely had it moved but it was seized in the fist of the scarred Tuchuk warrior.

The Tuchuk warrior lifted the lance in triumph, in the same instant slipping his fist into the retention knot and kicking the roweled heels of his boots into the silken flanks of his mount, the animal springing towards me and the rider in the same movement, as if one with the beast, leaning down from the saddle, lance slightly lowered, charging. The slender, flexible wand of the lance tore at the seven- layered Gorean shield, striking a spark from the brass rim binding it, as the man had lunged at my head.

I had not cast the spear.

I had no wish to kill the Tuchuk.

The charge of the Tuchuk, in spite of its rapidity and momentum, carried him no more than four paces beyond me. It seemed scarcely had he passed than the kaiila had wheeled and charged again, this time given free rein, that it might tear at me with its fangs.

I thrust with the spear, trying to force back the snapping jaws of the screaming animal. The kaiila struck, and then withdrew, and then struck again. All the time the Tuchuk thrust at me with his lance. Four times the point struck me drawing blood, but he did not have the weight of the leaping animal behind his thrust; he thrust at arm's length, the point scarcely reaching me. Then the animal seized my shield in its teeth and reared lifting it and myself, by the shield straps, from the ground. I fell from some dozen feet to the grass and saw the animal snarling and biting on the shield, then it shook it and hurled it far and away behind it.

I shook myself.

The helmet which I had slung over my shoulder was gone. I retained my sword. I grasped the Gorean spear.

I stood at bay on the grass, breathing hard, bloody. The Tuchuk laughed, throwing his head back.

I readied the spear for its cast.

Warily now the animal began to circle, in an almost human fashion, watching the spear. It shifted delicately, feinting, and then withdrawing, trying to draw the cast. I was later to learn that kaiita are trained to avoid the thrown spear. It is a training which begins with blunt staves and progresses through headed weapons. Until the kaiila is suitably proficient in this art it is not allowed to breed. Those who cannot learn it die under the spear. Yet, at a close range, I had no doubt that I could slay the beast. As swift as may be the kaiila I had no doubt that I was swifter. Gorean warriors hunt men and tarts with this weapon. But I did not wish to slay the animal, nor its rider.

To the astonishment of the Tuchuk and the others who observed, I threw away the weapon.

The Tuchuk sat still on his mount, as did the others. Then he took his lance and smote it on the small, glossy shield, acknowledging my act. Then so too did the others, even the white-caped man of the Paravaci.

Then the Tuchuk drove his own lance into the dirt and hung on the lance his glossy shield.

I saw him draw one of the quivas from a saddle sheath, loosen the long, triple-weighted bole from his side. Slowly, singing in a gutteral chant, a Tuchuk warrior song, he began to swing the bole. It consists of three long straps of I leather, each about five feet long, each terminating in a leather sack which contains, sewn inside, a heavy, round, metal weight. It was probably developed for hunting the tumit, a huge, flightless carnivorous bird of the plains, but the Wagon Peoples use it also, and well, as a weapon of war. Thrown low the long straps, with their approximate ten-foot sweep, almost impossible to evade, strike the victim and the weighted balls, as soon as resistance is met, whip about the victim, tangling and tightening the straps. Sometimes legs are broken. It is often difficult to release the straps, so snarled do they become. Thrown high the Gorean bole can lock a man's arms to his sides; thrown to the throat it can strangle him; thrown to the head, a difficult cast, the whipping weights can crush a skull. One entagles the victim with the bole, leaps from one's mount and with the quiva cuts his throat. I had never encountered such a weapon and I had little notion as to how it might be met.

The Tuchuk handled it well. The three 'weights at the end of the straps were now almost blurring in the air and he, his song ended, the reins in his left hand, quiva blade now clenched between his teeth, bole in his swinging, uplifted right arm, suddenly cried out and kicked the kaiila into its charge.

He wants a kill, I told myself. He is under the eyes of warriors of the other peoples. It would be safest to throw low. It would be a finer cast, however, to try for the throat or head. How vain is hey How skillful is he?

He would be both skillful and vain; he was Tuchuk. To the head came the flashing bole moving in its hideous, swift revolution almost invisible in the air and I, instead of lowering my head or throwing myself to the ground, met instead the flying weighted leather with the blade of a Koro- ban short sword, with the edge that would divide silk dropped upon it and the taut straps, two of them, flew from the blade and the other strap and the three weights looped off pinto the grass, and the Tuchuk at the same time, scarcely realizing what had occurred, leaped from the kailla, quiva in hand, to find himself unexpectedly facing a braced warrior of Ko-ro-ba, sword drawn.

The quiva reversed itself in his hand, an action so swift I was only aware of it as his arm flew back, his hand on the blade, to hurl the weapon.

It sped toward me with incredible velocity over the hand- ful of feet that separated us. It could not be evaded, but only countered, and countered it was by the Koroban steel in my hand, a sudden ringing, sliding flash of steel and the knife was deflected from my breast.

The Tuchuk stood struck with awe, in the grass, on the trembling plains in the dusty air.

I could hear the other three men of the Wagon Peoples, the Kataii, the Kassar, the Paravaci, striking their shields with their lances. "Well done," said the Kassar.

The Tuchuk removed his helmet and threw it to the grass He jerked open the jacket he wore and the leather jerkin beneath, revealing his chest.

He looked about him, at the distant bosk herds, lifted his head to see the sky once more.

His kailla stood some yards away, shifting a bit, puzzled, reins loose on its neck.

The Tuchuk now looked at me swiftly. He grinned. He did not expect nor would he receive aid from his fellows. I studied his heavy face, the fierce scarring that somehow ennobled it, the black eyes with the epicanthic fold. He grinned at me. "Yes," he said, "well done."

I went to him and set the point of the Gorean short sword at his heart.

He did not flinch.

"I am Tarl Cabot," I said. "I come in peace."

I thrust the blade back in the scabbard.

For a moment the Tuchuk seemed stunned. He stared at me, disbelievingly, and then, suddenly, he threw back his head and laughed until tears streamed down his face. He doubled over and pounded on his knees with his fist. Then he straightened up and wiped his face with the back of his hand. I shrugged.

Suddenly the Tuchuk bent to the soil and picked up a handful of dirt and grass, the land on which the bosk graze, the land which is the land of the Tuchuks, and this dirt and this grass he thrust in my hands and I held it.

The warrior grinned and put his hands over mine so that our hands together held the dirt and the grass, and were together clasped on it.

"Yes," said the warrior, "come in peace to the Land of the Wagon Peoples."

I followed the warrior Kamchak into the encampment of Tuchuks.

Nearly were we run down by six riders on thundering kaiila who, riding for sport, raced past us wildly among the crowded, clustered wagons. I heard the lowing of milk bask from among the wagons. Here and there children ran be- tween the wheels, playing with a cork ball and quiva, the object of the game being to strike the thrown ball. Tuchuk women, unveiled, in their long leather dresses, long hair bound in braids, tended cooking pots hung on "em-wood tripods over dung fires. These women were unscarred, but like the bask themselves, each wore a nose ring. That of the animals is heavy and of gold, that of the women also of gold but tiny and fine, not unlike the wedding rings of my old world. I heard a haruspex singing between the wagons; for a piece of meat he would read the wind and the grass; for a cup of wine the stars and the flight of birds; for a fat-bellied dinner the liver of a sleen or slave.

lithe Wagon Peoples are fascinated with the future and its signs and though, to hear them speak, they put no store in such matters, yet they do in practice give them great consider- ation. I was told by Kamchak that once an army of a thousand wagons turned aside because a swarm of rennels, poisonous, crablike desert insects, did not defend its broken nest, crushed by the wheel of the lead wagon. Another time, over a hundred years ago, a wagon Ubar lost the spur from his right boot and turned for this reason back from the gates of mighty Ar itself.

By one fire I could see a squat Tuchuk, hands on hips, dancing and stamping about by himself, drunk on fermented milk curds, dancing, according to Kamchak, to please the Sky.

The Tuchuks and the other Wagon Peoples reverence Priest-Kings, but unlike the Goreans of the cities, with their castes of Initiates, they do not extend to them the dignities of worship. I suppose the Tuchuks worship nothing, in the common sense of that word, but it is true they hold many things holy, among them the bask and the skills of arms, but chief of the things before which the proud Tuchuk stands ready to remove his helmet is the sky, the simple, vast beautiful sky, from which fans the rain that, in his myths, formed the earth, and the basks, and the Tuchuks. It is to the sky that the Tuchuks pray when they pray, demanding victory and luck for themselves, defeat and misery for their enemies. The Tuchuk, incidentally, like others of the Wagon Peoples, prays only when mounted, only when in the saddle and with weapons at hand; he prays to the sky not as a slave to a master, nor a servant- to a god, but as warrior to a Ubar; the women of the Wagon Peoples, it might be mentioned, are not permitted to pray; many of them, however, do patronize the haruspexes, who, besides foretelling the future with a greater or lesser degree of accuracy for generally reasonable fees, provide an incredible assemblage of amulets, talismans, trinkets, philters, potions, spell papers, wonder- working sleen teeth, marvelous powdered kailiauk horns, and colored, magic strings that, depending on the purpose, may be knotted in various ways and worn about the neck. As we passed among the wagons I leaped back as a tawny prairie sleen hurled itself against the bars of a sleen cage, reaching out for me with its sic-clawed paw. There were four other prairie sleen in the cage, a small cage, and they were curling and moving about one another, restlessly, like angry snakes. They would be released with the fan of darkness to rum the periphery of the herds, acting, as I have mentioned, as shepherds and sentinels. They are also used if a slave escapes, for the sleen is an efficient, tireless, savage, almost infallible hunter, capable of pursuing a scent, days old, for hundreds of pasangs until, perhaps a month later, it finds its victim and tears it to pieces.

I was startled by the sound of slave bells and saw a girl, stripped save for bells and collar, carrying a burden among the wagons.

Kamchak saw that I had noticed the girl and chuckled, sensing that I might find it strange, seeing a slave so among the wagons.

She wore bells locked on both wrists, and on both ankles, thick cuffs and anklets, each with a double line of bells, fastened by steel and key. She wore the Turian collar, rather than the common slave collar. The Turian collar lies loosely on the girl, a round ring; it fits so loosely that, when grasped in a man's fist, the girl can turn within it; the common Gorean collar, on the other hand, is a flat, snugly fitting steel band. Both collars lock in the back, behind the girl's neck. The Turian collar is more difficult to engrave, but it, like the flat collar, will bear some legend assuring that the girl, if found, will be promptly returned to her master. Bells had also been afflicted to her collar.

"She is Turian?" I asked.

"Of course," said Kamchak.

"In the cities," I said, "only Pleasure Slaves are so belled, and then customarily for the dance."

"Her master," said Kamchak, "does not trust her."

In his simple statement I then understood the meaning of her condition. She would be allowed no garments, that she might not be able to conceal a weapon; the bells would mark each of her movements.

"At night," said Kamchak, "she is chained under the wagon."

The girl had now disappeared.

"Turian girls are proud," said Kamchak. "Thus, they make excellent slaves."

What he said did not surprise me. The Gorean master, commonly, likes a spirited girl, one who fights the whip and collar, resisting until at last, perhaps months later, she is overwhelmed and must acknowledge herself his, utterly and without reservation, then fearing only that he might tire of her and sell her to another.

"In time," said Kamchak, `'she will beg for the rag of a slave."

I supposed it was true. A girl could take only so much, and then she would kneel to her master, her head to his boots, and beg for a bit of clothing, even though it be only to be clad Kajir.

Kajira is perhaps the most common expression for a fe- male slave. Another frequently heard expression is Sa-Pora, a compound word, meaning, rather literally, Chain Daughter, or Daughter of the Chain. Among the Wagon Peoples, to be clad Kajir means, for a girl, to wear four articles, two red, two black; a red cord, the Curia, is tied about the waist; the Chatka, or long, narrow strip of black leather, fits over this cord in the front, passes under, and then again, from the inside, passes over the cord in the back; the Chatka is drawn tight; the Kalmak is then donned; it is a short, open, sleeve- less vest of black leather; lastly the Koora, a strip of red cloth, matching the Curia, is wound about the head, to hold the hair back, for slave women, among the Wagon Peoples, are not permitted to braid, or otherwise dress their hair; it must be, save for the Koora, worn loose. For a male slave, or Kajirus, of the Wagon Peoples, and there are few, save for the work chains, to be clad Kajir means to wear the Kes, a short, sleeveless work tunic of black leather. As Kamchak and I walked to his wagon, I saw several girls, here and there, clad Kajir; they were magnificent; they walked with the true brazen insolence of the slave girl, the wench who knows that she is owned, whom men have found beautiful enough, and exciting enough, to collar. The dour women of the Wagon Peoples, I saw, looked on these girls with envy and hatred, sometimes striking them with sticks if they should approach too closely the cooking pots and attempt to steal a piece of meat.

"I will tell your master!" screamed one.

The girl laughed at her and with a toss of her auburn hair, bound in the Koora, ran off between the wagons.

Kamchak and I laughed.

I gathered that the beauty had little to fear from her master, saving perhaps that she might cease to please him. The wagons of the Wagon Peoples are, in their hundreds and thousands, in their brilliant, variegated colors, a glorious sight. Surprisingly the wagons are almost square, each the size of a large room. Which is drawn by a double team of bosk, four in a team, with each team linked to its wagon tongue, the tongues being joined by "tem-wood crossbars. The two axles of the wagon are also of "tem-wood, which perhaps, because of its flexibility, joined with the general flatness of the southern Gorean plains, permits the width of the wagon. The wagon box, which stands almost six feet from the ground, is formed of black, lacquered planks of "em-wood. Inside the wagon box, which is square, there is fixed a rounded, tentlike frame, covered with the taut, painted, var- nished hides of basks. These hides are richly colored, and often worked with fantastic designs, each wagon competing with its neighbor to be the boldest and most exciting. The rounded frame is Fred somewhat within the square of the wagon box, so that a walkway, almost like a ship's bridge, surrounds the frame. The sides of the wagon box, incidental- ly, are, here and there, perforated for arrow ports, for the small horn bow of the Wagon Peoples can be used to advant- age not only from the back of a kaiila but, like the crossbow, from such cramped quarters. One of the most striking features of these wagons is the wheels, which are huge, the back wheels having a diameter of about ten feet; the front wheels are, like those of the Conestoga wagon, slightly small- er, in this case, about eight feet in diameter; the larger rear wheels are more difficult to mire; the smaller front wheels, nearer the pulling power of the bask, permit a somewhat easier turning of the wagon. These wheels are carved wood and, like the wagon hides, are richly painted. Thick strips of boskhide form the wheel rims, which are replaced three to four times a year. The wagon is guided by a series of eight straps, two each for the four lead animals. Normally, how- ever, the wagons are tied in tandem fashion, in numerous long columns, and only the lead wagons are guided, the others simply following, thongs running from the rear of one wagon to the nose rings of the bask following, sometimes as much as thirty yards behind, with the next wagon; also, too, a wagon is often guided by a woman or boy who walks beside the lead animals with a sharp stick.

The interiors of the wagons, lashed shut, protected from the dust of the march, are often rich, marvelously carpeted and hung, filled with chests and silks, and booty from looted caravans, lit by hanging tharlarion oil lamps, the golden light of which falls on the silken cushions, the ankle-deep, intricat- ly wrought carpets. In the center of the wagon there is a small, shallow fire bowl, formed of copper, with a raised brass grating. Some cooking is done here, though the bowl is largely to furnish heat. The smoke escapes by a smoke hole at the dome of the tentlike frame, a hole which is shut when the wagons move.

There was the sudden thud of a kailla's paws on the grass between the wagons and a wild snorting squeal.

I jumped back avoiding the paws of the enraged, rearing animal.

"Stand aside, you fool!" cried a girl's voice, and to my astonishment, astride the saddle of the monster I espied a girl, young, astonishingly beautiful, vital, angry, pulling at the control straps of the animal.

She was not as the other women of the Wagon Peoples I had seen, the dour, thin women with braided hair, bending over the cooking pots.

She wore a brief leather skirt, slit on the right side to allow her the saddle of the kaiila; her leather blouse was sleeveless; attached to her shoulders was a crimson cape; and her wild black hair was bound back by a band of scarlet cloth. Like the other women of the Wagons she wore no veil and, like them, fixed in her nose was the tiny, fine ring that proclaimed her people.

Her skin was a light brown and her eyes a charged, spark- ling black.

"What fool is this?" she demanded of Kamchak.

'No fool," said Kamchak, "but Tarl Cabot, a warrior, one who has held in his hands with me grass and earth." "He is a stranger," she said. "He should be slain!" Kamchak grinned up at her. "He has held with me grass and earth," he said.

The girl gave a snort of contempt and kicked her small, spurred heels into the Banks of the kaiila and bounded away. Kamchak laughed. "She is Hereena, a wench of the First Wagon," he said.

"Tell me of her," I said.

"What is there to tell?" asked Kamchak.

'What does it mean to be of the First Wagon?" I asked. Kamchak laughed. "You know little of the Wagon Peo- ples," he said.

"That is true," I admitted.

"To be of the First Wagon," said Kamchak, "is to be of the household of Kutaituchik."

I repeated the name slowly, trying to sound it out. It i8 pronounced in four syllables, divided thus: Ku-tai-tu-chik. "He then is the Ubar of the Tuchuks?" I said.

'His wagon," smiled Kamchak, "is the First Wagon and it is Kutaituchik who sits upon the gray robe."

"The gray robe?" I asked.

"That robe," said Kamchak, 'which is the throne of the Ubars of the Tuchuks."

It was thus I first learned the name of the man whom I understood to be Ubar of this fierce people.

"You will sometime be taken into the presence of Kutai- tuchik," said Kamchak. "I myself," he said, 'must often go to the wagon of the Ubar."

I gathered from this remark that Kamchak was a man of no little importance among the Tuchuks.

"There arc a hundred wagons in the personal household of Kutaituchik," said Kamchak. 'No be of any of these wagons is to be of the First Wagon."

"I see," I said. 'And the girl she on the kaiila is perhaps the daughter of Kutaituchik, Ubar of the Tuchuks?" "No," said Kamchak. "She is unrelated to him, as are most in the First Wagon."

"She seemed much different than the other Tuchuk wom- en," I said.

Kamchak laughed, the colored scars wrinkling on his broad face. "Of course," said Kamchak, "she has been raised to be fit prize in the games of Love and War."

"I do not understand," I said.

Did you not see the Plains of a Thousand Stakes?" asked Kamchak.

"No," I said. 'I did not."

I was about to press Kamchak on this matter when we heard a sudden shout and the squealing of kaiila from among the wagons. I heard then the shouts of men and the cues of women and children. Kamchak lifted his head intently, listen- ng, Then we heard the pounding of a small drain and No blasts on the horn of a bask.

Kamchak read the message of the drum and horn.

"A prisoner has been brought to the camp," he said. Kamchak strode among the wagons, toward the sound, and I followed him closely. Many others, too, rushed to the sound, and we were jostled by armed warriors, scarred and fierce; by boys with unscarred faces, carrying the pointed sticks used often for goading the wagon bask; by leather-clad women hurrying from the cooking pots; by wild, half-clothed children; even by enslaved Kajir-clad beauties of Turia; even the girl was there who wore but bells and collar, struggling under her burden, long dried strips of bask meat, as wide as beams, she too hurrying to see what might be the meaning of the drum and horn, of the shouting Tuchuks.

We suddenly emerged into the center of what seemed to be a wide, grassy street among the wagons, a wide lane, open and level, an avenue in that city of Harigga, or Bask Wagons. The street was lined by throngs of Tuchuks and slaves. Among them, too, were soothsayers and haruspexes, and singers and musicians, and, here and there, small peddlers and merchants, of various cities, for such are occasionally permitted by the Tuchuks, who crave their wares, to ap- proach the wagons. Each of these, I was later to learn, wore on his forearm a tiny brand, in the form of spreading bask horns, which guaranteed his passage, at certain seasons, across the plains of the Wagon Peoples. The difficulty, of course is in first obtaining the brand. If, in the case of a singer, the song is rejected, or in the case of a merchant, his merchandise is rejected, he is slain out of hand. This accept- ance brand, of course, carries with it a certain stain of ignominy, suggesting that those who approach the wagons do as slaves. Now I could see down the wide, grassy lane, loping towards us, two kaiila and riders. A lance was fastened between them, fixed to the stirrups of their saddles. The lance cleared the ground, given the height of the kaiila, by about five feet. Between the two animate, stumbling desperately, her throat bound by leather thongs to the lance behind her neck, ran a girl, her wrists tied behind her back.

I was astonished, for this girl was dressed not as a Gorean, not as a girl of any of the cities of the Counter-Earth, not as a peasant of the Sa-Tarna Belds or the vineyards where the Ta grapes are raised, not even as a girl of the fierce Wagon Peoples.

Kamchak stepped to the center of the grassy lane, lifting his hand, and the two riders, with their prize, reined in their mounts.

I was dumbfounded.

The girl stood gasping for breath, her body shaking and quivering, her knees slightly bent. She would have fallen except for the lance that kept her in place. She pulled weakly at the thongs that bound her wrists. Her eyes seemed glazed. She scarcely could look about her. Her clothing was stained with dust and her hair hung loose and tangled. Her body was covered with a sparkling sheen of sweat. Her shoes had been removed and had been fastened about her neck. Her feet were bleeding. The shreds of yellow nylon stockings hung about her angles. Her brief dress was torn by being dragged through brush.

Kamchak, too, seemed surprised at the sight of the girl, for never had he seen one 80 peculiarly attired. He assumed, of course, from the brevity of her skirt, that she was slave. He was perhaps puzzled by the absence of a metal collar about her throat. There was, however, literally sewn about her neck, a thick, high leather collar.

Kamchak went to her and took her head in his hands. She lifted her head and seeing the wild, fearsome scarred face that stared into hers, she suddenly screamed hysterically, and tried to jerk and tear herself away, but the lance held her in place. She kept shaking her head and whimpering. It was clear she could not believe her eyes, that she understood nothing, that she did not comprehend her surroundings, that she thought herself mad.

I noted that she had dark hair and dark eyes, brown. The thought crossed my mind that this might lower her price somewhat.

She wore a simple yellow shift, with narrow orange stripes, of what must once have been crisp oxford cloth. It had long sleeves, with cuffs, and a button down collar, not unlike a man's shirt.

It was now, of course, torn and soiled.

Yet she was not an unpleasing wench to look on, slim, well-ankled, lithe. On the Gorean block she would bring a good price.

She gave a little cry as Kamchak jerked the shoes from about her neck. He threw them to me.

They were orange, of finely tooled leather, with a buckle. They had heels, a bit more than an inch high. There was also lettering in the shoe, but the script and words would have been unfamiliar to Goreans. It was English.

The girl was trying to speak. "My name is Elizabeth Cardwell," she said. "I'm an American citizen. My home is in New York City."

Kamchak looked in puzzlement at the riders, and they at him. In Gorean, one of the riders said, "She is a barbarian. She cannot speak Gorean."

My role, as I conceived it, was to remain silent.

"You are all mad!" screamed the girl, pulling at the straps that bound her, struggling in the bonds. "Mad!"

The Tuchuks and the others looked at one another, puz- zled.

I did not speak.

I was thunderstruck that a girl, apparently of Earth, who spoke English, should be brought to the Tuchuks at this time at the time that I was among them, hoping to discover and return to Priest-Kings what I supposed to be a golden spheroid, the egg, the last hope of their race. Had the girl been brought to this world by Priest-Kings? Was she the recent victim of one of the Voyages of Acquisition? But I understood them to have been curtailed in the recent subter- ranean War of Priest-Kings. Had they been resumed? Surely this girl had not been long on Gor, perhaps no more than hours. But if the Voyages of Acquisition had been resumed, why had they been resumed? Or was it actually the case that she had been brought to Gor by Priest-Kings? Were there perhaps others somehow others? Was this woman sent to the Tuchuks at this time perhaps released to wander on the plains inevitably to be picked up by outriders for a pur- pose and if so, to what end for whose purpose or pur- poses? Or was there somehow some fantastic accident or coincidence involved in the event of her arrival? Somehow I knew the latter was not likely to be the case.

Suddenly the girl threw back her head and cried out hysterically. "I'm mad! I have gone mad! I have gone mad!" I could stand it no longer. She was too piteous. Against my better judgment I spoke to her. "No," I said, "you are sane. The girl's eyes looked at me, she scarcely believing the words she had heard.

The Tuchuks and others, as one man, faced me.

I fumed to Kamchak. Speaking in Gorean, I said to him, "I can understand her."

One of the riders pointed to me, crying out to the crowd, excitedly. "He speaks her tongue"

A ripple of pleasure coursed through the throng.

It then occurred to me that it might have been for just this purpose that she had been sent to the Tuchuks, to single out the one man from among all the thousands with the wagons who could understand her and speak with her, thus identify- ing and marking him.

"Excellent," said Kamchak, grinning at me.

"Please," cried the girl to me. "Help met"

Kamchak said to me. "Tell her to be silent."

I did so, and the girl looked at me, dumbfounded, but remained silent.

I discovered that I was now an interpreter.

Kamchak was now, curiously, fingering her yellow gar- ment. Then, swiftly, he tore it from her.

She cried out.

"Be silent," I said to her.

I knew what must now pass, and it was what would have passed in any city or on any road or trail or path in Gor. She was a captive female, and must, naturally, submit to her assessment as prize; she must also be, incidentally, examined for weapons; a dagger or poisoned needle is often concealed in the clothing of free women.

There were interested murmurs from the crowd when, to the Gorean's thinking, the unusual garments underlying her yellow shift were revealed.

"Please," she wept, turning to me.

"Be silent," I cautioned her.

Kamchak then removed her remaining garments, even the shreds of nylon stockings that had hung about her ankles. There was a murmur of approval from the crowd; even some of the enslaved Turian beauties, in spite of themselves, cried out in admiration.

Elizabeth Cardwell, I decided, would indeed bring a high price.

She stood held in place by the lance, her throat bound to it with the wood behind her neck, her wrists thonged behind her back. Other than her bonds she now wore only the thick leather collar which had been sewn about her neck. Kamchak picked up the clothing which lay near her on the grass. He also took the shoes. He wadded it all up together in a soiled bundle. He threw it to a nearby woman. "Burn it," said Kamchak.

The bound girl watched helplessly as the woman carried her clothing, all that she had of her old world, to a cooking fire some yards away, near the edge of the wagons. the crowd had opened a passage for the woman and the girl saw the clothing cast on the open fire.

"No, no!" she screamed. "No!"

Then she tried once more to free herself.

"Tell her," said Kamchak, "that she must learn Gorean quickly that she will be slain if she does not."

I translated this for the girl.

She shook her head wildly. "Tell them my name is Eliza- beth Cardwell," she said. "I don't know where I am or how I got here I want to get back to America, I'm an Ameri- can citizen, my home is in New York City take me back there, I will pay you anything!"

"Tell her," repeated Kamchak, "that she must learn Gore- an quickly and that if she does not she will be slain." I translated this once more for the girl.

"I will pay you anything," she pleaded. "Anything!" "You have nothing," I informed her, and she blushed. "Further," I said, "we do not have the means of returning you to your home."

"Why not?" she demanded.

"Have you not," I pressed, "noted the difference in the gravitational field of this place have you not noted the slight difference in the appearance of the sun?"

"It's not true!" she screamed.

"This is not Earth," I told her. "This is Gor another earth perhaps but not yours." I looked at her fixedly. She must understand. "You are on another planet."

She closed her eyes and moaned.

"I know," she said. "I know I know but how?

how?"

"I do not know the answer to your question," I said. I did not tell her that I was, incidentally, keenly interested for my own reasons in learning the answer to her question. Kamchalc seemed impatient.

"What does she say?" he asked.

"She is naturally disturbed," I said. "She wishes to return to her city."

"What is her city?" asked Kamchak.

"It is called New York," I said.

"I have never heard of it," said Kamchak.

"It is far away," I said.

"How is it that you speak her language?" he asked. "I once lived in lands where her language is spoken," I said.

"Is there grass for the bask in her lands?" asked Kamchak. "Yes," I said, "but they are far away."

"farther even than Thentis?" asked Kamchak.

"Yes," I said.

"farther even than the islands of Cos and-Tyros?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

Kamchak whistled. "That is far," he said..

I smiled. "It is too far to take the bask," I said. Kamchak grinned at me.

One of the warriors on the kaiila spoke. "She was with no one," he said. "We searched. She was with no one." Kamchak nodded at me, and then at the girl.

"Were you alone?" I asked.

The girl nodded weakly.

"She says she was alone," I told Kamchak.

"How came she here?" asked Kamchak.

I translated his question, and the girl looked at me, and then closed her eyes and shook her head. "I don't know," she said.

"She says she does not know," I told Kamchak.

"It is strange," said Kamchak. "But we will question her further later."

He signaled to a boy who carried a skin of Ka-la-na wine over his shoulder. He took the skin of wine from the boy and bit out the horn plug; he then, with the wineskin on his shoulder, held back the head of Elizabeth Cardwell with one hand and with the other shoved the bone nozzle of the skin between her teeth; he tipped the skin and the girl, half choking, swallowed wine; some of the red fluid ran from her mouth and over her body.

When Kamchak thought she had drunk enough he pulled the nozzle from her mouth, pushed back the plug and re- turned the skin to the boy.

Dazed, exhausted, covered with sweat, dust on her face and legs, wine on her body, Elizabeth Cardwell, her wrists thonged behind her and her throat bound to a lance, stood captive before Kamchak of the Tuchuks.

He must be merciful. He must be kind.

"She must learn Gorean," said Kamchak to me. "Teach her 'La Kajira'."

"You must learn Gorean," I told the girl.

She tried to protest, but I would not permit it.

"Say 'La Kajira'," I told her.

She looked at me, helplessly. Then she repeated, "La Kajira."

"Again," I commanded.

"La Kajira," said the girl clearly, "La Kajira."

Elizabeth Cardwell had learned her first Gorean.

"What does it mean?" she asked.

"It means," I told her, "I am a slave girl."

"No!" she screamed. "No, no, not"

Kamchak nodded to the two riders mounted on kaiila. "Take her to the wagon of Kutaituchik."

The two riders turned their kaiila and in a moment, moving rapidly, the girl running between them, had turned from the grassy lane and disappeared between the wagons. Kamchak and I regarded one another.

"Did you note the collar she wore?" I asked.

He had not seemed to show much interest in the high, thick leather collar that the girl had had sewn about her neck.

"Of course," he said.

"I myself," I said, "have never seen such a collar." "It is a message collar," said Kamchak. "Inside the leather, sewn within, will be a message."

My look of amazement must have amused him, for he laughed. "Come," he said, "let us go to the wagon of Kutai- tuchik."

The wagon of Kutaituchik, called Ubar of the Tuchuks, was drawn up on a large, flat-topped grassy hill, the highest land in the camp.

Beside the wagon, on a great pole fixed in the earth, stood the Tuchuk standard of the four bask horns.

The hundred, rather than eight, bask- that drew his wagon had been unyoked; they were huge, red bask; their horns had been polished and their coats glistened from the comb and oils; their golden nose rings were set with jewels; necklaces of precious stones hung from the polished horns.

The wagon itself was the largest in the camp, and the largest wagon I had conceived possible; actually it was a vast platform, set on numerous wheeled frames; though at the edges of the platform, on each side, there were a dozen of the large wheels such as are found on the much smaller wagons; these latter wheels turned as the wagon moved and supported weight, but could not of themselves have supported the entire weight of that fantastic, wheeled palace of hide. The hides that formed the dome were of a thousand colors, and the smoke hole at the top must have stood more than a hundred feet from the flooring of that vast platform. I could well conjecture the riches, the loot and the furnishing that would dazzle the interior of such a magnificent dwelling. But I did not enter the wagon, for Kutaituchik held his court outside the wagon, in the open air, on the flat-topped grassy hill. A large dais had been built, vast and spreading, but standing no more than a foot from the earth. This dais was covered with dozens of thick rugs, sometimes four and five deep.

There were many Tuchuks, and some others, crowded about the dais, and, standing upon it, about Kutaituchik, there were several men who, from their position on the dais and their trappings, I judged to be of great importance. Among these men, sitting cross-legged, was Kutaituchik, called Ubar of the Tuchuks.

About Kutaituchik there were piled various goods, mostly vessels of precious metal and strings and piles of jewels; there was sills there from Tyros; silver from Thentis and Tharna; tapestries from the mills of Ar; wines from Cos; dates from the city of Tor. There were also, among the other goods, two girls, blonde and blue-eyed, unclothed, chained; they had perhaps been a gift to Kutaituchik; or had been the' daugh- ters of enemies; they might have been from any city; both were beautiful; one was sitting with her knees tucked under her chin, her hands clasping her ankles, absently staring at the jewels about her feet; the other lay indolently on her side, incuriously regarding us, her weight on one elbow; there was a yellow stain about her mouth where she had been fed some fruit; both girls wore the Sirilc, a light chain favored for female slaves by many Gorean masters; it consists of a Turian-type collar, a loose, rounded circle of steel, to which a light, gleaming chain is attached; should the girl stand, the chain, dangling from her collar, falls to the floor; it is about ten or twelve inches longer than is required to reach from her collar to her ankles; to this chain, at the natural fall of her wrists, is attached a pair of slave bracelets; at the end of the chain there is attached another device, a set of linked ankle rings, which, when closed about her ankles, lifts a portion of the slack chain from the floor; the Sirit is an incredibly graceful thing and designed to enhance the beauty of its wearer; perhaps it should only be added that the slave bracelets and the ankle rings may be removed from the chain and used separately; this also, of course, permits the Sirik to function as a slave leash.

At the edge of the dais Kamchak and I had stopped, where our sandals were removed and our feet washed by Turian slaves, men in the Kes, who might once have been officers of the city.

We mounted the dais and approached the seemingly som- nolent figure seated upon it.

Although the dais was resplendent, and the rugs upon it even more resplendent, I saw that beneath Kutaituchik, over these rugs, had been spread a simple, worn, tattered robe of gray boskhide. It was upon this simple robe that he sat. It was undoubtedly that of which Kamchak had spoken, the robe upon which sits the Ubar of the Tuchuks, that simple robe which is his throne.

Kutaituchik lifted his head and regarded us; his eyes seemed sleepy; he was bald, save for a black knot of hair that emerged from the back of his shaven skull; he was a broad-backed man, with small legs; his eyes bore the epican- thic fold; his skin was a tinged, yellowish brown; though he was stripped to the waist, there was about his shoulders a rich, ornamented robe of the red bask, bordered with jewels; about his neck, on a chain decorated with sleen teeth, there hung a golden medallion, bearing the sign of the four bask horns; he wore furred boots, wide leather trousers, and a red sash, in which was thrust a quiva. Beside him, coiled, perhaps as a symbol of power, lay a bask whip. Kutaituchik absently reached into a small golden box near his right knee and drew out a string of rolled kanda leaf.

The roots of the kanda plant, which grows largely in desert regions on Gor, are extremely toxic, but, surprisingly, the rolled leaves of this plant, which are relatively innocuous, are formed into strings and, chewed or sucked, are much favored by many Goreans, particularly in the southern hemisphere, where the leaf is more abundant.

Kutaituchik, not taking his eyes off us, thrust one end of the green kanda string in the left side of his mouth and, very slowly, began to chew it. He said nothing, nor did Kamchak. We simply sat near him, cross-legged. I was conscious that only we three on that dais were sitting. I was pleased that there were no prostrations or grovelings involved in ape preaching the august presence of the exalted Kutaituchik. I gathered that once, in his earlier years, he might have been a rider of the kaiila, that he might have been skilled with the bow and lance, and the quiva; such a man would not need ceremony; I sensed that once this man might have ridden six hundred pasangs in a day, living on a mouthful of water and a handful of bask meat kept soft and warm between his saddle and the back of the kaiila; that there might have been few as swift with the quiva, as delicate with the lance, as he; that he had known the wars and the winters of the prairie; that he had met animals and men, as enemies, and had lived; such a man did not need ceremony; such a man, I sensed, was Kutaituchik, called Ubar of the Tuchuks. And yet was I sad as I looked upon him, for I sensed that for this man there could no longer be the saddle of the kaiila, the whirling of the rope and bole, the hunt and the war. Now, from the right side of his mouth, thin, black and wet, there emerged the chewed string of kanda, a quarter of an inch at a time, slowly. The drooping eyes, glazed, regard- ed us. For him there could no longer be the swift races across the frozen prairie; the meetings in arms; even the dancing to the sky about a fire of bask dung.

Kamchak and I waited until the string had been chewed. When Kamchak had finished he held out his right hand and a man, not a Tuchuk, who wore the green robes of the Caste of Pysicians, thrust in his hand a goblet of bask horn; it contained some yellow fluid. Angrily, not concealing his distaste, Kutaituchik drained the goblet and then hurled it from him.

He then shook himself and regarded Kamchak.

He grinned a Tuchuk grin. "How are the bosk?" he asked. "As well as may be expected," said Kamchak.

"Are the quivas sharp?"

"One tries to keep them so," said Kamchak.

`'It is important to keep the axles of the wagons greased," observed Kutaituchik.

"Yes," said Kamchak, "I believe so."

Kutaituchik suddenly reached out and he and Kamchak, laughing, clasped hands.

Then Kutaituchik sat back and clapped his hands together sharply twice. "Bring the she-slave," he said.

I turned to see a stout man-at-arms step to the dais, carrying in his arms, folded in the furs of the scarlet larl, a girl.

I heard the small sound of a chain.

The man-at-arms placed Elizabeth Cardwell before us, and Kutaituchik, and drew away the pelt of the scarlet larl. Elizabeth Cardwell had been cleaned and her hair combed. She was slim, lovely.

The man-at-arms arranged her before us.

The thick leather collar, I noted, was still sewn about her throat.

Elizabeth Cardwell, though she did not know it, knelt before us in the position of the Pleasure Slave.

She looked wildly about her and then dropped her head. Aside from the collar on her throat she, like the other girls on the platform, wore only the Sirik.

Kamchak gestured to me.

"Speak," I said to her.

She lifted her head and then said, almost inaudibly, trem- bling in the restraint of the Sirik. "La Kajira" Then she dropped her head.

Kutaituchik seemed satisfied.

"It is the only Gorean she knows," Kamchak informed him.

"For the time," said Kutaituchik, "it is enough." He then looked at the man-at-arms. "Have you fed her?" he asked. The man nodded.

"Good," said Kutaituchik, "the she-slave will need her strength."

The interrogation of Elizabeth Cardwell took hours. Need- less to say, I served as translator.

The interrogation, to my surprise, was conducted largely by Kamchak, rather than Kutaituchik, called Ubar of the Tuchuks. Kamchak's questions were detailed, numerous, complex. He returned to certain questions at various times, in various ways, connecting subtly her responses to one with those of another; he wove a sophisticated net of inquiry about the girl, delicate and fine; I marveled at his skill; had there been the least inconsistency or even hesitation, as though the girl were attempting to recollect or reconcile the details of a fabrication, it would have been instantly de" tected.

During all this time, and torches had been brought, the hours of the night being burned away, Elizabeth Cardwell was not permitted to move, but must needs retain the posi- tion of the Pleasure Slave, knees properly placed, back straight, head high, the gleaming chain of the Sirik dangling from the Turian collar, falling to the pelt of the red tart on which she knelt.

The translation, as you might expect, was a difficult task, but I attempted to convey as much as I could of what the girl, piteously, the words tumbling out, attempted to tell me. Although there were risks involved I tried to translate as exactly as I could, letting Miss Cardwell speak as she would, though her words must often have sounded fantastic to the Tuchuks, for it was largely of a world alien to them that she spoke a world not of autonomous cities but of huge na- tions; not of castes and crafts but of global, interlocking industrial complexes; not of batter and tarn disks but of | fantastic systems of exchange and credit; a world not of tarns I and the tharlarion but of aircraft and motor buses and trucks; a world in which one's words need not be carried by a lone rider on the swift kaiila but could be sped from one corner of the earth to another by leaping through an artifi- cial moon.

Kutaituchik and Kamchak, to my pleasure, tended to re- strain judgment on these matters; to my gratification they did not seem to regard the girl as mad; I had been afraid, from time to time, that they might, losing patience with what must seem to them to be the most utter nonsense, order her beaten or impaled.

I did not know then, but Kutaituchik and Kamchak had some reason for supposing that the girl might be speaking the truth.

What they were most interested in, of course, and what I was most interested in, namely, how and why the girl came to be wandering on the Plains of Turia in the Lands of the Wagon Peoples they, and I, did not learn.

We were all, at last, satisfied that even the girl herself did not know.

At last Kamchak had finished, and Kutaituchik, too, and they leaned back, looking at the girl.

"Move no muscle," I said to her.

She did not. She was very beautiful.

Kamchak gestured with his head.

"You may lower your head," I said to the girl.

Piteously, with a rustle of chain, the girl's head and shoul- ders fell forward, and though she still knelt, her head touched the pelt of the larl, her shoulders and back shaking, trem- bling.

It seemed to me, from what I had learned, that there was no particular reason why Elizabeth Cardwell, and not one of Parth's countless others, had been selected to wear the mes- sage collar. As yet the collar had not been removed and examined. It was perhaps only that she was convenient, and, of course, that she was lovely, thus a fitting bearer of the collar, herself a gift with the message to please the Tuchuks, and perhaps better dispose them toward its contents. Miss Cardwell was little different from thousands of lovely working girls in the great cities of Barth, perhaps more intelligent than many, perhaps prettier than most, but essen- tially the same, girls living alone or together in apartments, in' .

working in offices and studios and shops, struggling to earn a hying in a glamorous city, whose goods and pleasures they could ill afford to purchase. What had happened to her might, I gathered, have happened to any of them.

She remembered arising and washing and dressing, eating a hurried breakfast, taking the elevator downstairs from her apartment, the subway, arriving at work, the routines of the morning as a junior secretary in one of the larger advertising agencies on Madison Avenue, her excitement at being invited to interview for the position of assistant secretary to the head of the art department, her last-minute concern with her lipstick, the hem of her yellow shift, then steno pad in hand, entering his office… With him had been a tall, strange man, broad of shoulder with large hands, a grayish face, eyes almost like glass. He had frightened her. He wore a dark suit of expensive cloth and tailoring, and yet somehow it seemed not that he wore it as one accustomed to such garments. He spoke to her, rather than the man she knew, the head of the department, whom she had seen often. He did not permit her to take the seat by the desk.

Rather he told her to stand and straighten herself. He seemed to scorn her posture. Angry, she nevertheless did so until, embarrassed, she stood insolently erect before him. His eyes regarded her ankles with care, and then her calves and she was acutely aware, blushing, that standing as she did, so straight before him, the simple yellow, oxford-cloth shift ill concealed her thighs, the flatness of her belly, the loveliness of her figure. "Lift your head," he said, and she did, her chin high, the lovely, angry head set proudly on her aristocratic delicate neck.

He then backed away from her.

She turned to face him, eyes flashing.

"Do not speak," he said.

Her fingers went white with anger, clutching the steno pad and pencil.

He gestured to the far side of the room. "Walk there," he said, "and return."

"I will not," she said.

"Now," said the man.

Elizabeth had looked, tears almost in her eyes, at the department head, but he seemed suddenly to her soft, pudgy, distant, sweating, nothing. He nodded hastily, "Please, Miss Cardwell, do as he says."

Elizabeth faced the tall, strange man. She was breathing rapidly now. She felt the pencil clutched in her sweating hand. Then it broke.

"Now," said the man.

Looking at him she suddenly had the feeling, a strange one, that this man, in some circumstances and for some purpose or another, had assessed and judged many women. This infuriated her.

It seemed to her a challenge that she would accept. She would show him a woman indeed allowing herself for the instant to be insolently and fully female showing him in her walk her contempt and scorn for him.

She would then leave and go directly to the personnel office, tendering her resignation.

She threw back her head. "Very well," she said. And Elizabeth Cardwell walked proudly, angrily, to the far side of the room, wheeled there, faced the man, and approached him, eyes taunting, a smile of contempt playing about her lips. She heard the department head quickly suck in his breath She did not take her eyes from the tall, strange man. "Are you satisfied," she asked, quietly, acidly.

"Yes," he had said.

She remembered then only turning and starting for the door, and a sudden, peculiar odor, penetrating, that seemed to close about her face and head.

She had regained consciousness on the Plains of Gor. She bad been dressed precisely as she had been the morning she had gone to work save that about her throat she had found sewn a 0th, thick leather collar. She had cried out, she had wandered. Then, after some hours "tumbling confused, ter- rified, hungry through the high, brown grass, she had seen two riders, mounted on swift, strange beasts. They had seen her. She called to them. They approached her cautiously, in a large circle, as though examining the grass for enemies, or others.

"I'm Elizabeth Cardwell," she had cried. "My home is in New York City. What place is this? Where am I?" And then she has seen the faces, and had screamed.

"Position," said Kamchak.

I spoke sharply to the girl. "Be as you were before." Terrified the girl straightened herself and again, knees placed, back straight and head 0th, knelt before us in the position of the Pleasure Slave.

'the collar," said Kamchak, "is Turian."

Kutaituchik nodded.

This was news to me, and I welcomed it, for it meant that probably, somehow, the answer to at least a part of the mystery which confronted me lay in the city of Turia. But how was it that Elizabeth Cardwell, of Earth, wore a Turian message collar?

Kamchak drew the quiva from his belt and approached the girl. She looked at him wildly, drawing back.

"Do not move," I told her.

Kamchak set the blade of the quiva between the girl's throat and the collar and moved it, the leather collar seeming to fall from the blade.

The girl's neck, where the collar had been sewn, was red and sweaty, broken out.

Kamchak returned to his place where he again sat down cross-legged, putting the cut collar on the rug in front of him.

I and Kutaituchik watched as he carefully spread open the collar, pressing back two edges. Then, from within the collar, he drew forth a thin, folded piece of paper, rence paper made from the fibers of the rence plant, a tall, long-stalked leafy plant which grows predominantly in the delta of the Vosk. I suppose, in itself, this meant nothing, but I naturally thought of Port Kar, malignant, squalid Port Kar, which claims suzerainty over the delta, exacting cruel tributes from the rence growers, great stocks of rence paper for trade, sons for oarsmen in cargo galleys, daughters for Pleasure Slaves in the taverns of the city. I would have expected the message to have been written either on stout, glossy-surfaced linen pa- per, of the sort milled in Ar, or perhaps on vellum and parchment, prepared in many cities and used commonly in scrolls, the process involving among other thing tile washing and liming of skins, their scraping and stretching, dusting them with sifted chalk, rubbing them down with pumice. Kamchak handed the paper to Kutaituchik and he took it but looked at it, I thought, blankly. Saying nothing he handed it back to Kamchak, who seemed to study it with great care, and then, to my amazement, turned it sideways and then upside down. At last he grunted and handed it to me.- I was suddenly amused, for it occurred to me that neither of the Tuchuks could read.

''Read," said Kutaituchik.

I smiled and took the piece of rence paper. I glanced at it and then I smiled no longer. I could read it, of course. It was in Gorean script, moving from left to right, and then from right to left on alternate lines. The writing was quite legible. It was written in black ink, probably with a reed pen. This again suggested the delta of the Vosk.

"What does it say?" asked Kutaituchik.

The message was simple, consisting of only three lines. I read them aloud.

Find the man to whom this girl can speak.

He is Tart Cabot.

Slay him.

"And who has signed this message?" asked Kutaituchik. I hesitated to read the signature.

"Wells" asked Kutaituchik.

"It is signed," I said, "Priest-Kings of Gor."

Kutaituchik smiled. "You read Gorean well," he said. - I understood then that both men could read, though per- haps many of the Tuchuks could not. It had been a test. Kamchak grinned at Kutaituchik, the scarring on his face wrinkling with pleasure. "He has held grass and earth with me," he said.

"Ah!" said Kutaituchik. "I did not know."

My mind was whirling. Now I understood, as I had only suspected before, why an English-speaking girl was neces- sary to bear the collar, that she might be the device whereby I would be singled out from the hundreds and thousands among the wagons, and so be marked for death.

But I could not understand why Priest-Kings should wish me slain. Was I not engaged, in a sense, in their work? Had I not come to the Wagon Peoples on their behalf, to search for the doubtless golden sphere that was the last egg of Priest- Kings, the final hope of their race?

Now they wished me to die.

It did not seem possible.

I prepared to fight for my life, selling it as dearly as possible on the dais of Kutaituchik, called Ubar of the Tuchuks, for what Gorean would dare reject the command of Priest-Kings? I stood up, unsheathing my sword. One or two of the men-at-arms immediately drew the quiver A small smile touched the broad face of Kutiatuchik. "Put your sword away and sit down," said Kamchak.

Dumbfounded, I did so.

"It is," said Kamchak, "obviously not a message of Priest- Kings."

"Now do you know?" I asked.

The scarred face wrinkled again and Kamchak rocked back and slapped his knees. He laughed, "Do you think Priest-Kings, if they wished you dead, would ask others to do this for them?" He pointed at the opened collar lying before him on the rug. "Do you think Priest-Kings would use a Turian message collar?" He pointed his broad finger at Bliza- beth Cardwell. "Do you think Priest-Kings would need a girl to find you?" Kamchak threw back his head and laughed loudly, and even Kutaituchik smiled. "No," said Kamchak, slapping his knee, "Priest-Kings do not need Tuchuks to do their killing!"

What Kamchak had said then seemed to make a great deal of sense to me. Yet it seemed strange that anyone, no matter whom, would dare to use the name of Priest-Kings falsely. Who, or what, could dare such a thing? Besides, how did I know that the message was not from Priest-Kings? I knew, as Kamchak and Kutaituchik did not, of the recent Nest War beneath the Sardar, and of the disruption in the technological complexes of the Nest who knew to what primitive devices Priest-Kings might now find themselves reduced Yet, on the whole, I tended to agree with Kamchak, that it was not likely the message came from Priest-Kings. It had been, after all, months since the Nest War and surely, by now, to some extent, Priest-Kings would have managed to restore-significant portions of the equip- ment, devices of surveillance and control, by means of which they had, for such long millennia, managed to maintain their mastery of this barbarian sphere. Besides this, as far as I knew, Misk, who was my friend and between whom and myself there was Nest Trust, was still the highest born of the living Priest-Kings and the final authority in matters of im- portance in the Nest; I knew that Misk, if no other, would not have wished my death. And finally, I reminded myself again, was I not now engaged in their work? Was I not now attempting to be of service to them? Was I not now among the Wagon Peoples, in peril perhaps, on their behalf? But, I asked myself, if this message was not from Priest- Kings, from whom could it be? Who would dare this? And who but Priest-Kings would know that I was among the Wagon Peoples? But yet I told myself someone, or some- thing must know others, not Priest-Kings. There must be others, who did not wish me to succeed in my work, Alto wished Priest-Kings, the race, to die, others who were! capable even of bringing humans from Earth for their pur-! poses technologically advanced others who were, perhaps, I cautiously, invisibly, at war with Priest-Kings who perhaps wished as prize this world, or perhaps this world and Earth as well, our sun and its planets others, who perhaps stood on the margins of our system, waiting perhaps for the demise of the power of Priest-Kings, perhaps the shield which unknown to men, had protected them perhaps frown the time of the first grasping of stones, from the time even before an intelligent, prehensile animal could build fires in the mouth of its lair.

But these speculations were too fantastic, and I dismissed them.

There was remaining, however, a mystery, and I was deter- mined to resolve it.

The answer possibly lay in Turia.

In the meantime I would, of course, continue my work. I would try, for Misk, to find the egg, and return it to the Sardar. I suspected, truly as it turned out, that the mystery and my mission were not utterly unconnected.

"what," I asked Kamchak, "would you do if you thought the message were truly from Priest-Kings?"

"Nothing," said Kamchak, gravely.

"You would risk," I asked, "the herds the wagons the peoples?" Both Kamchak and I knew that Priest-Kings were not lightly to be disobeyed. Their vengeance could extend to the total and complete annihilation of cities. Indeed their power, as I knew, was sufficient to destroy planets. "Yes," said Kamchak.

"Why?" I asked.

He looked at me and smiled. "Because," said he, "we have together held grass and earth."

Kutaituchik, Karnchak and I then regarded Elizabeth Cardwell.

I knew that, as far as the interrogation was concerned, she had served her purpose. There was nothing more to be learned from her. She, too, must have sensed this, for she seemed, though she did not move, terribly frightened. Her fear could be read in her eyes, in the slight, tremulous movement of her lower lip. In the affairs of state she was now without value. Then uncontrollably, piteously, suddenly, trembling in the Sirik, she put her head down to the pelt of the larl. "Please," she said, "do not kill me."

I translated for Kamchak and Kutaituchik.

Kutaituchik addressed the question to her.

"Are you zealous to please the fancy of Tuchuks?"

I translated.

With horror Elizabeth Cardwell lifted her head from the pelt and regarded her captors. She shook her head, wildly, "No, please no!"

"Impale her," said Kutaituchik.

Two warriors rushed forward and seized the girl under the arms, lifting her from the pelt.

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

"They intend to impale you," I told her.

She began to scream. "Please, please, please!"

My hand was on the hilt of my sword, but Kamchak's hand rested on mine.

Kamchak turned to Kutaituchik. "She seems zealous," he said.

Once again Kutaituchik addressed his question to her, and I translated it.

"Are you zealous to please the fancy of Tuchuks?"

The men who held the girl allowed her to fall to her knees between them. "Yes," she said, piteously, "yes!"

Kutaituchik, Kamchak and I regarded her.

"Yes," she wept, her head to the rug, "I am zealous to please the fancy of Tuchuks."

I translated for Kutaituchik and Kamchak.

"Ask," demanded Kutaituchik, "if she begs to be a slave girl."

I translated the question.

"Yes," wept Elizabeth Cardwell, "yes I beg to be a slave Perhaps in that moment Elizabeth Cardwell recalled the strange man, so fearsome, gray of face with eyes like glass, who had SO examined her on Earth, before whom she had stood as though on a block, unknowingly being examined for her fitness to bear the message collar of Turia. How she had challenged him, how she had walked, how insolent she had been Perhaps in that moment she thought how amused the man might be could he see her now, that proud girl, now in the Sirik, her head to the pelt of a larl, kneeling to barbari- ans, begging to be a slave girl; and if she thought of these things how she must have then cried out in her heart, for she would have then recognized that the man would have known full well what lay in store for her; how he must have laughed within himself at her petty show of female pride, her vanity, knowing it was this for which the lovely brown-haired girl in the yellow shift was destined.

"I grant her wish," said Kutaituchik. Then to a warrior nearby, he said, "Bring meat."

The warrior leapt from the dais and, in a few moments, returned with a handful of roasted bosk meat.

Kutaituchik gestured for the girl, trembling, to be brought forward, and the two warriors brought her to him, placing her directly before him.

He took the meat in his hand and gave it to Kamchak, who bit into it, a bit of juice running at the side of his mouth; Kamchak then held the meat to the girl.

"Nat," I told her.

Elizabeth Cardwell took the meat in her two hands, confined before her by slave bracelets and the chain of the Sirik, and, bending her head, the hair falling forward, ate it. She, a slave, had accepted meat from the hand of Kamchak of the Tuchuks.

She belonged to him now.

'La Kajira," she said, putting her head down, then cover- ing her face with her manacled hands, weeping. "La Kajira. La Kajiral"

If I had hoped for an easy answer to the riddles which concerned me, or a swift end to my search for the egg of Priest-Kings, I was disappointed, for I learned nothing of either for months.

I had hoped to go to Turia, there to seek the answer to the mystery of the message collar, but it was not to be, at least until the spring.

"It is the Omen Year," had said Kamchak of the Tuchuks. The herds would circle Turia, for this was the portion of the Omen Year called the Passing of Turia, in which the Wagon Peoples gather and begin to move toward their winter pastures; the second portion of the Omen Year is the Winter- ing, which takes place far north of Turia, the equator being approached in this hemisphere, of course, from the south; the third and final portion of the Omen Year is the Return to Turia, which takes place in the spring, or as the Wagon Peoples have it, in the Season of Little Grass. It is in the spring that the omens are taken, regarding the possible elec- tion of the Ubar San, the One Ubar, he who would be Ubar of all the Wagons, of all the Peoples.

I did manage, however, from the back of the kailla, which I learned to ride, to catch a glimpse of distant, high-walled, nine-gated Turia.

It seemed a lofty, fine city, white and shimmering, rising "Be patient, Tart Cabot," said Kamchak, beside me on his 55.