by John Norman
My head was spinning.
“But I was not even born then!” I exclaimed.
“Your father was instructed to call you Tarl, and lest he might speak to you of the Counter-Earth or attempt to dissuade you from our purpose, he was returned to Gor before you were of an age to understand.”
“I thought he deserted my mother,” I said.
“She knew,” said Misk, “for though she was a woman of Earth she had been to Gor.”
“Never did she speak to me of these things,” I said.
“Matthew Cabot on Gor,” said Misk, “was a hostage for her silence.”
“My mother,” I said, “died when I was very young …”
“Yes,” said Misk, “because of a petty bacillus in your contaminated atmosphere, a victim to the inadequacies of your infantile bacteriology.”
I was silent. My eyes smarted, I suppose, from some heat or fume of the Mul-Torch.
“It was difficult to foresee,” said Misk. “I am truly sorry.”
“Yes,” I said. I shook my head and wiped my eyes. I still held the memory of the lonely, beautiful woman whom I had known so briefly in my childhood, who in those short years had so loved me. Inwardly I cursed the Mul-Torch that had brought tears to the eyes of a Warrior of Ko-ro-ba.
“Why did she not remain on Gor?” I asked.
“It frightened her,” said Misk, “and your father asked that she be allowed to return to Earth, for loving her he wished her to be happy and also perhaps he wanted you to know something of his old world.”
“But I found the letter in the mountains, where I had made camp by accident,” I said.
“When it was clear where you would camp the letter was placed there,” said Misk.
“Then it did not lie there for more than three hundred years?”
“Of course not,” said Misk, “the risk of discovery would have been too great.”
“The letter itself was destroyed, and nearly took me with it,” I said.
“You were warned to discard the letter,” said Misk. “It was saturated with Flame Lock, and its combustion index was set for twenty Ehn following opening.”
“When I opened the letter it was like switching on a bomb,” I said.
“You were warned to discard the letter,” said Misk.
“And the compass needle?” I asked, remembering its erratic behavious which had so unnerved me.
“It is a simple matter,” said Misk, “to disrupt a magnetic field.”
“But I returned to the same place I had fled from,” I said.
“The frightened human, when fleeing and disoriented, tends to circle,” said Misk. “But it would not have mattere, I could have picked you up had you not returned. I think that you may have sensed there was no escape and thus, perhaps as an act of pride, returned to the scene of the letter.”
“I was simply frightened,” I said.
“No one is ever simply frightened,” said Misk.
“When I entered the ship I fell unconscious,” I said.
“You were anaesthetised,” said Misk.
“Was the ship operated from the Sardar?” I asked.
“It could have been,” said Misk, “but I could not risk that.”
“Then it was manned,” I said.
“Yes,” said Misk.
I looked at him.
“Yes,” said Misk. “It was I who manned it.” He looked down at me. “Now it is late, past the sleeping time. You are tired.”
I shook my head. “There is little,” I said, “which was left to chance.”
“Chance does nbot exist,” said Misk, “ignorance exists.”
“You cannot know that,” I said.
“No,” said Misk, “I cannot know it.” The tips of Misk’s antennae gently dipped towards me. “You must rest now,” he said.
“No,” I said. “Was the fact that I was placed in the chamber of the girl Vika of Treve considered?”
“Sarm suspects,” said Misk, “and it was he who arranged your quarters, in order that you might succumb to her charms, that she might enthrall you, that she might bend you helplessly, pliantly to her will and whim as she had a hundred men before you, turning them – brave, proud warriors all – into the slaves of a slave, into the slaves of a mere girl, herself only a slave.”
“Can this be true?” I asked.
“A hundred men,” said Misk, “allowed themselves to be chained to the foot of her couch where she would upon occasion, that they might not die, cast them scraps of food as though they might have been pet sleen.”
My old hatred of Vika now began once again to enfuse my blood, and my hands ached to grip her and shake her until her bones might break and then throw her to my feet.
“What became of them?” I asked.
“They were used as Muls,” said Misk.
My fists clenched.
“I am glad that such a creature,” said Misk, “is not of my species.”
“I am sorry,” I said, “that she is of mine.”
“When you broke the surveillance device in the chamber,” said Misk, “I felt I had to act quickly.”
I laughed. “Then,” I said, “you actually thought you were saving me?”
“I did,” said Misk.
“I wonder,” I said.
“At any rate,” said Misk, “it was not a risk we cared to take.”
“You speak of ”we”?”
“Yes,” said Misk.
“And who is the other?” I asked.
“The greatest in the Nest,” said Misk.
“The Mother?”
“Of course.”
Misk touched me lightly on the shoulder with his antennae. “Come now,” he said. “Let us return to the chamber above.”
“Why,” I asked, “was I returned to Earth after the siege of Ar?”
“To fill you with hatred for Priest-Kings,” said Misk. “Thus you would be more willing to come to the Sardar to find us.”
“But why seven years?” I asked. They had been long, cruel, lonely years.
“We were waiting,” said Misk.
“But for what?” I demanded.
“For there to be a female egg,” said Misk.
“Is there now such an egg?”
“Yes,” said Misk, “but I do not know where it is.”
“Then who knows?” I asked.
“The Mother,” said Misk.
“But what have I to do with all this?” I demanded.
“You are not of the Nest,” said Misk, “and thus you can do what is necessary.”
“What is necessary?” I asked.
“Sarm must die,” said Misk.
“I have no wish to kill Sarm,” I said.
“Very well,” said Misk.
I puzzled on the many things which Misk had told me, and then I looked up at him, lifting my torch that I might better see that great head with its rich, disklike, luminous eyes.
“Why is this one egg so important?” I asked. “You have the stabilisation serums. Surely there will be many eggs, and others will be female.”
“It is the last egg,” said Misk.
“Why is that?” I demanded.
“The Mother was hatched and flew her Nuptial Flight long before the discovery of the stabilisation serums,” said Misk.
“We have managed to retard her aging considerably but eon by eon it has been apparent that our efforts have been less and less successful, and now there are no more eggs.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“The Mother is dying,” said Misk.
I was silent and Misk did not speak and the only noise in that paneled metallic laboratory that was the cradle of a Priest-King was the soft crackle of the blue torch I held.
“Yes,” said Misk, “it is the end of the Nest.”
I shook my head. “This is no business of mine,” I said.
“That is true,” said Misk.
We faced one another. “Well,” I said, “are you not going to threaten me?”
“No,” said Misk.
“Are you not going to hunt down my father or my Free Companion and kill them if I do not serve you?”
“No,” said Misk. “No.”
“Why not?” I demanded. “Are you not a Priest-King?”
“Because I am a Priest-King,” said Misk.
I was thunderstruck.
“All Priest-Kings are not as Sarm,” said Misk. He looked down at me. “Come,” he said, “it is late and you will be tired. Let us retire to the chamber above.”
Misk left the room and I, bearing the torch, followed him.
Chapter Seventeen
THE SCANNING ROOM
Though the moss in the case was soft I had great difficulty in falling asleep that night, for I could not rid my mind of the turbulence which had been occasioned in it by the disclosures of Misk, the Priest-King. I could not forget the plot of Misk, the threat which loomed over the Nest of Priest-Kings. In fevered sleep it seemed I saw Sarm’s great head with its powerful, laterally moving jaws hovering over me, that I heard the cry of larls and saw the burning pupils of Parp’s eyes and his reaching toward me with instruments and a golden net, and I found myself chained to the foot of Vika’s couch and heard her laugh and I cried aloud and shouted and sat up on the moss startled.
“You are awake,” said a voice on a translator.
“I rubbed my eyes and stood up, and through the transparent plastic of the case I saw a Priest-King. I slid the door open and stepped into the room.
“Greeetings, Noble Sarm,” I said.
“Greetings, Matok,” said Sarm.
“Where is Misk?” I asked.
“He has duties elsewhere,” said Sarm.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“It is near the Feast of Tola,” said Sarm, “and it is a time of pleasure and hospitality in the Nest of Priest-Kings, a time in which Priest-Kings are well disposed to all living things, whatever be their order.”
“I am pleased to hear this,” I said. “What are the duties of Misk which keep him from his chamber?”
“In honour of the Feast of Tola,” said Sarm, “he is now pleased to retain Gur.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
Sarm looked about himself. “It is a beautiful compartment which Misk has here,” he said, examining the visually bare walls with his antennae, admiring the scent-patterns which had been placed on them.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“I want to be your friend,” said Sarm.
I made no move but I was startled to hear the Gorean expression for “friend” emanate from Sarm’s translator. I knew there was no expression in the language of the Priest – Kings which was a satisfactory equivalent for the expression.
I had tried to find it on the translator and lexical tapes which Misk had placed at my disposal. Literally what hearing the expression from Sarm meant was that he had had the item specially entered into his translator tapes and correlated with a random odour, much as if we had decided to invent a name to stand for some novel relation or object. I wondered if Sarm had much idea of the meaning of the expression “friend” or if it were merely used because he calculated that it would produce a favourable impression on me. He might have asked Mul Translator Engineers for such an expression and an explanation of it, and I supposed they might have given him the expression “friend” and explained it for him, more or less adequately, in terms of the normal consequences of the relation designated, such things as tending to be well disposed toward one, tending to want to do well by one, and so on. The occurrence of the expression on Sarm’s translator tape, simple as it was, indicated that he had gone to a good deal of trouble, and that the matter, for some reason, was rather important to him. I did not, however, betray my surprise and acted as though I did not know that the expression was a new addition to the Gorean lexicon on his tapes.
“I am honoured,” I said simply.
Sarm looked at the case. “You were of the Caste of Warriors,” he said. “Perhaps you would like to be given a female Mul?”
“No,” I said.
“You may have more than oe if you wish,” said Sarm.
“Sarm is generous,” I said, “but I decline his kind offer.”
“Perhaps you would like a supply of scarce metals and stones?”
“No,” I said.
“Perhaps you would like to be the Mul-supervisor of a warehouse or fungus farm?”
“No,” I said.
“What would you like?” asked Sarm.
“My freedom,” I said, “the restoration of the City of Ko-ro – ba, the safety of ite people – to see my father again, my friends, my Free Companion.”
“Perhaps these things can be arranged,” said Sarm.
“What must I do?” I asked.
“Tell me why you have been brought to the Nest,” said Sarm, and suddenly his antennae snapped downward towards me like whips, and now rigid, they seemed to be trained on me, as though they might be weapons.
“I have no idea,” I said.
The antennae quivered briefly in anger and the bladelike structures at the tips of Sarm’s forelegs snapped out and back, but then the antennae relaxed and once again the four hooklike grasping appendages at the termination of each foreleg lightly, almost meditatively, touched one another. “I see,” came from Sarm’s translator.
“Would you care for a bit of fungus?” I asked.
“Misk has had time to speak to you,” said Sarm. “What did he say?”
“There is Nest Trust between us,” I said.
“Nest Trust with a human?” asked Sarm.
“Yes,” I said.
“An interesting concept,” said Sarm.
“You will excuse me if I wash?” I asked.
“Of course,” said Sarm, “please do.”
I stayed a long time in the washing-booth and when I came out and donned my plastic tunic it took quite some time to make the Mul-Fungus Porridge of just the consistency at which I preferred it, and then, since I had finally managed to make it the way in which it was least unpalatable, I took some time to, as one might say, almost enjoy it.
If these tactics were calculated to have some effect on Sarm I think they most miserably failed of that effect, for during the entire time I took, which was considerable, he stood motionless in the room, save for an occasional movement of his antennae, frozen in that maddening, immobile but alert posture of Priest-Kings.
At last I emerged from the case.
“I want to be your friend,” said Sarm.
I was silent.
“Perhaps you would like to see the Nest?” asked Sarm.
“Yes,” I said, “I would enjoy that.”
“Good,” said Sarm.
***
I did not ask to see the Mother, for I knew that was forbidden to those of the human kind, but I found Sarm a most attentive and gracious guide, quick to answer my questions and suggest places of interest. Part of the time we rode on a transportation disk, and he showed me how to operate it. The disk flows on a tread of volatile gas and is itself lightened by its construction from a partially gravitationally resistant metal, of which I shall speak later. Its speed is controlled by the placement of the feet along double accelerator strips which lie flush with the surface of the disk; its direction is controlled by the rider who bends and turns his body, thereby transmitting force to the lightly riding disk, the principles involved being no more unusual than those employed in such homely devices as roller skates or the now vanishing skate boards once popular with Earth children. One stops the disk by stepping off the accelerator strips, which brings the disk to a smooth halt depending on the area available for braking. There is a cell in the forward portion of the disk which casts an invisible beam ahead and if the area for stopping is small, the stop is accordingly more abrupt. This cell, however, does not function is the accelerator strips are depressed. I would have thought that some type of cells for avoiding collisions when the accelerator strips a
re depressed might have been useful or that a bumper of gas, or a field of some sort, might have been practical improvements but Sarm felt that such refinements would be excessive. “No one is ever injured by a transportation disk,” he told me, “except an occasional Mul.”
At my request Sarm took me to the Scanning Room, whence the surface of Gor is kept under selective surveillance by the Priest-Kings.
Patterns of small ships, not satellites, invisible from the ground and remotely controlled, carry the lenses and receptors which beam information to the Sardar. I suggested to Sarm that satellites would be less expensive to maintain in flight but he denied this. I would not have made this suggestion at a later time but then I did not understand the Priest-Kings’ utilisation of gravity.
“The reason for observation within the atmosphere,” said Sarm, “is that it is simpler to get more definition in the signal because of greater proximity to its source. To get comparable definition in an extra-atmospheric surveillance device would require more refined equipment.”
The receptors on the surveillance craft were equipped to handle patterns of light, sound and scent, which, selectively collected and reconcentrated, were beamed to the Sardar for processing and analysis. Reconstituted in large observation cubes these patterns might then be monitored by Priest-Kings.
Provisions were available also, as you might suppose, for taping the transmissions of the surveillance craft.
“We use random scanning patterns,” said Sarm, “for we find in the long run, over centuries, they are more effective than following fixed scanning schedules. Of course, if we know that something of interest or importance to us is occurring we lock onto its coordinates and follow its developments.”
“Did you make a tape,” I asked, “of the destruction of the City of Ko-ro-ba?”
“No,” said Sarm, “it was not of sufficient interest or importance to us.”
My fists clenched, and I noted that Sarm’s antennae curled slightly.
