"That is fitting," laughed a fellow.

"That, too, will attract little attention," said another.

"We will break every bone in his body," said another.

"In the morning see that it is found on the steps of the Central Cylinder."

"It will be so," said a fellow.

"And on the sack," I said, "let there be inscribed a delka."

"It will be so!" laughed a man.

In moments a sack was brought and the fellow, his eyes wild, was thrust, bound and gagged, into it. I then saw it tied shut over his head, and saw it being dragged behind two peasants toward the far side of the market, to the area where the butchers and meat dressers have their stalls.

"What if he survives?" asked Marcus.

"I hope he does," I said. "I think his broken bones, his bruises, his blood, his groans, his gibbering, his accounts of what occurred, his terror, such things, would better serve the Delta Brigade than this death."

"It is for that reason that you have sparred him?" he asked.

"Not only that," I said. "He seemed a nice fellow, and he did know the chain of command in the 14th."

"With you," said Marcus, "it is a game, but it is not so with certain others."

"You are referring to the two fellows who were found hung in an alley, near a tavern in the Anbar district?" I asked.

"Yes, with bloody delkas cut into their chests," he said.

"I heard of it, too," I said.

"It is speculated they were attempting to infiltrate the Delta Brigade."

"Interesting," I said.

"I fear there may actually be a Delta Brigade," he said.

"I do not know," I said. "But I, too, think that it is possible."

"Did you discern the support of the crowd for the Delta Brigade?" he asked. "Yes," I said. "And so, too, did the mercenaries."

"And the spy,"

"Of course," I said. "Let us hope he lives to make a report on the matter."

"And, further, their support for the delta veterans?"

"Yes," I said. "They were much in support of the spy when he claimed to be such."

"That is very different from a few months ago," said Marcus.

"Only lately has Ar become aware of what those men did for her, what they suffered, and how much she owes them."

"Better led they could have turned back Cos at the Vosk and stopped her at Torcadino," he said.

"You see what the Cosians here must now do, do you not?" I asked.

"What?" he asked.

"At this stage of the game?"

"What?"

"They must attempt to discredit the Delta Brigade."

"Of course," said Marcus.

"But no longer by identifying it with the veterans of the delta," I said. "Why not?" he asked.

"Because of the popular support now rising in favor of the veterans," I said. "Seremides no doubt links the Delta Brigade with the veterans of the delta, and perhaps on the whole correctly, but he is clever enough to recognize that the popularity of the actions of the Delta Brigade has increased support for the veterans. He must now attempt to drive a wedge between the veterans and the Delta Brigade."

In what fashion?" asked Marcus.

"It is not obvious?" I asked.

"Speak," said Marcus.

"Seremides needs something, or someone, to dissociate the Delta Brigade from the veterans."

"Continue," said Marcus.

"He desires to turn the population away from the Delta Brigade."

"Yes?"

"Therefore the Delta Brigade must be presented as inimical to Ar, as the tool of her enemies."

"What enemies?" asked Marcus. "Surely not her true enemies, Cos and Tyros."

"Who betrayed Ar in the north? I asked. "What city open her gates to the expeditionary force of Cos?"

"No city," said Marcus, angrily.

"Ar's Station!" I smiled.

"I see," he said.

"This had to happen," I said. "Cos require an enemy for Ar which is not herself. She must divert attentions from her tyranny. If we dismiss the delta veterans the only practical choice is Ar's Station. As you know, many in Ar blame Ar's Station, and her supposed surrender in the north, not only for her current misfortunes but for the disaster in the delta."

"Absurd," said Marcus.

"Not if you do not know the truth," I said, "but have at your disposal only the propaganda of Cos and the lies of a traitorous government in the Central Cylinder."

"That is your Kaissa?" he said.

"Yes," I said. "In our way, and in what we began, for better or for worse, we have forced Seremides to renew the vilification of Ar's Station."

"And in this campaign of vilification will be brought forth once more the Home Stone of Ar's Station?"

"Exactly," I said.

"You have planned this?" he said.

"For both our sakes," I said.

"For yours as well?"

"I, too, have a interest in these matter," I said.

"But I do not think it has to do with the Home Stone of Ar's Station."

"No," I said. "It has to do with something else."

"The crowd has dissipated," said Marcus. "I think it would be well for us, too, to withdraw."

"Yes," I said, and, in a few moments, in a sheltered place, between buildings, we had resumed our customary guise, that of auxiliary guardsmen, police in the pay of Cos.

"How do you plan on attacking the place of the Home Stone's display, if Seremides chooses to expose it once more to the abuse of Ar?"

"He will," I said.

"And how do you plan on attacking the place of its display?" asked Marcus. "I do not plan on attacking anything," I said.

"How will you obtain it?" he asked.

"I intend to have it picked up," I said.

"Picked up?"

"Yes," I said.

"Do you think it might be missed?" he asked.

"No," I said.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because it will still be there," I said.

"You are mad," he said.

17 Magic

"Where has she gone!" cried a man.

"My senses reel!" exclaimed Marcus. "But a moment ago she was within the palanquin!"

"Shhh," I said.

"I cannot understand what I have seen on this street!" he said.

Marcus and I stood in the pit, shoulder to shoulder with others, before the low stage. There were tiers behind us for those who wished to pay two tarsk bits, rather than one, for the entertainments.

The four fellows, in turbans, with plumes, in stately fashion, as though nothing unusual had occurred, carried the palanquin, its curtains now open again, offstage.

"She has vanished," said a fellow, wonderingly.

"But to where?" asked another.

"She cannot disappear into thin air," said a fellow.

"But she has done so!" said another, in awe.

We were in a small, shabby theater. It had an open proscenium. The house was only some twenty yards in depth. This was the fourth such establishment we had entered this evening. To be sure, there were many other entertainments on the streets outside, in stalls, and set in the open, behind tables, and such, in which were displayed mostly tricks with small objects, ostraka, rings, scarves, coins and such. I am fond of such things, and a great admirer of the subtlety, the adroitness, dexterity and skills which are often involved in making them possible.

"Alas," cried the ponderous fellow waddling about the stage, yet, if one noticed it, with a certain lightness and grace, considering his weight," have I lost my slave?"

"Find her!" cried a fellow.

"Recover her!" cried another.

These fellows, I think, were serious. It might be mentioned, at any rate, that many Goreans, particularly those of lower caste, and who are likely to have had access only to the "first knowledge", take things of this sort very seriously, believing they are witness not to tricks and illusions but to marvelous phenomena consequent upon the gifts and powers of unusual individuals, sorcerers or magicians. This ingenuousness is doubtless dependent upon several factors, such as the primitiveness of the world, the isolation and uniqueness of the cities, the disparateness of cultures and the tenuousness of communication. Also the Gorean tends neither to view the world as a mechanical clockwork of interdependent parts, as a great, regular, predictable machine, docile to equations, obedient to abstractions, not as a game of chance, inexplicable, meaningless and random at the core. His fundamental metaphor in terms of which he would defend himself from the glory and mystery of the world is neither the machine nor the die. It is rather, if one may so speak, the stalk of grass, the rooted tree, the flower. He feels the world as alive and real. He paints eyes upon his ships, that they may see their way. And if he feels so even about this vessels, then so much more the awed and reverent must he feel when he contemplates the immensity and grandeur, the beauty, the power, and the mightiness within which he finds himself. Why is there anything? Why is there anything at all? Why not just nothing? Wouldn't «nothing» be more likely, more rational, more scientific? When did time begin? Where does space end? On a line, at the surface of a sphere? Do our definitions constrain reality? What if reality does not know our language, the boundaries of our perceptions, the limitations of our minds? How is it that one wills to raise one's hand and the hand rises? How is it that an aggregation of molecules can cry out with joy in the darkness? The Gorean sees the world less as a puzzle than an opportunity, less as a datum to be explained than a bounty in which to rejoice, less as a problem to be solved than a gift to be gratefully received. It might be also be noted, interestingly, that the Gorean, in spite of his awe of Priest-Kings, and the reverence he accords them, the gods of his world, does not think of them as having formed the world, not of the world being in some sense consequent upon their will. Rather the Priest-Kings are seen as being its children, too, like the sleen, and rain and man. A last observation having to do with the tendency of some Goreans to accept illusions and such as reality is that the Gorean tends to take such things as honor and truth very seriously. Given his culture and background, his values, he is often easier to impose upon than would be many others. For example, he is likely, at least upon occasion, to be an easier mark for the fraud and charlatan than a more suspicious, cynical fellow. On the other hand, I do not encourage lying to Goreans. They do not like it.