On the kort rinds the spiders continued to hunt vints.

“We have killed it,” said Ibn Saran. “It is dead.”

I surmised that they had had little difficulty in following the trail of blood.

The animal, at least four times, had been struck, and with the razor-sharp scimitars of the Tahari. Once, by Ibn Saran, it had been wounded to a depth of some six inches. I had adjudged this by the blood rain on the scimitar, in its rivulets. So Struck, four times, I found it not difficult to believe that the animal, even if unfound, would have sought a dark place, and there, in silence, bled to death.

“We have disposed of the body,” said Ibn Saran.

I shrugged.

“It threatened your life,” he said. “We have saved your life.”

“My gratitude,” I said.

It was midnight, in the cell. Outside, the three moons were full.

The cell had been cleaned, straw and wastes removed, rinsed down; most of the blood had been scrubbed from the stones; behind remained, here and there, only some stubborn, darkish stains; new straw had been spread: the kort rinds had been taken. Little remained to give evidence of the conflict which had earlier transpired in the chamber. Even the barred window had been repaired. The scrubbing, and cleaning, to my interest, had been done by jailers. I would have expected such work to be done by nude female slaves, in work collar, chain and ankle ring, to keep them on their knees with their brushes, but it had not been: one of the administrative penalties of he who is sent to the brine pits of Klima is commonly to he deprived of the sight of female bodies; there are no women at Klima; there is little but the salt, the heat, the slave masters and the sun; sometimes men go mad, trudging into the desert, trying to escape: but there is no water within a thousand pasangs of Klima: I would have liked to have seen a female slave, before being chained for the march to Klima; but I was not permitted this.

Often I had to force from my mind the look on the face of the second slave, she called Vella, of triumph, as she, small and lovely, luscious, freed of the rack ropes had sat up on the knotted ropes, after her testimony had confirmed that of others, of Zaya, the other girl, and Ibn Saran, sending me to the brine pits of Klima. She had been pleased. I would go to Klima. The slave girl had had her vengeance. She, with her lie, confirming those of others, had determined the matter well. Then, her testimony done, she, with the other wench, had been chained as a slave. I recalled her smile, and that I, though innocent, was to go to Klima.

I was not pleased with the female slave.

I looked up. With Ibn Saran were four men. One of them held up a tharlarion-oil lamp.

“Do you understand what it is,” asked Ibn Saran, “to be sent to Klima-to be a salt slave?”

“I think so,” I told him.

“There is the march to Klima.” said he, “through the dune country, on foot, chained, on which many die.”

I said nothing.

“And should you be so unfortunate,” said he, “to reach the vicinity of Klima, your feet must he bound with leather to your knees, for you will sink through the salt crusts to your knees, and, unprotected, your flesh, by the millions of tiny, heated crystals, would be grated and burned from your bones.”

I looked away, in the chains.

“In the pits,” he said, “you pump water through underground deposits, to wash salt, with the water, to the surface, and repump again the same water. Men die at the pumps, in the heat. Others, the carriers, in the brine, must fill their yoke buckets with the erupted sludge, and carry it from the pits to the drying tables; others must gather the salt and mold it into cylinders.” He smiled.

“Sometimes men kill one another for the lighter assignments.”

I did not look at him.

“But you,” said he, “who attempted to assassinate our noble Suleiman Pasha, will not be given light assignments.”

I pulled at the chains.

“It is the steel of Ar,” he said. “It is excellent, brought in by caravan.”

I fought the manacles.

“It will hold you quite well,” said he, “-Tarl Cabot.”

I looked at him.

“It will amuse me,” he said, “to think of Tarl Cabot, laboring in the brine pits. As I rest in my palace, in cool of the rooms, on cushions, relishing custards and berries, sipping beverages, delighted by my slave girls, among them your pretty Vella, I shall think of you, often, Tarl Cabot.”

I tore at the chains.

“The famed agent of Priest-Kings, Tarl Cabot,” he said, “in the brine pits!

Excellent! Superb!” He laughed. “You cannot free yourself,” he said, “You cannot win.”

I subsided in the chains, helpless.

“The day at Klima,” he said, “begins at dawn, and only ends at darkness. Food may be fried on the stones at Klima. The crusts are white. The glare from them can blind men. There are no kaiila at Klima. The desert, waterless, surrounds Klima, for more than a thousand pasangs on all sides. Never has a slave escaped from Klima. Among the less pleasant aspects of Klima is that you will not see females. You will note that, following your sentencing the sight of such flesh has been denied you. But then you can always think of your pretty Vella.”

In the manacles, my fists clenched.

“When I make her serve me,” he said, “I will think of you.”

“Where did you find her?” I asked.

“She has a very lively body, hasn’t she?” asked Ibn Saran.

“She is a female.” I said. “Where did you find her?”

“In a tavern in Lydius.” he said. “It is interesting. We bought her, originally, simply as a slave. We keep our eyes open for good female flesh, it is useful to our purposes, in infiltrating houses, in obtaining secrets, in seducing officers and important men, and, of course, to reward our followers and, naturally, as a simple item for exchange, a form of currency; the slave girl is usually in demand, particularly if beautiful and trained: at our wish, such women are conveniently marketable; there is little trouble in selling them; furthermore, they attract little undue commercial attention, for they are a familiar type of merchandise; thus, the slave girl, for us, if beautiful, and particularly if trained constitutes a reliable, safe, readily negotiable form of wealth”

“For anyone,” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“And Vella?” I asked.

“The former Miss Elizabeth Cardwell, of New York City, the planet Earth?” he asked.

“You seem to have learned much,” I said.

“The Earth slave girl has taught us much,” he said. “She was a lucky catch. We were fortunate to get our chain on her collar.”

“What has she told you?” I asked.

“Whatever we wished to know,” he said.

“Oh,” I said, “I see.”

“Torture was not required,” said Ibn Saran. “Its threat was sufficient. She is only a woman. We chained her nude in a dungeon, with urts. In an hour, weeping, hysterical, she begged to speak. She was interrogated for the night. We learned all she knew. We learned much.”

“Surely you then freed her?” I asked, smiling. “For such aid?”

“It seems we promised to do so,” said he, “but, later, as I recall, it slipped our mind. We keep her slave.”

“Full slave?” I asked.

“Full slave,” he said.

“Fitting,” I said.

“She is a slave,” he said.

“I know,” I said.

“What, in particular,” I asked, “did you learn from the Earth slave girl, the former Miss Cardwell?”

“Many things,” said he, “but, doubtless of most importance, the weakness of the Nest.”

“You will now attack?” I asked.

“It will not be necessary,” he said.

“An alternate plan?” I asked.

“Perhaps,” he said.

“What she told you, of course,” said I, “may not be true.”

“It tallies with the reports of other humans, who, once, long ago, fled the Sardar.”

These would have been the Nest’s humans who, following the Nest War, had elected to return to the surface of Gor.