“Slave runs to Earth by agents of Kurii,” I said, “have been discontinued.”

“I know,” he said.

“Does that not seem curious?” I asked.

He shrugged.

“Priest-Kings,” I said, “received an ultimatum, ‘Surrender Gor.’“

“That is known to me,” said he.

“Might you clarify that ultimatum?” I asked.

“I assume,” he said, “it betokens an intention to invite capitulation, before some aggressive stratagem is initiated.”

“A stratagem of what nature?” I asked.

“I am not privy,” said he, “to the war conferences of the Kurii.”

“What is your charge in the desert, on behalf of Kurii?” I inquired.

“Their work,” said he.

“And of late?” I asked.

“To precipitate war,” said he, “between the Kavars and Aretai, and their vassal tribes, to close the desert to strangers intruders.”

“Such as agents of Priest-Kings?” I asked.

“They, and any others unwelcome now in the dune country,” said he.

“Can your men not police the dune country?” I asked.

“We are too few,” said he. “The risk of some Aretai slipping through would be too great.” In Aretai Gorean, the same expression is used for stranger and enemy.

“So you enlist the desert on your behalf?” I said.

“Inadvertently,” he said, “thousands of warriors, preparing, hasten even now to do my bidding, to fly at one another’s throats.”

“Many men will die,” cried Hassan, “both Aretai Kavars and Aretai and of the vassal tribes! It must be stopped! They must be warned!”

“It is necessary,” said Ibn Saran to him. “I am sorry.”

A slave hood was pulled over the bead of Hassan. His fists were clenched. It was locked under his chin.

“One gains a victory’ “ said Ibn Saran, “but one loses an enemy.” He looked at me. He unsheathed his scimitar.

“No,” I said. “I will march to Klima.”

“I am prepared to be merciful,” said he, “Comrade.”

“No,” I said.

“It is cool here,” be said. “Your death would be swift.”

“No,” I said.

“You are of the Warriors,” said he. “You have their stupidity, their grit, their courage.”

“I will march to Klima,” I said.

He lifted the scimitar before me, in salute. “March then,” said he, “to Klima.”

He resheathed the blade, swiftly. He turned his kaiila. He rode down the line, the burnoose swelling behind him.

Hamid, who was lieutenant to Shaker, captain of the Aretai, now in the red sand veil of the men of the Guard of the Dunes, stood near.

“I ride with the chain,” he said.

“I shall enjoy your company,” I said.

“You will feel my whip, “ he’ said.

I saw the kneeling kaiila of the guards, the guards now mounted, lifting themselves, to their feet. I surveyed the number of kaiila which bore water.

“Klima is close,” I said.

“It is far,” he said.

“There is not enough water,” I said.

“There is more than enough,” said he. “Many will not reach Klima.”

“Am I to reach Klima?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Hamid, “should you be strong enough.”

“What if difficulties should arise, unanticipated, on the journey,” I asked.

“Then,” said Hamid, “unfortunately, I shall be forced to slay you in the chain.”

“Is it important that I reach Klima?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Hamid.

“Why?” I asked.

“You have given Kurii, and their agents, much trouble,” said he. “You have opposed yourself to their will. Tarl Cabot, thus, will serve at Klima.”

“Tarl Cabot, thus,” I repeated, “will serve at Klima.”

“Look,” said Hamid. He pointed to a window, narrow, high in the wall.

I looked up.

At the window, veiled in yellow, behind her a slave master, stood a female slave.

Gracefully the girl, doubtless with the permission of the slave master, removed her veil. It was Vella.

“You remember, perhaps,” said Hamid, looking up, “the delicious slave, Vella, whom the Kurii found of much use, who testified against you in the court at Nine Wells, who, by her false testimony, attempted to send you to the pits of Klima?”

“I recall the slave,” I said. “She is the girl-property of Ibn Saran.”

I recalled her well.

“It is she,” said Hamid, indicating the girl in the narrow window, the slave master behind her.

“Yes,” I said. “I see.”

The girl looked down upon me. She smiled, scornfully. She had begged in Lydius to be freed. I had not known until then that she was true slave. But I would have known it now, seeing the insolence, the petty, collared beauty of her. I stood below her in the chain of salt slaves. Female slaves, cringing and obsequious, fearing free men, often display contempt for male slaves. Sometimes they even flaunt their beauty before them, in their walk and movements, to torture them, knowing that the male slave may he slain for so much as touching their silk. I could see that she was much pleased to see me, helpless and in the chain to Klima. I could see in her smile how she looked upon me, as a female slave upon a male slave, but I could see, too, in her smile, the pleasure of her triumph.

“A delicious day for the slave,” said Hamid.

“True,” I said.

Then the girl, reaching within her silk, withdrew from her bosom a light square of silk, some eighteen inches square, scarlet, clinging, diaphanous.

She turned to the slave master behind her. She requested of him something. He seemed adamant. Her attitude was one of begging. With a laugh, he acceded to her request. Triumphantly she turned again to the window and dropped the silk from the aperture. Gracefully, it wafted downward, settling on the sand at the foot of the wall near us.

“Bring it,” said Hamid to a man.

The man picked it up, smelled it and laughed, and brought it to Hamid.

Hamid held it. It was laden with slave perfume. It was slave silk.

“A token,” I said.

“The token of a slave girl.” said Hamid contemptuously. Hamid thrust and twisted the square of silk in the metal of my collar, and yanked it tight. “Remember her at Klima,” he said.

She had testified against me at Nine Wells. She Had smiled when I had been sentenced there to the pits of Klima.

I looked up, the silk fastened in my collar.

She looked down upon me, as a female slave upon a male slave. And, too, more than this, she looked down upon me in triumph. Her face was flushed. It was red with pleasure, transfused with joy. How deliciously sweet did she find her petty feminine vengeance! How foolish I thought her. Did she not know I was Gorean?

Did she not know I would come back for her?

But it was said none returned from Klima.

I looked up at her.

I resolved that I would return from Klima.

“Remember her at Klima,” said Hamid.

“Yes,” I said.

I would remember her. I would remember her well.

In the window the girl stiffened. The man behind her Had said something to her.

She turned to him, agonized. She pleaded with him. This time his face remained impassive. Angrily she turned to the window again. She smiled. She blew a kiss toward me, in the Gorean fashion, brushing it toward me with her fingers. Then, swiftly, she turned and left the window.

“Is she not,” I asked, “to be permitted to look out, to see us begin the march to Klima?”

“She is a slave girl,” said Hamid. “It will not be permitted her.”

“I see,” I said.

One often denies slave girls small pleasures and gratifications, It teaches them, the more deeply, that they are slaves.

Some kaiila moved by, laden with various supplies. Some guards rode by.

I smelled the slave perfume. I recalled it from the palace of Suleiman Pasha, when the girl, with Zaya, the other slave, had served black wine. A rich master will often have individual perfumes specially blended and matched to the slave nature of his various girls. All are slaves, completely, but each girl, collared, imbonded, is deliciously different. Some slave perfumes are right for some slaves, and others not. Vella’s perfume, I thought, doubtless a tribute to the skills of some perfumer, had suited her superbly. It fitted her well, like a measured collar.