“No,” I said. I had not thought of it.

“From what direction does it come?” asked Hassan.

“From the east,” I said.

“It is spring,” said Hassan.

“Is this meaningful?” I asked, The wind felt much the same as the constant, whipping Tahari wind to me, no different, save for its direction.

We had been fourteen days on the desert when the wind had shifted to the east.

“Yes,” said Hassan. “It is meaningful.”

Two Ahn earlier the sun’s rim had thrust over the horizon, illuminating the crests of the thinning dunes. An Ahn earlier Hassan had said, “It is now time to dig the shelter trench.” On our hands and knees, with our hands, we dug in the parched earth. The trench was about four feet deep, narrow, not hard to dig. It is oriented in such a way that the passing sun bisects it. It affords shade in the morning and late afternoon; it is fully exposed only in the hours of high sun.

Hassan and I stood at the edge of the ditch, looking eastward. “Yes,” said Hassan. “It is meaningful.”

“I see nothing,” I said. Flecks of sand struck against my face.

“We had come so far,” said Hassan.

“Is there nothing we can do?” I asked.

“I will sleep,” said Hassan. “I am weary.”

I watched, while Hassan slept. It began in the east, like a tiny line on the margin of the desert. It was only as it approached that I understood it to be hundreds of feet in height, perhaps a hundred pasangs in width; the sky above it was gray, then black like smoke; then I could watch it no longer that I might be blinded; I shielded my eyes with my hands; I turned my back to it; I crouched in the ditch; the wind tore past above me; there was sand imbedded in the backs of my hands; in places, where I dislodged it, there was blood. I looked up. The sky was black with sand; brush, like startled, bounding tabuk, leaped, driven, over my head; the wind howled. I sat in the ditch. I put my head on my arms, my head down, my arms on my knees. I listened to the storm. Then I slept.

Toward night Hassan and I awoke. We drank. The storm raged unabating. We could not see the stars.

“How long does such a storm last?” I asked.

“It is spring,” he said, shrugging, in the manner of the Tahari. “Who knows?”

“Am I not your brother?” I asked.

He lifted his head. “It is not known how long such a storm may last,” he said.

“It may last many days.” “It is spring,” he said. “The wind is from the east.”

Then he again put down his head.

He slept. In time, I, too, slept.

Suddenly, shortly before dawn, I awakened.

It was standing there, in the pelting sand, looming, looking down upon us.

“Hassan,” I cried.

He awakened immediately. We struggled to our feet, our feet buried in sand, swept into the ditch, our backs suddenly cut by the lash of the storm.

It opened its great mouth, turning its head to the side. It was seven feet in height, bracing itself against the wind. Sand clung in its fur. It looked upon me. It raised one long arm. It pointed to the dune country.

“Run!” cried Hassan. We leaped from the ditch, rolling from it into the storm, scrambling to our feet. We crouched down, trying to keep our balance, the ditch between us and the standing beast. It swayed in the wind, leaning into it, but did not attempt to approach us. It regarded me. It pointed to the dune country.

“The water,” said Hassan. “The water!”

He stood over the ditch, to protect me as he could. I slipped into the ditch and slowly, in order not to provoke the beast to attack, lifted the two bags to the surface. Hassan took them and, when I was clear of the ditch, we backed away from the beast, watching it. The wind and sand whipped about us. The beast did not move but remained, its eyes, half-shut, rimmed with sand, fixed upon me, its great arm pointing toward the dune country.

Hassan and I turned and, stumbling, carrying the water, fled into the desert.

Once, briefly, I lost sight of Hassan, then again saw him, no more than a yard from me in the darkness, in the pelting, driven sand. Together we fled. The beast did not pursue us.

20 The Kur Will Re-Enter the Dune Country; I Accompany Him

“It is there,” said Hassan. “But you are mad to approach it.”

“It could have killed us in the trench,” I said. “It did not.”

The storm, surprisingly, had abated. It had lasted only a bit less than one day.

The landscape seemed rearranged, but we had little difficulty in finding our way back to the trench. We had not been able to move far in the storm. We had gone perhaps less than a pasang when we fell, rolled from our feet, and lay in the sand, protecting our heads and the water. Almost as soon as it had come, it had, with a shifting of wind to the north, disappeared. “There will be other such storms,” said Hassan. “It was too short.” He looked at me. “We must move while we can, before another, a longer, occurs.”

“I am returning to the trench,” I told him.

“I will go with you,” he said.

From a small rise, we saw the remains of the trench, filled with sand, to within six inches of its top. The sun was high. Beside the trench, on its back, half covered with sand, lay the Kur.

When we approached it, it turned its head toward us. “It is not dead,” said Hassan.

“It seems weak,” I said.

“We, too, are weak,” said Hassan. “We have scarcely the strength to carry the water.”

I walked about the Kur, which closed its eyes. Its fur was coated with sand.

I crouched down near it. It opened its eyes, and regarded me.

On its left forepaw, or hand, on one of the six digits, was a heavy ring, seemingly of gold.

I had not seen such an ornament on a Kur before. I had seen rings of the sort worn on arms and wrists, and earrings, but no ring of the sort which might encircle a digit. Many Kurii are vain beasts.

“I have seen this Kur before,” I said. I had seen it in a dungeon in the house of Samos. It had been apprehended months before apparently enroute to the Tahari. Samos had bought it as a beast from hunters. Six men had died in its capture. The eyes, rimmed with sand, were black-pupiled; the corneas, usually yellow, seemed pale, flattishly colored; the leathery snout seemed dry, the lips were drawn back about the fangs; the tongue, black, seemed large; it seemed thin for a Kur, haggard; I realized then that its tissues reflected dehydration. That the Kur had been bound for the Tahari had been a portion of the mystery, which had initiated my venture to the desert. What business had it in the Tahari? “It will die soon,” said Hassan. “Leave it.”

I remained near the Kur, looking upon it. “It needs water,” I said.

“Do not approach it!” warned Hassan.

I supposed men had few enemies as terrible as the fearsome Kur, unless it be other men. Such beasts and Priest-Kings were locked in relentless war, two worlds, two planets, Gor and Earth lying at the stake. Men seemed puny allies to either species. Before me lay my enemy, helpless.

“Kill it,” said Hassan.

“It is a rational beast,” I said. “It needs water.”

“Desist in this madness!” cried Hassan.

I lifted the shaggy head, more than a foot wide. Between the rows of fangs, the bag over my shoulder, I thrust the spike of the water bag.

The paws of the beast reached up, slowly, and placed themselves on the bag. I saw them indent the bag, the spread of the digits was more than fifteen inches in width. There were six digits, multiply jointed, furred. I saw the golden ring, heavy, strangely set, it seemed with a tiny square of silver, against the brown leather of the bag. It did not seem a normal ring. “This morning,” I said, “before dawn, it could have killed us and taken the water. It did not do so.”

Hassan did not speak.

Slowly the Kur rose to his feet. I closed the bag, twisting in the plug. There was only a gallon or so of water in the bag. It would last a human a day, then he must draw on his own tissues.