"There are no inns in Tharna," said the man, looking at me closely. "You are a stranger," he said.

"A weary traveler who seeks lodging," I said.

"Flee, Stranger," said he.

"I am welcome in Tharna," I said.

"Leave while you have time," he said, looking about to see if anyone were listening.

"Is there no Paga Tavern near," I asked, "where I can find rest?" "There are no Paga Taverns in Tharna," said the man, I thought with a trace of amusement.

"Where can I spend the night?" I asked.

"You can spend it beyond the walls in the fields," he said, "or you can spend it in the Palace of the Tatrix."

"It sounds to me as though the Palace of the Tatrix were the more comfortable," I said.

The man laughed bitterly. "How many hours, Warrior," asked he, "have you been within the walls of Tharn?"

"At the sixth hour I came to Tharna," I said.

"It is then too late," said the man, with a trace of sorrow, "for you have been within the walls for more than ten hours."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Welcome to Tharna," said the man, and hurried away into the dusk. I had been disturbed by this conversation and without really intending it had begun to walk to the walls. I stood before the great gate of Tharna. The two giant beams that barred it were in place, beams that could only be moved by a team of broad tharlarions, draft lizards of Gor, or by a hundred slaves. The gates, bound with their bands of steel, studded with brass plates dull in the mist, the black wood looming over me in the dusk, were closed.

"Welcome to Tharna," said a guard, leaning on his spear in the shadows of the gate.

"Thank you, Warrior," I said, and turned back to the city.

Behind me I heard him laugh, much the same bitter laugh that I had heard from the citizen.

In wandering through the streets, I came at last to a squat portal in the wall of a cylinder. On each side of the door, in a small niche sheltered from the drizzle, there sputtered the yellow flame of a small tharlarion oil lamp. By this flickering light I could read the faded lettering on the door: KAL-DA SOLD HERE.

Kal-da is a hot drink, almost scalding, made of diluted Ka- la-na wine, mixed with citrus juices and stinging spices. I did not care much for this mouth-burning concoction, but it was popular with some of the lower castes, particularly those who performed strenuous manual labour. I expected its popularity was due more to its capacity to warm a man and stick to his ribs, and to its cheapness (a poor grade of Ka- la-na wine being used in its brewing) than to any gustatory excellence. But I reasoned on this night of all nights, this cold, depressing wet night, a cup of Kal-da might go well indeed. Moreover, where there was Kal-da there should be bread and meat. I thought of the yellow Gorean bread, baked in the shape of round, flat loaves, fresh and hot; my mouth watered for a tabuk steak or, perhaps, if I were lucky, a slice of roast tarsk, the formidable six-tusked wild boar of Gor" s temperate forests. I smiled to myself, felt the sack of coins in my tunic, bent down and pushed the door open.

I descended three steps, and found myself in a warm, dimly lit, low-ceilinged room, cluttered with the low tables common on Gor, around which huddled groups of five or six of the grey-robed men of Tharna. The murmer of conversation ceased as I entered. The men regarded me. There seemed to be no warriors in the room. None of the men appeared to be armed. I must have seemed strange to them, a scarlet-clad warrior, bearing weapons, suddenly entering, a man from another city unexpectedly in their midst.

"What is your business?" asked the proprietor of the place, a small, thin, bald-headed man wearing a short-sleeved grey tunic and slick black apron. He did not approach, but remained behind the wooden counter, slowly, deliberately wiping the puddles of spilt Kal-da from the stained surface. "I am passing through Tharna," I said. "And I would like to purchase a tarn to continue my journey. Tonight I want food and lodging."

"This is not a place," said the man, "for one of High Caste."

I looked about, at the men in the room, into the dejected, haggard faces. In the light it was difficult to determine their caste for they all wore the grey robes of Tharna and only a band of colour on the shoulder indicated their station in the social fabric. What struck me most about them had nothing to do with caste, but rather their lack of spirit. I did not know if they were weak, of if they merely thought poorly of themselves. They seemed to me to be without energy, without pride, to be flat, dry, crushed men, men without self-respect.

"You are of high caste, of the Caste of Warriors," said the proprietor. "It is not proper that you should remain here."

I did not much care for the prospect of emerging again into the cold, rainy night, of tramping once more through the streets, miserable, chilled to the bone, looking for a place to eat and sleep. I took a coin from the leather sack and threw it to the proprietor. He snatched it expertly from the air like a skeptical cormorant. He examined the coin. It was a silver tarn disk. He bit against the metal, the muscles on his jaw bulging in the lamplight. A trace of avaricious pleasure appeared in his eyes. I knew he would not care to return it.

"What caste is it?" I demanded.

The proprietor smiled. "Money has no caste," he said.

"Bring me food and drink," I said.

I went to an obscure, deserted table near the back of the room, where I could face the door. I leaned my shield and spear against the wall, set the helmet beside the table, unslung the sword belt, laying the weapon across the table before me, and prepared to wait.

I had hardly settled myself behind the table when the proprietor had placed a large, fat pot of steaming Kal-da before me. It almost burned my hands to lift the pot. I took a long, burning swig of the brew and though, on another occasion, I might have thought it foul, tonight it sang through my body like the bubbling fire it was, a sizzling, brutal irritant that tasted so bad and yet charmed me so much I had to laugh.

And laugh I did.

The men of Tharna who were crowded in that place looked upon me as though I might be mad. Disbelief, lack of comprehension, was written on their features. This man had laughed. I woundered if men laughed often in Tharna. It was a dreary place, but the Kal-da had already made it appear somewhat more promising.

"Talk, laugh!" I said to the men of Tharna, who had said not a word since my entrance. I glared at them. I took another long swig of Kal-da and shook my head to throw the swirling fire from eyes and brain. I seized my spear from the wall and pounded it on the table.

"If you cannot talk," I said, "if you cannot laugh, then sing!" They were convinced they were in the presence of one demented. It was, I suppose, the Kal-da, but I like to think, too, it was just impatience with the males of Tharna, the intemperate expression of my exasperation with this grey, dismal place, its glum, solemn, listless inhabitants. The men of Tharna resfused to budge from their silence.

"Do we not speak the Language?" I asked, referring to the beautiful mother tongue spoken in common by most of the Gorean cities. "Is the Language not yours?" I demanded.

"It is," mumbled one of the men.

"Then why do you not speak it?" I challenged.

The man was silent.

The proprietor arrived with hot bread, honey, salt and, to my delight, a huge, hot roasted chunk of tarsk. I crammed my mouth with food and washed it down with another thundering draught of Kal-da.

"Proprietor!" I cried, pounding on the table with my spear.

"Yes, Warrior," cried he.

"Where are the Pleasure Slaves?" I demanded.

The proprietor seemed stunned.