by John Norman
“I fear she will be killed,” said Astrinax.
“No,” I said. “She is beautiful. She would bring a high price on a block. Let her be collared.”
“You do not understand, dear Allison,” he said. “That is because you are a barbarian. She is not an animal, such as you, which might be roped and claimed as such, bought and sold as such. She is a free woman. Thus, she is far more likely to be slain.”
“Might not Grendel speak for her,” I asked, “that she might be simply marked and collared?”
“She is of no concern to him,” said Astrinax.
“How treacherous and hateful he is,” I said.
“How is he different from any other of these beasts?” he asked.
“How, Desmond of Harfax,” inquired Kleomenes, “have you arrived at your understanding of things?”
“I prefer, at present,” said Desmond, “to keep my source confidential.”
“How can you expect us to believe you?” asked Kleomenes.
“I give you my word,” said Desmond.
“The word of many in this Cave,” said Kleomenes, “is worthless.”
“Obviously,” said Desmond, “I am willing to risk much. Even summoning you to this secret meeting is fraught with danger.”
“You have placed us all in jeopardy,” said Kleomenes.
“Yet you have come,” said Desmond. “And no one has left. To have come shows that you have suspected what might be afoot, that you have remained shows you suspect what I say is true.”
“There may be spies amongst us,” said a man.
“If so,” said Desmond, “they are fools, for they would be involved in the common peril.”
I noted that one or two of the fellows in the room held what appeared to be a deck of cards.
“If what you say is true,” said Kleomenes, “what can we do?”
“Pausanias, with his drivers, and wagons, has already left,” said Desmond. “That means, I believe, that things have begun. I do not expect them to return in the spring. I think they will scatter and initiate the intrigues I spoke of in a hundred cities.”
“Then it is too late,” said a fellow.
“No,” said Desmond, “for a hundred cities might be warned.”
“I see,” said Kleomenes.
“It is too fanciful,” said a man.
“We would not be believed,” said another.
“We must try,” said Desmond of Harfax.
“The snows will soon commence,” said a man.
“The passes will be closed,” said another.
“It will be safest to pretend we suspect nothing of this,” said a man, “and wait until spring.”
“That would give the conspiracy a start of months,” said Desmond.
“I am not eager to be hunted down by Kurii,” said another, “now, later, in the cold, in the snow, in the thaws of spring, in the heat of summer, anytime.”
“The beasts have use for us, for a time,” said another. “Is it not better to live for a time, than not to live, at all?”
“The beasts are formidable,” said Desmond, “but, within the laws of Priest-Kings, they are not invincible. The spear and sword, the bolt and arrow, speak to them as well as to us.”
“The hunted larl, the hunted sleen,” said a man, “often becomes the hunter.”
“Who would pursue the Voltai tarsk into a thicket, the wild bosk into the high grass?” said a fellow.
“Good, good!” said Desmond.
“How are we to proceed?” asked a fellow.
“We must enlist who we can amongst the humans,” said Desmond. “Gather supplies, secretly, and flee.”
“Soon,” said a fellow, “—the winter, the snows.”
“Yes,” said Desmond.
“But Kurii, the Cave, will remain,” said a fellow.
“Would it not remain a center for subversion and intrigue?” asked another.
“Quite possibly,” said Desmond. “But before we leave we might be able to inflict a crushing blow, one of great strategic importance, on the hopes of Gorean Kurii, on the very conspiracy itself.”
“Speak,” said a fellow.
“Who is high Kur in the Cave?” asked Desmond.
“Lucius,” said several of the men, without hesitation.
“How many of you have heard of the Kur, Agamemnon?” asked Desmond.
“He was a leader, faraway,” said a fellow.
“The Cave is said to be the Cave of Agamemnon,” said a fellow.
“Theocrat of the World, Eleventh Face of the Nameless One,” added another.
“That is nonsense,” said a man.
“Not to Kurii,” said Desmond, soberly.
“I have heard remarks,” said a man. “There was a far world, a war, and this Agamemnon perished in that war.”
“Perhaps,” said Desmond, “Agamemnon is still alive. Perhaps only one or another of his bodies perished. Perhaps he is here, alive.”
“This is madness,” said a man.
“How many of you have seen the small metal chest, sometimes on display, that tended so carefully by two golden-chain Kurii, Timarchos and Lysymachos?”
“I have seen it,” said a fellow.
“I, too,” said another.
“As it is guarded,” said another, “it must contain riches.”
“Diamonds,” speculated another.
“If we are to flee,” said a fellow, “perhaps we could steal it, and take it with us.”
“We might all be rich,” said a fellow.
Interest coursed amongst the men.
“What has this treasure chest to do with Agamemnon?” asked a man.
“I think it is Agamemnon, or contains Agamemnon,” said Desmond of Harfax.
“I think you are mad,” said Kleomenes.
“I have gathered certain things, some rather obliquely, not openly stated, from my source,” said Desmond.
“Which is to remain confidential?” said Kleomenes, skeptically.
“I will now,” said Desmond of Harfax, “command an unlikely speaker to address you, the barbarian kajira, Allison, whose thigh some of you may have marked.”
There was some laughter.
“Master?” I said.
“Do not insult us with noises from the mouth of a slave,” said a fellow.
“Slaves know nothing,” said a man.
“She is a barbarian,” said another.
“If she is to speak, let instruments of torture be brought,” said another.
“How else could one believe the words of a slave?” asked another.
“A meeting was held,” said Desmond of Harfax, “at which none of us, and no free man, was present, but some kajirae were present. The meeting was held in Kur, without translators, but the kajirae, of course, could witness what occurred. I have learned that Allison, whom I have had in my keeping—”
There was laughter at this point, which annoyed me, for they doubtless supposed that Desmond of Harfax had reaped much pleasure from the rich and frequent use of the slender, barbarian brunette in question, whereas the slender, barbarian brunette in question had been scarcely touched, and had been, so to speak, muchly deprived. How often she had longed for his touch, even wept for it, and had been denied!
“—was present.”
I was not sure how Master Desmond knew I had been at the meeting in question, but it seemed likely he had obtained this information, and some sense of the nature of the meeting, from one of the other kajirae who had been present. Of the four kajirae in the room I was the only one who had been at the meeting.
“Allison,” said Desmond of Harfax.
I kept my head down, frightened.
“She fears to speak before free men,” he said.
“If she is to speak,” said a fellow, “then let her fear not to speak.”
“Do not be afraid, Allison,” said Desmond of Harfax.
I looked up at him, him to whom I wished to belong. How could he not know that?
“W
e have mentioned a box, a case, a chest, a container, of some sort, which is usually found in the company of two golden-chain Kurii, Timarchos and Lysymachos, a container which it seems they guard zealously. Are you familiar with that object?”
“Yes, Master,” I said. “I have seen it.”
“What do you think it contains?” he asked.
“I do not know, Master,” I said. “A treasure perhaps, surely something very precious.”
“Did you see this container at the meeting in question, that at which there were no free men present, that conducted entirely in Kur?”
“No, Master,” I said.
“But you did see Timarchos and Lysymachos?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Without the container,” he said.
“Seemingly so,” I said.
“Tell us about the meeting,” he said.
“It was in Kur,” I said.
“Tell us a little about it, what you can,” he said.
“Only Kurii and some kajirae were present,” she said, “I suppose grooming slaves.”
“Are you such a slave?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “But I have groomed.”
“You were brought by Grendel,” he said.
“Yes, Master.”
“Why?”
“I do not know,” I said. “I think it was that he would appear to have a personal grooming slave, which would seem to enhance his prestige, and suggest importance. Few of the Kurii, on this world, have such slaves.”
“Continue,” said Master Desmond.
“I understood little of what was occurring,” I said. “Grendel, near whom I knelt, was prominently placed, before a dais at the front of the room. Timarchos and Lysymachos emerged from behind a curtain at the back of the dais, which curtain they then drew aside. Shortly thereafter, frighteningly, apparently emerging from a deep recess behind the dais, taking its place on the dais, was a large machine, behaving as though it were alive. It had jointed metal legs, and a metal torso, but no obvious head, unless the head and torso were one. It had things like eyes, four of them, two of which were on metal stalks. These eyes could turn about. The device was very large, and doubtless heavy. It was crab-like, a large, metallic crab-like thing. Attached to it, or part of it, were two metallic arms, each terminating in heavy, pincer-like objects.”
“Let her be lashed for lying,” said a fellow.
“Who dares to subject us to the ravings of a mad slave?” asked another.
“Put her out of the Cave, naked and bound,” said a man.
“Master?” I said, frightened.
“Continue, Allison,” said Desmond of Harfax.
“There were chantings,” I said, “and, later, what appeared to be a number of utterances, all of which received the identical response from the assembly. Then commenced what seemed to be a dialogue between Timarchos and Lysymachos, and the machine.”
“The machine spoke?” asked a man.
“It seemed so, Master,” I said.
“Bring a whip, that a lying slave may be suitably chastised,” said a man.
“Continue,” said Master Desmond.
“Master!” I begged.
“Or I will use the whip on you myself,” he said.
“One Kur, Grendel,” I said, “was singled out, and addressed. I know not what transpired.”
“What then?” said Master Desmond.
“Some will recall a blind Kur,” I said. “He was brought into the hall, was apparently denounced, and seems to have been condemned, and sentenced. He was driven from the hall, and, as I understand it, from the Cave. Following this two Kurii were presented to the machine, one a silver-chain Kur and one an iron-chain Kur. Each addressed the machine, which appeared to listen, perhaps deliberate. The silver-chain Kur was then slain, and his chain given to the other, who was also garlanded by Timarchos and Lysymachos. Following this the machine spoke for some Ehn, remarks which, I took it, related to Grendel. At the end of this, amidst apparent approval, Grendel was given a golden chain, and received a garland from both Timarchos and Lysymachos. Shortly thereafter the machine withdrew, followed by Timarchos and Lysymachos. The meeting had ended.”
“These things are hard to understand,” said Desmond of Harfax, “but it is my conjecture that the Kur, Agamemnon, did not perish on a far world, but is alive, and on Gor.”
“And living in a little box?” laughed a man.
“He must be very small,” laughed another.
“Living, yes,” said Desmond, “but not as you think. The natural body of Agamemnon, limbs and organs, may have perished centuries ago.”
“Then he is dead,” said a man.
“There are devices, technologies, here,” said Desmond of Harfax, “with which we are unfamiliar. What feels, and thinks, and sees? Surely you are aware that he who has lost a leg or an arm may continue to feel them, though they no longer exist. Sometimes a body may be subjected to torture and ruin and no pain is felt. You thrust a stick against the ground and say you have felt the ground, and it surely seems so, but it is an illusion. The most you could feel is a pressure on your fingers or hand. In sleep, do you not see, hear, feel, and experience, though you do not leave your couch? That the body be protected it is surely desirable that you should seem to feel, say, a pain in an injured limb, that you will remove it from danger, or tend to it, but the limb may be felt when it no longer exists. Without these illusions, these precious, invaluable, wonderful illusions, how could one exist? You open your eyes and see a world, but how could this be? The world somehow stimulates you in such a way that you produce a representation of the world. Your eyes do not throw nets out and draw trees and mountains into your head. Remember the dreams. The world which causes you to see and feel may be quite other than the seemings and feelings which it produces, and yet, surely, it is somehow related to those seemings and feelings, else we could not survive. Experience is internal, not outside the body. It is centered in the brain. It is the brain with which you think, see, and feel.”
“Absurd,” said a man. “I open my eyes and see the world before me. So do we all.”
“Yes,” said another fellow.
“I see you,” said a man.
“Yes,” said Desmond of Harfax, “but the seeing is within you, the seeing is not outside of you. What is within you cannot be identical with what is outside of you. They are different. They are two things.”
“This is all nonsense,” said a man.
“Let us suppose that the account rendered by a slave is true,” said Desmond of Harfax. “Presumably Timarchos and Lysymachos, who seem to be in constant attendance on the container, who are its devoted companions or faithful guardians, would not have abandoned it, or its occupant, at such a meeting. As the container was not in view, it is my suggestion that it was somehow incorporated in the machine, connected to it in such a way that whatever was within the container could see, feel, think, speak, and communicate by means of the machine.”
“It would be the brain then,” said Kleomenes, “the living brain, related somehow to the outside world.”
“That is my belief,” said Desmond of Harfax. “Moreover, I believe there must be some way in which the brain, in its container, by means of its container, or its construction, can communicate with the outside world. Thus the container, itself, is a machine, a body, for the brain. And the container, I suspect, given the report of the slave, Allison, might be incorporated in a variety of bodies, with various capacities.”
“This is absurd,” said a man.
“Consider,” said Desmond of Harfax, “the brain of a mighty, fearsome, almost legendary leader, gigantic and formidable, a Kur of Kurii, kept alive, revered, obeyed. Consider the terrible centrality of sensation in that brain, the enormity of ambition which might linger, the rage at the loss of its body, the force of a focused, extraordinary rationality, unwilling to accept compromise or limitation, a will determined to have its way, a ruthless mind resolved to affect worlds, an incomparable intellect
, unconquered, commanding, devoted to power, stung by defeat, desiring to recoup losses, fanatically committed to pursue ends, to return from exile with the resources of a planet at its back.”
“Absurd,” said the fellow, again.
“Titanic forces could be locked in battle,” said Desmond of Harfax, “forces compared to which men are small, weak, and fragile things, little more than field urts scampering about in the grass, amidst the tread of trampling tharlarion.”
“We are well paid,” said a man. “Let us collect our gold, and let the future care for itself.”
“It would be a future in which you would be unlikely to participate,” said Desmond of Harfax.
“Yet,” said Kleomenes, “if two mountains were balanced in the scales, the smallest weight might tip the balance.”
“Yes!” said Desmond of Harfax.
It was his whip beneath which I wished to cower.
“And what small weight might tip so great a balance?” asked Kleomenes. “What small blow might affect so great a war?”
“Perhaps none,” said Desmond of Harfax. “But I can think of one blow, small, but easily struck, which might possess an immediate effect.”
“What is that?” asked a man.
“The assassination of Agamemnon,” said Desmond.
“You are mad,” said a fellow.
“He is not here,” said a man.
“If he were here, we would have seen him,” said a man.
“Lucius is high Kur in the Cave,” said another.
“Agamemnon died long ago,” said another.
“All know that,” said another.
“How can you assassinate someone who is dead?” asked a man.
“The container of which we have spoken must be seized,” said Desmond of Harfax.
“Diamonds are in the container,” said a man. “You want them for yourself.”
“No!” said Desmond of Harfax.
“Who will trust a mad Metal Worker, and a lying slave?” asked a man.
“I would trust them before Kurii,” said Kleomenes.
“You have taken fee,” said a fellow.
“Not to throw myself on my own sword,” said Kleomenes.
“We should not be met here,” said a man. “It is dangerous.”