English, and of a sort one seldom encounters nowadays.If one had encountered him in the Eighteenth Century one might take him for a jolly, snuff-sniffing, roisterous country squire, knowing himself the salt of the earth, not above twitting the parson nor pinching the serving girls; in the Nineteenth Century he would have owned an old book shop and worked at a high desk, quite outdated, kept his money in a sock, distributed it indiscriminately to all who asked him for it, and publicly read Chaucer and Darwin to scandalise lady customers and the local clergy; in my own time such a man could only be a college professor, for there are few other refuges save wealth left in my world for men such as he; one could imagine him ensconced in a university chair, perhaps affluent enough for gout, reposing in his tenure, puffing on his pipe, a connoisseur of ales and castles, a gusty afficionado of bawdy Elizabethan drinking songs, which he would feel it his duty to bequeath, piously, as a portion of their rich literary heritage, to generations of recent, proper graduates of Eton and Harrow.The small eyes regarded me, twinkling.
With a start I noticed that the pupils of his eyes were red.
When I started a momentary flicker of annoyance crossed his features, but in an instant he was again his chuckling, affable, bubbling self.
'Come, come,' he said.'Come along, Cabot.We have been waiting for you.'
He knew my name.
Who was waiting?
But of course he would know my name, and those who would be waiting would be the Priest-Kings of Gor.
I forgot about his eyes, for it did not seem important at the time, for some reason.I suppose that I thought that I had been mistaken.I had not been.He now stepped back into the shadows of the passage.
'You are coming, aren't you?' he asked.
'Yes,' I said.
'My name is Parp,' he said, standing back in the passage.He puffed once on his pipe.'Parp,' he repeated, puffing once again.
He had not extended his hand.
I looked at him without speaking.
It seemed a strange name for a Priest-King.I do not know what I expected.He seemed to sense my puzzlement.
'Yes,' said the man, 'Parp.'He shrugged.'It's not much of a name for a Priest-King, but then I'm not much of a Priest-King.'He chuckled.
'Are you a Priest-King?' I asked.
Again a momentary flicker of annoyance crossed his features. 'Of course,' he said.
It seemed that my heart stopped beating.
At that moment one of the larls gave a sudden roar.I shivered, but to my surprise the man who called himself Parp clutched his pipe in his white hand and seemed to give a start of terror.In a moment he was quite recovered.I found it strange that a Priest-King should fear a larl.
Without waiting to see if I would follow him he turned suddenly and went back down the passage.
I gathered my weapons and followed him.Only the rumbling growl of the now sullen mountain larls as I passed between them convinced me that I could not be dreaming, that I had come at last to the Hall of Priest-Kings.
Chapter Four: THE HALL OF PRIEST-KINGS
As I followed the man who called himself Parp down the stone passage the portal behind me closed.I remember one last glimpse of the Sardar Range, the path I had climbed, the cold, blue sky and two snowy larls, one chained on either side of the entrance.
My host did not speak but led the way with a merry stride, an almost constant curl of smoke from his little round pipe encircling his bald pate and muttonchop whiskers and drifting back down the passage.
The passage was lit with energy bulbs, of the sort which I had encountered in the tunnel of Marlenus which led beneath the walls of Ar.There was nothing in the lighting of the passage, or its construction, to suggest that the Priest-Kings' Caste of Builders, if they had one, was any more advanced than that of the men below the mountains.Too, the passage was devoid of ornament, lacking the mosaics and tapestries with which the beauty-loving Goreans below the mountains are wont to glorify the places of their own habitation.The Priest-Kings, as far as I could tell, had no art.Perhaps they would regard it as a useless excrescence detracting from the more sobre values of life, such as, I supposed, study, meditation and the manipulation of the lives of men.
I noted that the passage which I trod was well worn.It had been polished by the sandals of countless men and women who had walked before where I now walked, perhaps thousands of years ago, perhaps yesterday, perhaps this morning.
Then we came to a large hall.It was plain, but in its sheer size it possessed a severe, lofty grandeur.
At the entrance to this room, or chamber, I stopped, overcome with a certain sense of awe.
I found myself on the brink of entering what appeared to be a great and perfect dome, having a diameter I am sure of at least a thousand yards.I was pleased to see that its top was a sparkling curvature of some transparent substance, perhaps a special glass or plastic, for no glass or plastic with which I was familiar would be likely to withstand the stresses generated by such a structure.Beyond the dome I could see the welcome blue sky.
'Come, come, Cabot,' remonstrated Parp.
I followed him.
In this great dome there was nothing save that at its very centre there was a high dais and on this dais there was a large throne carved from a single block of stone.
It seemed to take us a long time to reach the dais.Our footsteps echoed hollowly across the great stone floor.At last we arrived.
'Wait here,' said Parp, who pointed to an area outside a tiled ring which surrounded the dais.
I did not stand precisely where he asked but several feet away, but I did remain outside the tiled ring.
Parp puffed his way up the nine steps of the dais and climbed onto the stone throne.He was a strange contrast to the sever regality of the majestic seat on which he perched.His sandaled feet did not reach the floor, and he made a slight grimace as he settled himself on the throne.
'Frankly,' said Parp, 'I think we made a mistake in sacrificing certain creature comforts in the Sardar.'He tried to find some position that would satisfy him.'For example, a cushion would not be out of place on such a throne, do you think, Cabot?'
'On such a throne it would be out of place,' I said.
'Ah yes,' sighed Parp, 'I suppose so.'
Then, smartly, Parp cracked his pipe a few times against the side of the throne, scattering ashes and unsmoked tobacco about on the floor of the dais.
I regarded him without moving.
Then he bagan to fumble with the wallet which was slung from his belt, and removed a plastic envelope.I watched him closely, following every move.A frown crossed my face as I saw him take a pinch of tobacco from the bag and refill his pipe.Then he fumbled about a bit more and emerged with a narrow cylindrical, silverish obect.For an instant it seemed to point at me.
I lifted my shield.
'Please, Cabot!' said Parp, with something of impatience, and used the silverish object to light his pipe.
I felt foolish.
Parp began to puff away contentedly on a new supply of tobacco.He had to turn slightly on the throne to look at me, as I had not chosen to stand directly where he had suggested.
'I do wish you would be more cooperative,' he said.
Tapping the floor with the butt of my spear, I finally stood where he had directed.
Parp chuckled and puffed away.
I did not speak and he smoked one pipe.Then he cleaned it as before, knocking it against the side of the throne, and refilled it.He lit it again with the small, silverish object, and leaned back against the throne.He gazed up at the dome, so hihh above, and watched the smoke curl slowly upward.
'Did you have a good trip to the Sardar?' asked Parp.
'Where is my father?' I asked.'What of the city of Ko-ro-ba?'My voice choked.'What of the girl Talena, who was my Free Companion?'
'I hope you had a good trip,' said Parp.
Then I began to feel rage creeping like hot, red vines through my blood.
Parp did not seem concerned.
'Not everyone has a good trip,' said Parp.
My hand clenched on the spear.
I began to feel the hatred of all the years I had nursed against the Priest-Kings now uncontrollably, slowly, violently growing in my body, wild, fierce, those foliating scarlet vines of my fury that now seemed to encircle me, to enfold me, to engulf me, swelling, steaming, now writhing aflame about my body and before my eyes in the turbulent, burned air that separated me from the creature Parp and I cried, 'Tell me what I want to know!'
'The primary difficulty besetting the traveler in the Sardar,' continued Parp, 'is probably the general harshness of the environment - for example, the inclemencies of the weather, particularly in the winter.'
I lifted the spear and my eyes which must have been terrible in the apertures of my helmet were fixed on the heart of the man who sat upon the throne.
'Tell me!' I cried.
'The larls also,' Parp went on, 'are a not unformidable obstacle.'
I cried with rage and strode forward to loose my spear but I wept and retained the weapon.I could not do murder.
Parp puffed away, smiling.'That was wise of you,' he said.
I looked at him sullenly, my rage abated.I felt helpless.
