virtue of mediocre skills or poor condition. The current year was 10,13 °C.A. In the chronology of Port Kar, it was Year 11 in the Sovereignty of the Council of Captains. Their captain, when I had known them long ago, had been Saphronicus of Ar. Seremides of Tyros, in those days, had been a high general of Ar. He, appointed through the influence of Cernus, who was soon to ascend the throne of Ar, had replaced the venerated hero, Maximus Hegesius Quintilius of Ar, who had earlier expressed reservations concerning the investiture of Cernus, a merchant and slaver, in the caste of warriors. Maximus Hegesius Quintilius was later found assassinated in his own pleasure gardens, slain there by the bite of a chemically prepared poison girl, one killed by Taurentians before she could be questioned. Such an appointment, of course, that of one of Tyros to such a post, later would have been unthinkable, given the developing frictions between Ar and Cos, and her mighty ally, Tyros, frictions largely consequent upon competitions in the valley of the Vosk. After the defeat and deposition of Cernus, so briefly a ubar, I had seen both Saphronicus and Seremides in chains before Marlenus, then again upon the throne. They had both, with other high traitorous officers, been ordered to Port Kar, in chains, to be sold to the galleys.
One of the figures in the purple cloak and helmet stood out from the others near the side of the road and lifted his hand.
The driver pulled back on the reins of his tharlarion and the beast slowed, grunting. The high-wheeled cart halted.
'Passengers alight and take your places in the line to the right,' said the driver. 'I am going in the wagon line. Rejoin me on the far side of the barrier, in the wagon line.' He had been here before.
'How will be able to pass?' whispered Boabissia, whom I helped down, through the cart gate. 'You no longer have the letters.'
'I am not sure,' I said. 'But surely most of the folks here do not have letters.' I kept my eye on the fellow who had called himself Philebus, claiming to be a vintner of Torcadino. I had no intention of letting him out of my sight. If letters were required, and he presented those stolen from me, I would find that of interest. I would also, when the opportunity presented itself, an opportunity which I would see to it would present itself, break his arms and legs.
'Waiting, waiting,' complained Hurtha. 'I think that I shall compose a poem on the insolencies of bureaucracy.'
'A good idea,' I said.
'Done!' he said.
'Done?' I asked.
'It is a short poem,' he said. 'Would you care to hear it?'
'It must be quite short,' I said.
'Yes,' said Hurtha.
'I would be pleased to hear it,' I said, keeping my eyes on the so-called Philebus.
'Lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines,' began Hurtha.
'Wait,' I said. 'There is only one word in the poem?' I began to suspect I had penetrated the secret of the poem's swift completion.
'No,' said Hurtha, 'already there are more than a half dozen. Count them. ' 'Lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines.
'Yes,' I said, 'you are right.'
The lines moved forward a few feet. I kept my eyes on the so-called Philebus. 'Lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines,' said Hurtha. 'You are starting again?' I asked.
'No,' he said, 'I am picking up from where I left off. Do you really want to hear this poem?'
'Yes, of course,' I said. I began to suspect that certain basic civilities, hitherto regarded as largely innocent, retained from my English upbringing, might not be wholly without occasional disadvantages.
'Then do not interrupt,' said Hurtha.
'Sorry,' I said.
'Those lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines are very long, those long lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines.'
'Yes, they are,' I granted him.
'What?' asked Hurtha.
'Those lines,' I said, 'they are pretty long.'
'Yes,' agreed Hurtha, somewhat suspiciously. 'Please do not interrupt.' 'Sorry,' I chuckled. After all, how often does a common fellow like myself get a chance to put one over on a poet.
'You are quite a wit,' observed Boabissia.
'Thank you,' I said. But, from the tone of her voice, I suspected her compliment was not to be taken at face value. I think she was prejudiced somewhat by her affection for the stocky larl, Hurtha. I did not think it was to be explained by her love of poetry. I did glance back to Feiqa. She was smiling. She was obviously of high intelligence. Then, observing herself the object of my scrutiny, she put down her head, quickly, even more humbly than was perhaps required under the circumstances. After all, her neck was in a collar.
'Be pleased that Hurtha does not strike you to the ground with a heavy blow,' said Boabissia.
'I am pleased,' I said. 'I am pleased.'
'If I may continue,' said Hurtha.
'Please,' I said.
' 'Those long lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines they make me tired, those long lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, ' said Hurtha.
I could believe it. But I refrained from comment.
' 'I do not like them, those long lines, those long lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, ' said Hurtha.
'Is that it?' I asked.
'That is the first verse,' said Hurtha. 'Also, I am catching my breath.' 'I thought you said it was a short poem,' I said.
'You needn't listen if you do not wish to,' said Hurtha. 'I can recite it to Boabissia.'
'No, no,' I said. 'I just thought you said it was a short poem.'
'It was, when I said that,' he said. 'But I have since expanded it. Does the subject matter not seem worthy to you of a more substantial treatment?' 'Of course,' I said.
Our own lines moved forward a few steps.
'You do not like it?' asked Hurtha.
'It is wonderful,' I said. 'It is only that I am not sure that it is as wonderful as many of your other poems.'
'What is wrong with it?' he asked.
'It seems to me perhaps a bit long,' I said. 'Also, it may be a bit repetitious.'
' 'Repetitious'?' he asked, in disbelief.
'Yes,' I said. For example, with respect to the word 'lines'.' I kept my eye on the fellow before me, the so- called Philebus, he who claimed to be a vintner from Torcadino.
Hurtha burst out laughing and, tears in his eyes, seized me by the arms. I kept an eye on the so-called Philebus, lest he take this opportunity to take to his heels.
'My poor, dear sweet friend,' said Hurtha. 'How simple you are, dear friend! How little you know of poetry! The length is deliberate, of course, constituting an implicit allegory of interminability, manifesting and conveying in no uncertain manner, but in one which perhaps you have not as yet full grasped, the withering tedium of the bureaucratic assault on the spirit and senses of man!'
'Oh,' I said.
'Too, similarly pungent and subtle is the recurrent emphasis on the expression 'lines', which, on a level and in a dimension to which I have hopes you may yet attain, forcefully enunciates and clarifies not only the concept but more significantly the emotional significance of lines, those inevitable attributes, attaining in themselves an almost symbolic grandeur, of the perfidious bureaucratic infection.'
'I see,' I said.
'May I now continue?' he asked.
'Please, do,' I said. I was so overawed by Hurtha's exposition that the so-called Philebus might then have
