"That was incredibly generous," I said.

"It was a terrible mistake," said Hurtha.

"I am glad you realize that," I said.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing," I said.

"My poems are priceless," he said. "You think you should of asked for more than a silver tarsk?" I asked, alarmed.

"No," he said, "I should not have sold them at all."

"I see," I said, relieved. "But they are probably not really all that bad." "What," he asked.

"Nothing," I said.

"I realized it with the last poem," he said, miserably. "I looked down at the silver tarsk in my hand, and at the poem in the fellow's hand, and it all became clear to me. I saw then how terrible was the thing I had done, selling my poems, my own poems, my precious, priceless poems! They now belonged to another! Better I had torn my heart out and sold it for a tarsk bit!"

"Perhaps," I said.

"I then begged the fellow to take back his worthless tarsk, and return the poem to me."

"And did he do so?" I asked.

"Yes," said Hurtha, looking up at me.

"Well," I said, "it all ended well then.

"No," he said, tears in his eyes. "You do not understand."

"We are now short a tarsk?" I said.

"No!" cried Hurtha. "There were four other poems sold! I shall never be able to recover those poems! They are gone, gone!" He put his head again in his hands, sobbing. "I shall never be able to find all those fellows again." Scarcely had I sold them the poems then they all hastened away, covetous, lucky, greedy fellows, lest I change my mind. Now I shall never be able to find them again and appeal earnestly, fervently, to their better selves, and higher natures, to take back their filthy money. What a fool I was! My poems, gone! Sold for a mere four silver tarsks! Waste! Dishonor! Misery! Ruin! Tragedy! What if this story should ever get back to the wagons? I am unworthy of my scars!"

"Hurtha, old fellow," I said, gently.

"Yes," he said.

I placed my hand on his shoulder.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Look," I said. He lifted his head and looked up.

"Here," I said, softly. I held forth to him the four copies of poems which had been given to me earlier by his four customers, or patrons.

"Is it they!" he cried, wonderingly, tears in his eyes.

"Yes," I said.

"You knew!" he cried.

I shrugged.

"You could not let me go through with it!" he wept. "You sought them out! You purchased them back! You have saved me from myself, from my own folly!"

"It is little enough to do for a friend," I said.

He leaped to his feet and embraced me, weeping, tears in his eyes. I struggled for breath, clutching the four poems. I speculated that this must be much like the grip of the dreaded, constricting hith. Surely that, capable of pulverizing a fellow, crushing his bones and popping him like a grape, could scarcely be worse.

"How can I ever thank you?" he cried, stepping back, holding me, proudly, looking at me.

"Between friends," I said, "thanks are neither needed, nor possible." "You, too, are overcome with emotion!" he cried, sympathetically.

"I am trying to breathe," I told him.

"Let me have those poems," he said. He took them and put them with the one he kept, that retrieved from his last transaction, the one in which, happily, I had had no part. "I have them back, thanks to you!" he said.

I had now caught my breath, nearly.

"There they are," he said, blissfully, regarding them, "written down, in little marks."

"That is the way most things are written down," I said.

"Are they well transcribed?" he asked.

"I think so," I said. I took a deep breath.

"Are you all right?" asked Hurtha.

"Yes," I said. "Occasionally there is a line which is difficult to make out, and there seems to be a misspelled word here and there," That was to be expected, I supposed, given the fact that they had presumably been written in a condition of some agitation, under a condition of some stress. There was an occasional spot on the parchment. Perhaps sweat had dropped from someone's brow there.

"You are sure you are all right?" he said.

"Yes, I am all right now," he said.

"I am not surprised that a small mistake, perhaps a poorly formed letter, an irregular margin, or such, might have been made," said Hurtha. "Some of the fellows transcribing the poems were actually shaking. They seemed almost over-whelmed."

"I am not surprised," I said. "It was all part of the impact of the experience of hearing them for the first time, I suppose," I added.

"Yes," said Hurtha. "It would seem so."

"You do not know your own power as a poet," I said.

"Few of us do," said Hurtha.

"Well," I said, "fortunately, we have the five poems back. It would be too bad to have lost them."

"A tragedy, yes," said Hurtha, "but I have others."

"Oh?" I said.

"Yes, more than two thousand," he said.

"That is a great many," I said.

"Not really, considering their quality," he said.

"You are prolific," I said.

"All great poets are prolific," he said. "Would you care to hear them?" "Not at the moment," I said. "You see, I have just, this evening, read some of them. I do not know if I could take more, just now."

"I understand," said Hurtha. "I am one well aware of the complexities of coping with grandeur, of the exquisite agonies attendant upon wrestling with nigh ineffable sublimities, with the excruciating intensities of the authentic aesthetic experience, with the travails of poignant significance, with the exhausting consequences of confronting sudden and startling distillations of meaning. No, old friend, I understand these things full well. I shall not force you beyond your strength." "Thank you," I said.

He looked down at the poems in his hand. "Can you believe," he asked, "that these saw light only this evening, that I dictated them upon the spot?"

"Yes," I said.

He stood there, looking down at them, in awe of his own power.

"I wonder if poems should be written down," he said.

"I have a very poor handwriting," I said, "and I am particularly bad at lines that go from right to left."

"I am illiterate," said Tula, quickly, in the crisis of the moment forgetting even to request permission to speak.

"So am I," said Mincon, happily.

Boabissia, of course, was also illiterate. She sat on the ground with her back against the right, rear wagon wheel, her ankles still bound together.

Hurtha looked at Feiqa. She could read and write. She was highly intelligent, and had been well educated. She was of a well-known city. She had even been of high station, before being enslaved, before becoming only an animal subject to her masters. She turned white.

"She is a slave," I said.

"Oh, yes," said Hurtha, dismissing her then from his mind.

Feiqa threw me a wild look of gratitude. To be sure, much of the copy work, lower-order clerical work, trivial account keeping, and such, on Gor, was done by slaves. Hurtha, however, I thought, apparently correctly, might prefer having his poems transcribed by free folks. It had been a close call for Feiqa.

"I am starving," I said.

Hurtha consulted his internal states. "So, too, am I," he reported. "But I remain firm in my resolve not to sell my poems. Better starvation."

"Certainly," I said.

"What are our resources?" he inquired.

"Something like two copper tarsks, and some four or five tarsk bits," I said. "Not enough," he said. "I agree," I said.

"What are we going to do?" asked Hurtha.

"Work?" I speculated.

"Be serious," he admonished me. "We are in desperate straits. This is no joking matter."

"Untie my ankles," said Boabissia.

Hurtha and I looked at one another.

"You take her left hand and I will take her right," said Hurtha.

Boabissia tried to scramble to her feet but, bound as she was, she fell. Then we had her wrists, and pulled her back, by them, to the wagon wheel.