"Is the city being administered from this building?" I asked.

"Yes," he said, "in most things, in most ways."

"The city is under martial law," I said. "Why is it not being administered from the central cylinder, or its arsenal?"

"This building supplies and appearance of civic normality," he said. "Thus it is more as though one form of municipal administration had merely succeeded another."

"I see," I said. "Your captain, however," I said, "is doubtless reigning in the central cylinder."

"No, he is conducting business in this building," said Mincon, continuing down the hall.

I said nothing. This seemed to me, however, politically astute, particularly since the city was not currently under attack. I had realized for years, of course, that Dietrich of Tarnburg was a capable mercenary, and one of Gor's finest commanders. I had not found mention, however, in the annals, or diaries, which had been generally concerned with marches and campaigns, a sufficient appreciation of this other side of his character. He was apparently not only a military genius but perhaps also a political one. Or, perhaps they are not really so separate as they are often considered to be. Territory must be held as well as won. "Civilians are being ejected from the city," I said. "Surely they are not being given letters of safety."

"No," said Mincon.

"You think, however that we might need them?" I asked.

"It seems very likely," said Mincon, "considering where you are going." "I do not understand," I said.

"I have gathered that you are familiar with the sword," he said, "and that you re from Port Kar,"

"I know something of the sword," I said. "And I have a holding in Port Kar." "Perhaps you are even of the scarlet caste," he said.

"Perhaps," I said.

"Port Kar is at war with Cos," he said.

"Yes," I said.

"We are here," he said. We stopped before a large door. He ushered us between guards. We found ourselves in a reception room. An officer was at a table at one end of the room, with two more guards. Behind him and to his right was another door. In this fashion, to pass him, as is common, one would have to pass him on his sword-arm side.

"Anything so simple as letters of safety could have been issued in the main hall," I said.

Mincon spoke to the officer at the table, who, it seemed, recognized him.

"I would think so," said Hurtha, righteously, adding "whatever a letter of safety might be." He looked about, with his Alar distrust of bureaucracy and enclosed spaces. "I trust there will be no necessity for me to read such a letter," he said, "as this would be difficult, as I cannot read."

"You could learn," I said, somewhat snappishly.

"Between now and when we receive the letters?" asked Hurtha, incredulously. "Alars do not read," said Boabissia, proudly. "And we are Alars."

"I am an Alar," said Hurtha.

"Doubtless we will get the letters from that fellow," I said, indicating the officer to whom Mincon was speaking. "My letter of safety would be my ax," said Hurtha, "if I had it." Mincon, however, to my surprise, went through the door behind the officer. "I frankly do not understand what is going on," I said.

"I have sometimes had that experience," said Hurtha.

"Mincon is behaving strangely," I said.

"What can you expect?" said Hurtha. "He is not an Alar."

"Neither am I," I said.

"I know," said Hurtha.

"This whole business makes little sense to me," I said.

"Civilization is bizarre," said Hurtha.

"Perhaps you can get a poem out of this," I said.

"I already have," he said, "two. Would you care to hear them?"

"There is no time now," I said.

"They are quite short," he said. "One is a mere fifty liner,"

"By all means, then," I said.

" "In the halls of Torcadino, " he began. " " "neath sacks of noosed bonesa€” " "You have composed more than one hundred lines of poetry while we have been standing here?" I asked.

"Many more," he said, "but I have eliminated many lines which did not meet my standards. "In the streets of Torcadino, "neath bundles of brittle bonesa€”" "Wait," I said. "That is not the same line."

"I have revised it," said Hurtha.

At this moment, Mincon, naively, his timing, from his point of view, tragically awry, emerged from the inner office. "What news, good fellow?" I called to him. "Please go in," he said to me. "The rest of you please remain here." We looked at one another.

"Please," he said.

"Very well," I said, resigned.

"Would you care to hear two poems?" asked Hurtha.

"Of course," said Mincon. He was a fine fellow. "Bara," said Mincon to Tula. "Bara," said I to Feiqa. Both slaves immediately to their bellies, their heads to the left, their wrists crossed behind their backs, their ankles also crossed. It is a common binding position. We did not bother to bind them, however. It was enough that they lay there in this position. Hurtha dropped their leashes to the tiles beside them. His hands were now freed for gestures, and important contributory element in oral poetry. "Would you care to hear two poems?" Hurtha asked the officer at the table. "What?" he asked.

Then I had entered the inner office.

I whipped my head to the side. The blade moved past me and with a solid sound, followed by a sturdy vibration, lodged itself in the heavy wood of the door. "Excellent," said a voice. "You have had some training."

I looked down the room. At the end of the room, standing behind a functionary's desk, some forty feet away, there stood a soldier.

"Perhaps you are of the scarlet caste?" he asked.

"Perhaps," I said. I removed the blade from the wood behind me, over my shoulder, not taking my eyes off the fellow behind the desk.

"You are quick," he said. "Excellent. It is doubtless as Mincon had suspected. His judgement is good. You are a soldier."

"I have fought," I said. "I am not now in fee."

"Tal, Rarius," said he to me then. "Greetings Warrior,"

I regarded him, He did not seem to me the sort of fellow from whom one might expect letters of safety, license of passage, or bureaucratic services. He wore no insignia. His men, I gathered, must know him by sight. His presence, I suspected, whether in the camp or in the march, in the mines, on the walls, in the trenches or fields, would not be unfamiliar among them. They would know him. He would know them. His dark hair was graying at the temples, unusual among Goreans. He reminded me something of Centius of Cos, though he had not the latter's gentleness. In him I sensed practicality, and mercilessness, and intelligence and power. On the table before him, resting on what appeared to be state papers, was a sword.

"Tal Rarius," I whispered.

"Come forward," he said. "It was only a test. I even favored you, to your left. Do not be afraid."

I approached the fellow, who then took his place behind the desk.

At the side of the desk, to its right, as you faced it, on the bare tiles, there lay a chained, naked woman. She was dark-haired, and beautiful. It was not surprising to me that such a woman should lie at the side of his desk. He was obviously a man of great strength. Many Goreans believe that woman is nature's gift to man, that nature has designed her for his stimulation, pleasure and service. Accordingly, they seldom hesitate to avail themselves of this gift. Too, they are sensitive to the pleasures of power. They know the pleasures of power, and they honestly and candidly seek, appreciate and relish them. They know there is no thrill in world comparable to having absolute power over a female. These feelings, like those of glory and victory, to which they are akin, are their own reward. Goreans do not apologize for such natural and biologically validated urges. Too, they do not feel guilty over them. Indeed, to feel guilty over such natural, profound, deep and common urges would be, from the Gorean point of view, madness. The male is dominant, unless crippled. Without the mastery there can be no complete male fulfillment, and, interestingly, without complete male fulfillment there can be no complete female fulfillment.