"Why did you not make up a song?" I asked.

"A voice," said Imnak, "seemed to say to me, 'How dare you make up a song? How dare you sing? I am the world. I am the great sea. I am the mountains, the lovely stars, the great sky! Do you think you can put us in your little song? Then I was afraid, and fell down."

I looked at him.

"Since that day I have never tried to sing," said Imnak.

"It is not wrong to sing," I said.

"Who am I to make up a song?" asked Imnak. "I am only a little man. I am unimportant. I am no one. I am nothing."

I did not attempt to respond to him.

"All my songs would fail," he said.

"Perhaps not," I said. "At any rate, it is better to try to make a song and fail, than not to try to make a song. It is better to make a song and fail, than not to sing."

"I am too small," said Imnak. "I cannot sing. No song will sit on my shoulder. No little song comes to me and asks me to sing it."

"No song," I said, "can catch the sky. No song can encompass the mountains. Songs do hot catch the world. They are beside the world, like lovers, telling it how beautiful it is."

"I am unworthy," said Imnak. "I am nothing."

"Perhaps one day," I said, "you will hear a voice say inside you, 'I am the world. I am the great sea, I am the mountains. the lovely stars, the great sky. And I am Imnak, too! Tell me your song, Imnak, for I cannot sing without you. It is only through you, tiny insignificant Imnak, and others like you, that I can see myself and know how beautiful I am. It is only through you, my tiny, frail precious Imnak, and others like you, that I can lift my voice in song. "

Imnak turned away from me. "I cannot sing," he said.

We heard laughter from the feasting house. I could see the stars now above the polar sea. It was thus already the polar dusk.

The remains of the great Hunjer whale lay beached on the shore, much of it already cut away, many bones, too, taken from it.

"The meat racks are full," I said, referring to the high racks here and there in the camp.

"Yes," said Imnak.

Two weeks ago, some ten to fifteen sleeps ago, by rare fortune, we had managed to harpoon a baleen whale, a bluish, white-spotted blunt fin. That two whales had been taken in one season was rare hunting, indeed. Sometimes two or three years pass without a whale being taken.

"It is good," said Imnak, looking at the meat racks. "It may be that this winter the families will not have to go out on the ice."

Ice hunting can be dangerous, of course. The terrain beneath you, in wind and tides, can shift and buckle, breaking apart.

The sun was low on the horizon. We heard more laughter from the feasting house.

The polar night is not absolutely dark, of course. The Gorean moons, and even the stars, provide some light, which light reflecting from the expanses of the snow and ice is more than adequate to make one's way about. Should cloud cover occur, of course, or there be a storm, this light is negated and one, remaining indoors, must content oneself with the sounds of wind in the darkness, and the occasional scratching of animals on the ice outside.

"I cannot remember the racks being so heavy with meat in my lifetime," said Imnak.

"It is little.wonder the people are so pleased in the feasting house," I said.

Besides the whales many sleen and fish had been taken. Too, the families, coming north, had dragged and carried what dried tabuk meat they could with them. Even the children carried meat. With them, too, they had brought eggs and berries, and many other things, spoils from the summer, though not all for the larder, such as horn and sinew, and bones and hides. They did not carry with them much grass for the boots or mosses for the wicks of lamps as these materials could be obtained readily somewhat inland of the permanent camps.

When the sun dipped beneath the horizon it would not be seen again for half a year. I would miss it.

"I think we have enough food for the winter," said Imnak. "When night falls we will have enough to eat."

I looked at the high meat racks, some with tiers, some twenty feet or more in height, to protect the meat from sleen, both those domesticated and the wild sleen that might prowl to the shores as the hunting, the leems hibernating, grew sparse inland. Wild snow sleen, particularly when hunger drives them to run in packs, can be quite dangerous.

"Even if we have enough food for the winter," I said, "if Karjuk does not come soon, I must hunt for him, even if it means going out on the ice in the darkness."

"Remain in the camp," said Imnak.

"You need, not come with me, my friend," I said.

"Do not be foolish, Tarl, who hunts with me," he said.

"You may stay with your friends." I said, "who now so please themselves in the feasting house."

"Do not think lightly of my people," he said, "that they are pleased to laugh and to look upon one another and tell stories and sing. Life is not always pleasant for them."

"Forgive me," I said.

"There is no one in the feasting house who is of my people, who is not a child," he said, "who has not lived through a season of bad hunting. The children do not yet know about bad hunting, we do not tell them."

I did know the red hunters were extremely permissive with their children, even among Goreans. They very seldom scolded them and would almost never strike a child. They protected them as they could. Soon enough the children would learn. Until that time let them be children.

"There is no one in the feasting house who is of my people, who is not a child," he said, "who has not seen people starve to death. Many times, too, it is not the fault of the people. There is sickness, or there is bad weather. Sometimes there is a storm and the snow hides the breathing holes of the sleen." He spoke very quietly. "Sometimes," he said, "there is an accident. Sometimes one's kayak is rent. Sometimes one falls. Sometimes the ice breaks." He looked at me. "No," he said, "do not think too lightly of my people. Let them laugh and be happy. Do not despise them that they are joyful that for once their meat racks are heavy."

"Forgive me, my friend," I said.

"It is done," he said.

"You are a great hunter," I said.

"I am a terrible hunter," he said. "But once I did slay six sleen in one day," he said. He grinned.

"Let us return to the feasting house," I said.

Together we returned to the feasting house.

"Let us put the lights out!" suggested Akko, happily.

This suggestion met with enthusiastic acclaim.

"What are they doing?" asked Thimble, or Barbara, who had been serving boiled meat to the hunters and their women.

"You will learn," I told her.

I, like the others, slipped from my garments. The slave beasts in the feasting house, Poalu, Arlene, Thimble, or Barbara, and Thistle, or Audrey, were already naked. The feasting house, because of its structure, the lamps and the heat of the many bodies within it, is quite warm. I have no way of knowing precisely what its temperature often was but I would have conjectured it would often have been in the eighties. The huts, and even the houses of ice sometimes built by the hunters in their journeys and hunts, can be quite comfortable, even when the weather outside may be dozens of degrees below zero. Often, however, in the night and near morning, the lamps extinguished, and the guests departed, it can become quite cold in such dwellings, often falling below the freezing point. Often, in the morning, one must break through a layer of ice in the drinking bucket. When the houses are cold, of course, the hunters are generally sleeping in their furs, together with their women. Because of the body heat of the companion it is much warmer to sleep with someone than to sleep alone. The furs, being impervious to the passage of air, of course, tend to trap the generated body heat. It is thus possible to sleep quite comfortably in a dwelling whose objective interior temperature may be well below freezing. Also, sleeping is usually done on a sleeping platform. This is raised above the floor level. The platform is warmer than the floor level of the dwelling, of course, because of the tendency of warm air to rise. A yard of height can make a difference of several degrees of temperature inside a typical dwelling of the red hunters. Although the red hunters can and do experience intense cold their lives, generally, are not made miserable by their climate They have intelligently adapted to it and are usually quite comfortable both indoors and outdoors. Also, it seems to me objectively true that they are less sensitive to cold than many other types of individual. For one thing they are generally short and heavy, a body configuration which tends to conserve heat; for another there are serological differences between them and even other red races of Gor; these serological differences, presumably selected for in the course of generations, doubtless play some role in their adaptation to cold. I think it is probably true, though it is difficult to tell, that a given degree of severe cold will not be as unpleasant to one who is a red hunter as it would be to someone who is not of that background or stock. Red hunters, for example, will often go about cheerfully stripped to the waist in weather in which many individuals of the south would find both a tunic and a cloak comfortable.