"Yes?" I said.

"It seems not to have occurred this year," he said.

I looked at him, puzzled.

"Red hunters of the polar basin, trading for tea and sugar, have reported the failure of the herd to appear."

"That is puzzling," I said.

"It is more serious than that," he said. "It means the perishing of the men of the polar basin, or their near starvation. They depend on the tabuk in the summer for food."

"Is there anything that can he done?" I asked.

"I think not," said Samos. "Their winter stores of food, from the ice hunting. will last them for a time. Then they must hunt elsewhere. Perhaps some can live by fishing until the fall, and the return of the black sea sleen."

The red hunters lived as nomads, dependent on the migrations of various types of animals, in particular the northern tabuk and four varieties of sea sleen. Their fishing and hunting were seasonal, and depended on the animals. Sometimes they managed to secure the northern shark, sometimes even the toothed Hunjer whale or the less common Karl whale, which was a four-fluked, baleen whale. But their life, at best, was a precarious one. Little was known of them. Like many simple, primitive peoples, isolated and remote, they could live or die without being noticed.

"Send a ship north," I said, "with supplies."

"The waters north of Ax Glacier are ruthless," said Samos.

"Send it," I said.

"Very well," he said.

"There was something else," I said.

"It is nothing," he said.

"Tell me," I said.

"Here," he said, moving a bit, "here." He crouched over the mosaic where it delineated the sea, an arm of Thassa, crescentlike, extending northward and eastward, tangent upon the polar shores. The sea in this area was frozen for more than half the year. Winds and tides broke the ice, crushing and piling it in fantastic shapes, wild, trackless conformations, the sport of a terrible nature at play, the dreaded pack ice of the north.

Samos put the lamp down on the floor. "Here," he said, pointing. "It lies somewhere here."

"What?" I asked. Nothing was indicated on the map.

"The mountain that does not move," he said.

"Most mountains do not move," I smiled.

"The ice mountains of the polar sea," he said, "drift eastward."

"I see," I said.

Samos referred to an iceberg. Some of these are gigantic, pasangs in width, hundreds of feet high. They break from glaciers, usually in the spring and summer, and drift in Thassa, moving with the currents. The currents generally moved eastward above the polar basin. Gorean has no expression specifically for an iceberg. The same expression is used for both mountain and iceberg. If a reference should he unclear the expression is qualified, as by saying, "ice mountain." A mountain is a mountain to Goreans, regardless of whether it be formed of soil and stone, or ice. We tend to think of mountains as being land formations. The Gorean tends to think more of them as being objects of a certain sort, rather than objects of a certain sort with a particular location. In a sense, English does, too, for the expression 'berg' is simple German for 'mountain', and the expression 'iceberg', then is a composite word which, literally translated would yield 'ice mountain' or 'mountain of ice'. 'Berg', of course, in actual German, would be capitalized, for it is a noun. Interestingly, Goreans, although they do not capitalize all nouns do capitalize many more of them than would be capitalized in, say, English or French. Sometimes context determines capitalization. Languages are diverse and interesting, idiosyncratic and fascinating.

I will generally use the expression 'iceberg' for it is easier for me to do so.

"There is here an iceberg," said Samos, pointing to the map, "which is not following the parsit current." Samos had said, literally, of course, 'ice mountain'. The parsit current is the main eastward current above the polar basin. It is called the parsit current for it is followed by several varieties of migrating parsit, a small, narrow, usually striped fish. Sleen, interestingly, come northward with the parsit. their own migrations synchronized with those of the parsit, which forms for them their principal prey. The four main types of sea sleen found in the polar seas are the black sleen, the brown sleen, the tusked sleen and the flat-nosed sleen. There is a time of year for the arrival of each, depending on the waves of the parsit migrations. Not all members of a species of sleen migrate. Also, some winter under the ice, remaining generally dormant, rising every quarter of an Ahn or so to breathe. This is done at breaks in the ice or at gnawed breathing holes.

"An iceberg which does not drift with the current, which does not move with its brothers," I said.

"Yes," said Samos.

"It is a thing of myth," I said.

"I suppose so," said Samos.

"You grow too tense with your responsibilities, Samos," I told him. "Obviously such a thing cannot be."

Samos nodded. He grinned. "You are right," he said.

"Where did you hear of this?" I asked.

"It was told by a man of the polar basin who had come south to sell skins at the Sardar."

"Had he himself seen this?" I asked.

"No," said Samos. I smiled.

"And how was it that he spoke of it," I asked.

"He was given a coin," said Samos, "to speak of anything strange or unusual of which he might have heard."

"He well earned his coin," I said.

"Wily sleen," said Samos.

I laughed. Samos, too, laughed.

"They are clever fellows," I said.

"It is not often I am outwitted," said Samos.

Samos and I rose to our feet and returned to the small table. He put the lamp down on the table.

"You will sail then, soon, for the world's end?" asked Samos.

"It is my intention," I said. I turned to leave.

"Captain," said he.

I turned to face him. "Yes," I said.

"Do you think," he asked, "that if ever the gate to the stars should be opened, that men will remember the name of Tarl Cabot?"

"No," I said.

"I wish you well," he said.

"I, too, wish you well, Samos, first captain of Port Kar," I said.

"Who will win," he asked, "Centius of Cos or Scormus of Ar?"

"Scormus of Ar," I said. "He is invincible. Centius of Cos is a fine player, but he is beyond his prime. He is weary now. He has had his day. He will be no match for Scormus."

I remembered Scormus of Ar, whom I had seen in the house of Cernus, of Ar, some years ago. He was an incredibly handsome fellow, young, brilliant, arrogant, haughty, lame. He lived much by himself. It was said he had never touched a woman. He ruled the high bridges of Ar with his Kaissa board. No other player might call «Kaissa» on those bridges until he had bested the young Scormus. His play was swift, decisive, brilliant, merciless; more than one player had given up the game after being indulged, and then toyed with and humiliated by the genius of Scormus. Kaissa was for him a weapon. He could use it to destroy his enemies. Centius of Cos, on the other hand, was an older man; no one knew how old; it was said the stabilization serums had not taken their full effect with him until he had seen fifty winters; he was slight and gray-haired; he was quite different in personality and character from the young Scormus; he was quiet, and soft-spoken, and gentle; he loved Kaissa, and its beauty. He would often ponder a board for hours, by himself, searching for a supreme combination. "It eludes me," he would say. Once he had been bested by Sabo of Turia, at the Tharna tournaments, and he had wept with joy and embraced the victor, thanking him for letting him participate in such a beautiful game. "Winning and losing," he had said, "do not matter. What matters is the game, and the beauty." Men had thought him mad. "I had rather be remembered as the loser in one beautify! game," he 'said, "then as the winner in a thousand flawed masterpieces." He had always sought for the perfect game. He had never found it. Beauty, I suspect, lies all about us. The craftsman can find it in a turning of leather, where I might never see it. A musician may find it in a sound which I cannot detect. And one who plays Kaissa may find it in the arrangements of tiny bits of wood on a board of red and yellow squares. Centius of Cos had sought always for the perfect game. He had never found it.