And then I laughed, for I was considering how Port Kar might fall, and yet she was my own, my own city.

"More paga!" I cried.

Tarnsmen, aflight, might annoy her with arrows or fire, but it did not seem they could seriously harm her, not unless they come in thousands upon thousands, and not even Ar, Glorious Ar, possessed tarn cavalries so great. And how, even then, could Port Kar fall, for she was a mass of holdings, each individually defensible, room to room, each separated from the others by the canals which, in their hundreds, crossed and divided the city?

No, I said to myself, Port Kar could be held a hundred years.

And even should she, somehow, fall, her men need only take ship, and then, when it pleased them, return, ordering slaves again to build in the delta a city called Port Kar.

On Gor, I told myself, and perhaps on all worlds, there will always be a Port Kar.

I found the girl on the sand seductive, and beautiful. The girls of Port Kar, I told myself are the best on Gor.

Tarnsmen, I thought, tarnsmen.

Off to my right a table was overturned and two men of the crew of Surbus were rolling about, brawling. Ohers were calling for Whip Knives to be brought. I remembered, with fondness, my own tarn, the sable monster, Ubar of the Skies. I extended my hand and the goblet was again refilled.

And I remembered, too, with bitterness, the girl, Elizabeth Cardwell, Vella of Gor, who had so helped me in my work in Ar on behalf of the Priest-kings. While returning her to the Sardar I had thought long on the matter of her safety. I surely could not permit her, though I then loved her, as I could not now, being unworthy to love, to remain longer in the dangers of Gor. Already she who doubtless be known to the Others, not Priest-Kings, who would challenge Priest-Kings for this world, and Earth. Her life would surely be in jeopardy. She had undertaken great risks with me, which I, foolishly, had permitted. When at last I had brought her safely back to the Sardar I had thus told her I would arrange with Misk, the Priest-King, that she be returned to Earth.

"No!" she had cried.

"I have made my decision," I told her. "You will be, for your own good, for your own safety and well-being, returned to the planet Earth, where you will no longer have to fear the perils of this world."

"But this is my world!" she had cried. "It is mine as much as yours! I love it and you cannot send me from it!"

"You will be returned to the planet Earth," I had informed her.

"But I love you," she said.

"I am sorry," I said, "It is not easy for me to do what I must do." There had been tears in my eyes. "You must forget me," I said. "And you must forget this world."

"You do not want me!" she cried.

"That is not true," I said, "I love you."

"You have no right," said she, "to take me from this world. It is mine, as much as yours!"

It would be hard, certainly, for her to leave this world, beautiful, bright and green, but perilous, for the cities of Earth, to breathe again its air, to live in its cubicles, to move jostled among her uncaring crowds, ot lose herself again in its mercantile grayness, its insensibilities and tediums, but it was better for her to do so. There she could be anonymous, and safe, perhaps contract a desirable marriage, and live well in a large house, perhaps with servants, and conveniences, and devices.

"You will take this world from me!" she cried.

"I have made my decision," I told her.

"You have no right," said she, "to make such a decision for me."

She looked up at me.

"It is done," I said. "Tomorrow you will be returned to Earth. Your work here is done."

I attempted to kiss her, but she had turned and, not crying, left me. My thoughts turned again to the great saddlebird, the War Tarn, Ubar of the Skies.

He had slain men who had attempted to climb to his saddle.

Yet, that night, he had permitted Elizabeth Cardwell, only a girl to saddle him, to fly away from Sardar.

He, alone, had returned four days later.

In fury I had driven the bird away.

I who had sought to protect her, had lost her.

And Talena, too, who has once been my Free Companion, years ago, I had lost. I had loved two women, and I had lost them both.

I wept at the table, foolishly.

I drank more paga, and my senses reeled.

Port Kar seemed sovereign on Thassa.

Her seamen were surely the match for any who might sail against them. They were perhaps the finest on all Gor.

It angered me, suddenly, drunkenly, that those of Port Kar, wicked as they were, should possess so superbly the skills of seamanship.

But then I laughed, for I should be proud. For was I not myself of Port Kar? Could we not do what we wished, taking what we wanted, as we had rence girls that pleased us, simply binding them and making them our slaves?

I laughed, for I had been considering, aforetime, how Port Kar might fall, and yet she was my own, my own city!

The two drunken seamen were now cutting away, wildly, at one another, with whip knives. They fought in the square of sand among the tables. The girl, who had danced there, she who had worn the delicate vest and belt of chains and jewels, with shimering metal droplets attached, with the musicians, had withdrawn to one side. Men were calling oods in betting.

The whip knife is a delicate weapon, and can be used with elegance, with finesse; it is, as far as I know, unique to Port Kar.

In the shouts, under the ship's lanterns, I saw the flesh leap from the cheek of one of the seamen. The girl, the dancer, eyes blazing with delight, fists clenched, was screaming encouragement to one of the contestants.

But these men were drunk and stumbling, and their brutal striking about, it seemed, was offensive to many at the tables, who disdained so crude an employment of a weapon of such subtlety.

Then one of the men was down, vomiting in his blood, on his hands and knees. "Kill him!" screamed the girl. "Kill him!"

But teh other fellow, drunk and bleeding, to great laughter among the tables, stumbled backwards, turned, and fell unconscious.

"Kill him!" screamed the girl, in her vest and belt of chains and jewels, to the unconscious man. "Kill him!"

But the other man, bleeding, shaking his head, had now crawled from the patch of sand and now, some yards off, had collaspsed among the tables, quite as unconscious as the first.

"Kill him!" shrieked the girl to the first man. "Kill him!"

Then she screamed with pain, throwing back her head, as the lash of the five-strap Gorean slave whip cut into her back.

"Dance, Slave!" commanded the proprietor, her Master.

She, terrified, fled to the sand, with a jangling of her chains, and jewels and metal droplets, and stood tehre, tears in her eyes, knees flexed, arms lifted over her head.

"Play!" cried the proprietor to the musicians. He cracked the whip once again. They began to play, and the girl, once more, danced.

I looked upon her, and looked, as well, from face to face in that crowded, noisy, poorly lit room, filled with men laughing and drinking. There was not a face there that I saw taht did not seem to me the face of an animal. And I, whoever or whatever I might be, sat with them, at the same tables. I joined in their laughter. "More paga!" I cried.

And then I wept, for I had loved two women, and had lost them both. And, as I watched, on that square of sand between the tables in a paga tavern in Port Kar, under the ship's lanterns, the movements of the body of a slave girl, the lights reflected in her chains, the rubies, the shimmering golden droplets, I grew slowly furious.

I vowed that I would never again lose a woman.

Woman, I told myself, as many said, was natural slave.

Then she was before my very table. "Master," she whispered.