Nomads Of Gor

I nodded.

"We will withdraw," said Kamchak. He turned to a subor- dinate. "Let the wagons be gathered," he said, "and the bosk turned from Turia."

"You are giving up?" I asked.

Kamchak's eyes briefly gleamed. Then he smiled. "Of course," he said.

I shrugged.

I knew that I myself must somehow enter Turia, for in Turia now lay the golden sphere. I must somehow attempt to seize it and return it to the Sardar. Was it not for this purpose that I had come to the Wagon Peoples? I cursed the fact that I had waited so long even to the time of the Omen Taking for thereby had I lost the opportunity to try for the sphere myself in the wagon of Kutaituchik. Now, to my chagrin, the sphere lay not in a Tuchuk wagon on the open prairie but, presumably, in the House of Saphrar, a merchant stronghold, behind the high, white walls of Turia. I did not speak to Kamchak of my intention, for I was confident that he would have, and quite properly, objected to so foolish a mission, and perhaps even have attempted to prevent my leaving the camp.

Yet l did not know the city. I could not see how I might enter. I did not know how I might even attempt to succeed in so dangerous a task as that which I had set myself. The afternoon among the wagons was a busy one, for they were preparing to move. Already the herds had been eased westward, away from Turia toward Thassa, the distant sea. There was much grooming of wagon bask, checking of har- ness and wagons, cutting of meat to be dried hanging from the sides of the moving wagons in the sun and wind. In the morning the wagons, in their long lines, would follow the slowly moving herds away from Turia. Meanwhile the Omen I Taking, even with the participation of the Tuchuk haruspexes, continued for the haruspexes of the people would remain j behind until even the final readings had been completed. I had heard, from a master of hunting sleen, that the Omens were developing predictably, several to one against the choice of a Ubar San. Indeed, the difficulty of the Tuchuks with the Turians had possibly, I guessed, exerted its influence on an omen or two in passing. One could hardly blame the Kassars, the Kataii and Paravaci for not wanting to be led by a Tuchuk against Turia or for not wanting to acquire the Tuchuk troubles by uniting with them in any fashion. The Paravaci were particularly insistent on maintaining the inde- pendence of the peoples Since the death of Kutaituchik, Kamchak had turned ugly in ma

I searched among the wagons long before I found, sitting cross-legged beneath a wagon, wrapped in a worn bosk robe, his weapons at hand folded in leathers the young man whose name was Harold, the blond-haired, blue-eyed fellow who had been so victimized by Hereena, she of the First Wagon, who had fallen spoils to Turia in the games of Love War. He was eating a piece of bask meat in the Tuchuk fashion, holding He meat in his left hand and between his teeth, and cutting pieces from it with a quiva scarcely a quarter inch from his lips, then chewing the severed bite and then again holding the meat in his hand and teeth and cutting again. Without speaking I sat down near him and watched him eat. He eyed me warily, and neither did he speak. After a time I said to him, "How are the bask?"

"They are doing as well as night be expected," he said. "Are the quivas sharp?" I inquired.

"We try to keep them that way," he said.

"It is important," I observed, "to keep the axles of wagons greased."

"Yes," he said, "I think so."

He handed me a piece of meat and I chewed on it.

"You are Tart Cabot, the Koroban," he said.

"Yes," I said, "and you are Harold the Tuchuk."

He looked at me and smiled. "Yes," he said, "I am Harold the Tuchuk."

"I am going to Turia," I said.

'That is interesting," said Harold, "I, too, am going to Turia."

"On an important matter?" I inquired.

"No," he said.

"What is it you think to do?" I asked.

"Acquire a girl," he said.

"Ah," I said.

"What is it you wish in Turia?" inquired Harold.

"Nothing important," I remarked.

"A woman?" he asked.

"No," I said, "a golden sphere."

"I know of it," said Harold, "it was stolen from the wagon of Kutaituchik." He looked at me. "It is shill to lie worth- less."