Beasts of Gor (57 page)

“That is a slender thread with which to restrain such fierce, titanic instincts,” I said.

The beast extended to me a thigh of the lart. “True,” it said. “I see you understand us well.”

I took the meat and chewed on it. It was fresh, warm, still porous with blood.

“You like it, do you not?” asked the beast.

“Yes,” I said.

“You see,” it said, “you are not so different from us.”

“I have never claimed to be,” I said.

“Is not civilization as great an achievement for your species as for mine?” it asked.

“Perhaps,” I said.

“Are the threads on which your survival depends stouter than those on which ours depends?” it asked.

“Perhaps not,” I said.

“I know little of humans,” it said, “but it is my understanding that most of them are liars and hypocrites. I do not include you in this general charge.”

I nodded.

“They think of themselves as civilized animals, and yet they are only animals with a civilization. There is quite a difference.”

“Admittedly,” I said.

“Those of Earth, as I understand it, which is your home world, are the most despicable. They are petty. They mistake weakness for virtue. They take their lack of appetite, their incapacity to feel, as a merit. How small they are. The more they betray their own nature the more they congratulate themselves on their perfection. And they put economic gain above all. Their greed and their fevered scratching repulses me.”

“Not all on Earth are like that,” I said.

“It is a food world,” it said, “and the food is not of the best.”

“What do you put above all?” tasked.

“Glory,” it said. It looked at me. “Can you understand that?” it asked.

“I can understand it,” I said.

“We are soldiers,” it said, “the two of us.”

“How is it that an animal without strong social instincts can be concerned with glory?” I asked.

“It emerges, we speculate, from the killings.”

“The killings?” I asked.

“Even before the first groups,” it said, “we would gather for the matings and killings. Great circles, rings of our people, would form in valleys, to watch.”

“You fought for mates?” I asked.

“We fought for the joy of killing,” it said. “Mating, however, was a prerogative of the victor.” It took a rib bone from the lart and began to thrust it, scraping, between its fangs, freeing and removing bits of wedged meat. “Humans, as I understand it, have two sexes, which, among them, perform all the functions pertinent to the continuance of the species.

“Yes,” I said, “that is true.”

“We have three, or, if you prefer, four sexes,” it said. “There is the dominant, which would, I suppose, correspond most closely to the human male. It is the instinct of the dominant to enter the killings and mate. There is then a form of Kur which closely resembles the dominant but does not join in the killings or mate. You may, or may not, regard this as two sexes. There is then the egg-carrier who is impregnated. This form of Kur is smaller than the dominant or the non-dominant, speaking thusly of the nonreproducing form of Kur.”

“The egg-earner is the female,” I said.

“If you like,” said the beast, “but, shortly after impregnation, within a moon, the egg-carrier deposits the fertilized seed in the third form of Kur, which is mouthed, but sluggish and immobile. These fasten themselves to hard surfaces, rather like dark, globular anemones. The egg develops inside the body of the blood-nurser and, some months later, it tears its way free.”

“It has no mother,” I said.

“Not in the human sense,” it said. “It will, however, usually follow, unless it itself is a blood-nurser, which is drawn out, the first Kur it sees, providing it is either an egg-carrier or a nondominant.”

“What if it sees a dominant?” I asked.

“If it is itself an egg-carrier or a nondominant, it will shun the dominant,” it said. “This is not unwise, for the dominant may kill it.”

“What if it itself is potentially a dominant?” I asked.

The lips of the beast drew back. “That is what all hope,” it said. “If it is a dominant and it encounters a dominant, it will bare its tiny fangs and expose its claws.”

“Will the dominant not kill it then?” I asked.

“Perhaps later in the killings, when it is large and strong,” he said, “but certainly not when it is small. It is on such that the continuance of the species depends. You see, it must be tested in the killings.”

“Are you a dominant?” I asked.

“Of course,” it said. Then it added, “I shall not kill you for the question.”

“I meant no harm,” I said.

Its lips drew back.

“Are most Kurii dominants?” I asked.

“Most are born dominants,” it said, “but most do not survive the killings.”

“It seems surprising that there are many Kurii,” I said.

“Not at all,” he said. “The egg-carriers can be frequently impregnated and frequently deposit the fertilized egg in a blood-nurser. There are large numbers of blood-nursers. In the human species it takes several months for a female to carry and deliver an offspring. In the same amount of time a Kur egg-carrier will develop seven to eight eggs, each of which may be fertilized and deposited in a blood-nurser.”

“Do Kur young not drink milk?” I asked.

“The young receive blood in the nurser,” he said, “When it is born it does not need milk, but water and common protein.”

“It is born fanged?” I asked.

“Of course,” it said. “And it is capable of stalking and killing small animals shortly after it leaves the nurser.”

“Are the nursers rational?” I asked.

“We do not think so,” it said.

“Can they feel anything?” I asked.

“They doubtless have some form of sensation,” it said. “They recoil when struck or burned.”

“But there are native Kurii on Gor,” I said, “or, at any rate, Kurii who have reproduced themselves on this world.”

“Certain ships, some of them originally intended for colonization, carried representatives of our various sexes, with the exception of the nondominants,” it said. “We have also, where we knew of Kurii groups, sometimes managed to bring in egg-carriers and blood-nursers.”

“It is to your advantage that there be native Kurii,” I said.

“Of course,” he said, “yet they are seldom useful allies. They lapse too swiftly into barbarism.” He lowered the bone with which he was picking his teeth and threw it, and the remains of the lart, to the side of the room. He then took a soft, white cloth from a drawer in the table on which the translator reposed, and wiped his paws. “Civilization is fragile,” he said.

“Is there an order among your sexes?” I asked.

“Of course there is a biological order,” he said. “Structure is a function of nature. How could it be otherwise?”

“There is first the dominant, and then the egg-carrier, and then the nondominant, and then, if one considers such things Kur, the blood-nurser.”

“The female, or egg-carrier, is dominant over the non-dominant?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said. ‘They are despicable.”

“Suppose a dominant is victorious in the killings,” I said. “Then what occurs?”

“Many things could occur,” he said, “but he then, generally, with a club, would indicate what egg-carriers he desires. He then ties them together and drives them to his cave. In the cave he impregnates them and makes them serve him.”

“Do they attempt to run away?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “He would hunt them down and kill them. But after he has impregnated them they tend to remain, even when untied, for he is then their dominant.”

“What of the nondominants?” I asked.

“They remain outside the cave until the dominant is finished, fearing him muchly. When he has left the cave they creep within, bringing meat and gifts to the females, that they may be permitted to remain within the cave, as part of the dominant’s household. They serve under the females and take their orders from them. Most work, including the care of the young, is performed by nondominants.”

“I do net think I would care to be a nondominant,” I said.

“They are totally despicable,” he said, “but yet, oddly, sometimes a nondominant becomes a dominant. This is a hard thing to understand. Sometimes it happens when there is no dominant in the vicinity. Sometimes it seems to happen for no obvious reason; sometimes It happens when a nondominant is humiliated and worked beyond his level of tolerance. It is interesting. This occasional, almost inexplicable transformation of a nondominant into a dominant is the reason our biologists differ as to whether our species has three, or four sexes.”

“Perhaps the nondominant is only a latent dominant,” I said.

“Perhaps,” he said. “It is hard to tell.”

“The restriction of mating to the dominants,” I said, “plus the selections in the killings, must tend to produce a species unusually aggressive and savage.”

“It tends also to produce one that is extremely intelligent,” said the animal.

I nodded.

“But we are civilized folk,” said the animal. It rose to Its feet and went to a cabinet. “You must not think of us in terms of our bloody past.”

“Then, on the steel ships,” I said, “the killings, and the fierce matings, no longer take place.”

The animal, at the opened cabinet, turned to regard me. “I did not say that,” he said.

“The killings and the matings then continue to take place on the steel worlds?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said.

“The past, then, is still with you on the steel worlds,” I said.

“Yes,” it said. “Is the past not always with us?”

“Perhaps,” I said.

The beast returned from the cabinet with two glasses and a bottle.

“Is that not the paga of Ar?” I asked.

“Is it not one of your favorites?” he asked, “See,” he said, “It has the seal of the brewer, Temus.”

“That is remarkable,” I said. “You are very thoughtful.”

“I have been saving it,” he told me.

“For me?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said. “I was confident you would get through.’

“I am honored,” I said.

“I have waited so long to talk to you,” he said.

He poured two glasses of paga, and reclosed the bottle. We lifted the glasses, and touched them, the one to the other.

“To our war,” he said.

“To our war,” I said.

We drank.

“I cannot even pronounce your name,” I said.

“It will be sufficient,” he said, “to call me Zarendargar, which can be pronounced by human beings, or, if you like, even more simply, Half-Ear.”

32

“You see?” asked the beast, pointing upward, it seemed at a starry sky above our heads.

“Yes,” I said. I did not recognize the patch of the heavens above us.

“That was our star,” he said, “a yellow, medium-sized, slow-rotating star with a planetary system, one small enough to have sufficient longevity to nourish life, one large enough to have a suitable habitable zone.”

“Not unlike Tor-tu-Gor, or Sol,” I said. “the common star of Earth and Gor.”

“Precisely,” he said.

“Tell me of your world,” I said.

“My worid is of steel,” it said. It seemed bitter.

“Your old world,” I said.

“I never saw it, of course,” he said. “It was, of course, of a suitable size and distance from its star. It was small enough to permit the escape of hydrogen, large enough to retain oxygen. It was not so close to the star as to be a ball of scalding rock nor so far as to be a frozen spheroid.”

“It maintained temperatures at which water could be in a liquid form.”

“Yes,” it said, “and the mechanisms, the atomic necessities, of chemical evolution were initiated, and the macromolecules and protocells, in time, were formed.”

“Gases were exchanged, and the hydrogen-dominated atmosphere yielded to one in which free oxygen was a major component.”

“It became green,” it said.

“Life began its climb anew,” I said.

“Out of the two billion years of the wars and the killings, and the eatings and the huntings, came my people,” it said. “We were the triumph of evolution in all its heartless savagery,” it said.

“And the doom of your world,” I said.

“We do not speak of what happened,” it said. It moved to the wall and, passing its paw before a switch, caused the projection on the ceiling to vanish. It turned then to look upon me. “Our world was very beautiful,” it said. “We will have another.”

“Perhaps not,” I said.

“The human being cannot even kill with its teeth,” it said.

I shrugged.

“But let us not quarrel,” it said. “I am so pleased that you are here, and I am so fond of you.”

“Out on the ice,” I said, “we saw, or seemed to see, in the lights in the sky, your face.”

Its lips drew back. “You did,” it said.

‘The lights are most normally seen in the fall and spring,” I said, “near the time of the equinoxes.”

“That is clever of you,” it said.

“What we saw then,” I said, “was artificially produced.”

“Yes,” it said, “but it is not unlike the natural phenomenon. It is produced by saturating the atmosphere with certain patterns of charged particles. These patterns may be arranged in given orders, to correspond to alphabetic characters, either in a Kur tongue or, say, in Gorean. The lights, apparently a natural phenomenon, are thus used as a signaling device to Kur groups and their human compatriots.”

“Ingenious,” I said.

“I permitted my visage to be depicted in the lights to honor you, and welcome you to the north,” it said.

I nodded.

“Would you like another drink?” it asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Your complex,” I said, “is doubtless impressive. Would you show me about it?”

“I can do so without leaving this room,” it said. It then, turning various dials, illuminated what I had taken to be the darkened portholes, or some other sort of aperture, in the walls, which I now saw were recessed screens, coordinated with various, movable cameras, operated from the room. By means of these cameras, and the various screens, I was given to understand the immensity and intricacy of the complex. Some of the screens were over my head but, lifted to the poles, those above, I, clinging to the poles, could see well. The beast moved easily on the poles beside me.