Cabot lifted his Scotch again, holding it before him, not drinking. Then, ceremoniously, bitterly, he poured a bit of it out onto the table, where it splattered, partly soaking into a napkin. As he performed this gesture, he uttered some formula in that strange tongue I had heard but once before-when I had nearly perished at his hands. Somehow I had the feeling that he was becoming dangerous. I was uneasy. .

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I am offering a libation," he said. "Ta-Sardar-Gor."

"What does that mean?" I asked, my words fumbling a bit, blurred by the liquor, made unsteady by my fear.

"It means," laughed Cabot, a mirthless laugh, "-to the Priest-Kings of Gor!"

He rose unsteadily. He seemed tall, strange, almost of another world in that subdued light, in that quiet atmosphere of small, genial civilized noises.

Book 2, pg 13

[~back to search page~]

---

back to top