John Norman - Priest-Kings of Gor

We had not walked far when we passed a long, wormlike animal, eyeless, with a small red mouth, that inched its way along the corridor, hugging the angle between the wall and floor.

Neither of my guides paid the animal any attention.

Indeed, even I myself, after my experience with the arthropod on the platform and the flat, sluglike beast on its transportation disk in the plaza, was growing accustomed to finding strange creatures in the Nest of the Priest-Kings.

“What is that?” I asked.

“A Matok,” said one of the slaves.

“Yes,” said the other, “it is in the Nest but not of the Nest.”

“But I thought I was a Matok,” I said.

“You are,” said one of the slaves.

We continued on.

“What do you call it?” I asked.

“Oh,” said one of the slaves. “It is a Slime Worm.”

“What does it do?” I asked.

“Long ago it functioned in the Nest,” said one of the slaves, “as a sewerage device, but it has not served that function in many thousands of years.”

“But yet it remains in the Nest.”

“Of course,” said one of the slaves, “the Priest-Kings are tolerant.”

“Yes,” said the other, “and they are fond of it, and are themselves creatures of great reverence for tradition.”

“The Slime Worm has earned its place in the Nest,” said the other.

“How does it live?” I asked.

“It scavenges on the kills of the Golden Beetle,” said the first slave.

“What does the Golden Beetle kill?” I asked.

“Priest-Kings,” said the second slave.

I would surely have pressed forward this inquiry but at that very moment we arrived at a tall steel portal in the hallway.

Looking up I saw beneath the square of scent-dots fixed high on the steel door the stylised outline picture of what was unmistakably a human being.

“This is the place,” said one of my companions. “It is here that you will be processed.”

“We will wait for you,” said the other.

The arms of the metal device seized me and I found myself held helplessly by the arms suspended some feet above the floor.

Behind me the panel had slid shut.

The room was rather large, blean and coated with plastic. It seemed to be bare except that at one end there were several metal disks in the wall and, high in the wall, there was a transparent shield. Viewing me antiseptically through this shield was the face of a Priest-King.

“May you bathe in the dung of Slime Worms,” I called to him cheerfully. I hoped he had a translator.

Two circular metal plates in the wall beneath the shield had slid upward and suddenly long metal arms had telescoped outwards and reached for me.

For an instant I had considered scarmbling out of their reach but then I had sensed that there would be no escape in the smooth, closed, carefully prepared room in which I found myself.

The metal arms had locked on me and lifted me from the floor.

The Priest-King behind the shield did not seem to notice my remark. I supposed he did not have a translator.

As I dangled there to my irritation further devices manipulated by the Priest-King emerged from the wall and extended towards me.

One of these woth maddening delicacy snipped the clothing from my body, even cutting the thongs of my sandals. Another deftly forced a large, ugly pellet down my throat.

Considering the size of a Priest-King and the comparatively small scale of these operations I gathered that the reduction gearing on the mechanical appendages must be considerable. Moreover the accuracy with which the operations were performed suggested a magnification of some sort. I would learn later that practically the entire wall which faced me was such a device, being in effect a very large scent – reinforcer. But at the time I was in no mood to admire the engineering talents of my captors.

“May you antennae be soaked in grease!” I called to my tormentor.

His antennae stiffened and then curled a bit at the tips.

I was pleased. Apparently he did have a translator.

I was considering my next insult when the two arms which held me swung me over a metal cage with a double floor, the higher consisting of narrow bars set in a wide mesh and the lower consisting simply of a white plastic tray.

The metal appendages which held me suddenly sprang open and I was dropped into the cage.

I sprang to my feet but the top of the cage had clicked shut.

I wanted to try the bars but already I felt sick and I sank to the bottom of the cage.

I was no longer interested in insulting Priest-Kings.

I remember looking up and seeing its antennae curling.

It took only two or three minutes for the pellet to do its work and it is not with pleasure that I recall those minutes.

Finally the plastic tray neatly slid out from beneath the cage and swiftly disappeared through a low, wide panel in the left wall.

I gratefully noted its departure.

Then the entire cage, on a track of some sort, began to move through an opening which appeared in the right wall.

In the following journey the cage was successively submerged in various solutions of various temperatures and densities, some of which, perhaps because I was still ill, I found exceedingly noxious.

Had I been less ill I would undoubtedly have been more offended.

At last after I, sputtering and choking, had been duly cleansed and rinsed several times, and then it seemed several times again, the cage began to move slowly, mercifully, between vents from which blasts of hot air issued, and, eventually, it passed slowly between an assortment of humming projection points for wide-beam rays, some of which were visible to my eye, being yellow, red and a refulgent green.

I would later learn that these rays, which passed through my body as easily and harmlessly as sunlight through glass, were indexed to the metabolic physiology of various organisms which can infect Priest-Kings. I would also learn that the last known free instance of such an organism had occurred more than four thousand years before. In the next frew weeks in the Nest I would occasionally come upon diseased Muls. The organisms which afflict them are apparently harnless to Priest-Kings and thus allowed to survive. Indeed, they are regarded as Matoks, in the Nest, but not of the Nest, and are thus to be tolerated with equanimity.

I was still quite ill when, clad in a red plasic tunic, I rejoined the two slaves in the hall outside the door.

“You look much better,” said one of them.

“They left the threadlike growths on your head,” said the other.

“Hair,” I said, leaning against the portal.

“Strange,” said one of the slaves. “The only fibrous body growths permitted Muls are the lashes of the eyes.”

This, I supposed, would have to do with protecting the eyes from particles. Idly, not feeling well, I wondered if there were any particles.

“But he is a Matok,” said one.

“That is true,” said the other.

I was glad that the tunic I wore was not of the Ubar’s purple which would proclaim me as a slave of Priest-Kings.

“Perhaps if you are very zealous,” said one, “you can become a Mul.”

“Yes,” said the other, “then you would be not only in the Nest but of the Nest.”

I did not respond.

“That is best,” said one.

“Yes,” said the other.

I leaned back against the portal of the Hall of Processing, my eyes closed, and took several slow, deep breaths.

“You have been assigned quarters,” said one of the two slaves, “a case in the chamber of Misk.”

I opened my eyes.

“We will take you there,” said the other.

I looked at them blankly. “A case?” I asked.