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doubtless all metaphors are small, and must fail; indeed, what are these metaphors but instruments of fragile straw with which we, pathetic, wondering animals, would scratch at the gates of obdurate, granite mystery; yet if we must choose our way in which to fail I do not think the Gorean has made a poor choice; his choice, it seems to me, is not inferior to that of the man of Earth. He cares for his world; it is his friend; he would not care to kill it.
    Let it suffice to say that to the Gorean sailor his ships are living things. Were they not, how could he love them so?
    “This ship is essentially ready,” said Samos. “It can sail soon for the world’s end.”
    “Strange, is it not,” I asked, “that when the ship is nearly ready that this message should come?”
    “Yes,” said Samos. ‘That is strange.”
    “The Kurii wish us to sail now for the world’s end,” I said.
    “Arrogant beasts!” cried Samos, pounding down on the small table. “They challenge us now to stop them!”
    “Perhaps,” I admitted.
    “We have sought them in vain. We were helpless. We knew not where to look. Now they in their impatient vanity, in their mockery of our impotence, boldly announce to us their whereabouts!”
    “Have they?” I asked.
    “‘We are here,’ they say. ‘Come seek us, Fools, if you dare!’”
    “Perhaps,” I said. “Perhaps.”
    “Do you doubt the message?” asked Samos.
    “I do not know,” I said. “I simply do not know.”
    “They taunt us,” said Samos. “War is a sport for them.”
    “Perhaps,” I said.
    “We must act,” he said.
    “In what way?” I asked.
    “You must sail immediately to the world’s end.” Samos looked at me, grimly. “There you must seek out Half-Ear, and destroy him.”
    “None have returned from the world’s end,” I said.
    “You are afraid?” asked Samos.
    “Why,” I asked, “should the message be addressed to me?”
    “The Kurii know you,” said he. “They respect you.”
    I, too, respected them. I was a warrior. I enjoyed sharing with them the cruel, mortal games of war. They were cunning, and fierce, and terrible. I was a warrior. I found them precious foes.
    “Does not the fate of worlds weigh upon you?” asked Samos.
    I smiled.
    “I know you,” he said, bitterly, “you are a warrior, a soldier, a mercenary, an adventurer. You fight for the exhilaration. You are frivolous. In your way you are as despicable as the Kur.”
    “Perhaps I am an adventurer,” I said. “I do not truly know. I have stood against the Kur. I have met men with steel. I have had the women of enemies naked at my feet, suing to be my slaves.”
    “You are a mercenary,” he said.
    “Perhaps,” I said. “but I choose my wars with care.”
    “It is strange,” said Samos.
    “What?” I asked.
    “We fight for civilization,” said Samos, “against the barbarism of the Kur.”
    I smiled that Samos should see himself so.
    “And yet,” said he, “in the world for which we strive we would have no place.”
    I looked at him.
    “In a civilized world, Captain,” said he, “there would be no place for such as you.”
    “That is true,” I said.
    “Is it not a paradox?” asked Samos. “Men need us in order to bring about a world in which we may be scorned and disregarded.”
    I said nothing.
    “Men seldom recall who it was who brought them the fruits of victory.”
    “It is true,” I conceded.
    “Civilized men,” said Samos, “the small and pale, the righteous, the learned, the smug, the supercilious, the weak-stomached and contemptuous, stand upon the shoulders of forgotten, bloody giants.”
    I shrugged.
    “You are such a bloody giant,” he said.
    “No,” I said. “I am only a tarnsman, a nomad in unusual conflicts, a friend of the sword.”
    “Sometimes,” said Samos, “I weep.” He looked at me. I bad never before seen him in such a mood.
    “Is our struggle, if successful,” he asked, “to issue only in the victory of defeat, the triumph