For once his voice was sad. "On one of the Great Farms," he said. "I failed her."
"We have all failed," I said.
There was not much conversation in the cell, for the men perhaps had little to say, and their bodies were worn with the cruel labours of the day. I sat with my back against the damp wall, listening to the sounds of their sleep. I was far from the Sardar Mountains, far from the Priest- Kings of Gor. I had failed my city, my beloved Talena, my father, my friends. There would not be a stone set upon another stone. The riddle of the Priest-Kings, of their cruel, incomprehensible will, would not be solved. Their secret would be kept, and I would die, sooner or later, whipped and starved, in the kennels that were the mines of Tharna.
Tharna has perhaps a hundred or more mines, each maintained by its own chain of slaves. These mines are tortuous networks of tunnels worming themselves inch by inch irregularly through the rich ores that are the foundation of the wealth of the city. Most of the shaft tunnels do not allow a man tostand upright in them. Many are inadequately braced. As the slave works the tunnel, he crawls on his hands and knees, which bleed at first but gradually develop calluses of thick, scabrous tissue. About his neck hangs a canvas bag in which pieces of ore are carried back to the scales. The ore itself is freed from the sides of the mine by a small pick. Light is supplied by tiny lamps, no more than small cups of tharlarion oil with fibre wicks.
The working day is fifteen Gorean hours (Ahns), which, allowing for the slight difference in the period of the planet" s rotation, would be approximately eighteen Earth hours. The slaves are never brought to the surface, and once plunged into the cold darkness of the mines never again see the sun. The only relief in their existence comes once a year, on the birthday of the Tatrix, when they are served a small cake, made with honey and sesame seeds, and a small pot of poor Kal-da. One fellow on my chain, little more than a toothless skeleton, boasted that he had drunk Kal-da three times in the mines. Most are not so fortunate. The life expectancy of the mine slave, given the labour and food, if he does not die under the whips of the overseers, is usually from six months to one year. I found myself gazing at the large circular hole in the ceiling of the narrow cell.
In the morning, though I knew it was morning only by the curses of the Whip Slaves, the cracking of the whips, the cries of slaves and the rattle of chains, I and my fellow prisoners crawled from our cell, emerging again into the broad, rectangular room which lay directly beyond.
Already the feed trough had been filled.
The slaves edged toward the trough, but were whipped back. The word had not been given which would allow them to fall upon it.
The Whip Slave, another of the slaves of Tharna, but one in charge of the chain, was pleased with his task. Though he might never see the light of the sun, yet it was he who held the whip, he who was Ubar in this macabre dungeon.
The slaves tensed, their eyes fixed on the trough. The whip lifted. When it fell, that would be the signal that they might rush to the trough. There was pleasure in the eyes of the Whip Slave as he enjoyed the tormenting moment of suspense which his uplifted whip inflicted on the ragged, hungry slaves.
The whip cracked. "Feed!" he shouted.
The slaves lunged forward.
"No!" I cried, my voice checking them.
Some of them stumbled and fell, sprawling with a rattle of chains on the floor, dragging others down. But most managed to stand upright, catching their balance, and, almost as one man, that wretched degraded huddle of slaves turned its frightened, empty eyes upon me.
"Feed!" cried the Whip Slave, cracking the whip again.
"No," I said.
The huddle of men wavered.
Ost tried to pull toward the trough, but he was chained to Kron, who refused to move. Ost might as well have been chained to a tree. The Whip Slave approached me. Seven times the whip struck me, and I did not flinch.
Then I said, "Do not strike me again."
He backed away, the whip arm falling. He had understood me, and he knew that his life was in danger. What consolation would it be to him if the entire mine were flooded, if he had first perished with my chain about his throat?
I turned to the men. "You are not animals," I said. "You are men." Then, gesturing them forward, I led them to the trough.
"Ost," I said, "will distribute the food."
Ost thrust his hands into the trough, and crammed a fistful of bread into his mouth.
Kron" s wrist chains struck him across the cheek and ear, and the bread flew from his mouth.
"Distribute the food," said Kron.
"We choose you," said Andreas of Tor, "because you are known for your honesty."
And amazing to say, those chained wretches laughed.
Sullenly, while the Whip Slave stood by and watched, angry fearful, Ost distributed the poor fare that lay in the trough.
The last piece of bread I broke in two, taking half and giving the other half to Ost. "Eat," I said.
In fury, his eyes darting back and forth like those of an urt, he bit into the bread and gulped it down. "The chamber will be flooded for this," he said.
Andreas of Tor said, "I, for one, would be honoured to die in the company of Ost."
And again the men laughed, and I thought that even Ost smiled. The Whip Slave watched while we filed up the long incline to the shafts, his whip arm limp. Wondering, he watched us, for one of the men, of the Caste of Peasants, had begun to hum a plowing song, and, one by one, the others joined him.
The quota was well met that day, and the day following.
Chapter Eighteen: WE ARE OF THE SAME CHAIN
Occasionally a bit of news filtered down into the mines, brought by the slaves who filled the feeding trough. These slaves were fortunate for they had access to the central shaft. Each of the hundred mines of Tharna, at one level or another, opened on this shaft. It is to be distinguished from the much smaller ore shafts, which are individual to each mine. The ore shafts are like narrow wells sunk in the stone and their platforms can scarcely accomodate a slave" s sack of ore.
It is through the central shaft that the mines of Tharna are supplied. Down that shaft comes not only food but, when needed, canvas, tools and chains. Drinking water, of course, is supplied by the natural sumps in each mine. I myself, and my fellow slaves, had descended the central shaft. Only dead slaves made the ascent.
Beginning with the slaves who worked the pulleys that controlled the supply platform in the central shaft, the news had spread, from one mine to another, until at last it had reached even ours, which was the deepest on the shaft.
There was a new Tatrix in Tharna.
"Who is the new Tatrix?" I asked.
"Dorna the Proud," said the slave, who tumbled onions, turnips, radishes, potatoes and bread into the feed trough.
"What happened to Lara?" I asked.
He laughed. "You are ignorant!" he exclaimed.
"News does not travel fasy in the mines," I said.
"She was carried off," he said.
"What?" I cried.
"Yes," said he, "by a tarnsman, as it turned out."
"What is his name?" I asked.
"Tarl," said he, and his voice fell to a whisper, "- of Ko- ro-ba." I was dumbfounded.
"He is an outlaw," said the man, "who survived the Amusements of Tharna." "I know," I said.