other of the two creatures. Yet I saw no flicker of doubt or uneasiness in his eyes, nor any incipient lifting of the broad ears. It did, however, draw its lips back slightly, observing my attention. It had apparently found my attempt to read its behavioral cues amusing.
"Do you speak on behalf of Priest-Kings?" asked Kog.
"I cannot," said Samos.
"That is interesting," said Kog.
"If you would speak with Priest-Kings," said Samos, "you must go to the Sardar."
"What are Priest-Kings?" asked Kog.
"I do not know," said Samos.
Such creatures, I gathered, had no clear idea of the nature of Priest- Kings. They had not directly experienced Priest-Kings, only the power of Priest-Kings. Like burned animals they were wary of them. Priest- Kings, wisely, did not choose to directly confront such creatures. Not a little of the hesitancy and tentativeness of the militaristic incursions of such creatures was, I suspected, a function of their ignorance of, and fear of, the true nature and power of the remote and mysterious denizens of the Sardar. If such creatures should come to clearly understand the nature of the Priest-Kings, and the current restrictions on their power, in virtue of the catastrophic Nest War, I had little doubt but what the attack signals would be almost immediately transmitted to the steel worlds. In weeks the silver ships would beach on the shores of Gor.
"We know the nature of Priest-Kings," said Kog. "They are much like ourselves."
"I do not know," said Samos.
"They must be," said Kog, "or they could not be a dominant life form."
"Perhaps," said Samos. "I do not know."
The larger of the two creatures, during this exchange, was watching me. I smiled at him. Its ears twitched with annoyance. Then again it was as it had been, regal, savage, distant, unmoving and alert.
"Can you speak on behalf of the men of the two worlds?" asked Kog. This was a reference, doubtless, to the Earth and, Gor.
"No," said Samos.
"But you are a man," said Kog.
"I am only one man," said Samos.
"Their race has not yet achieved species unification," said the larger of the two creatures, to his fellow. His remark, of course, was picked up by the translator and processed, as though it had been addressed to us.
"That is true," said Kog. I wondered, hearing this, beasts, either, had achieved species unification. I was inclined to doubt it. Such creatures, being territorial, individualistic and aggressive, much like men, would not be likely to find the bland idealisms of more vegetative organisms interesting, attractive or practical, Logical, and terrible, they would not be likely to find the fallacy of the single virtue, the hypothesis of social reductivism, alluring.
All creatures are not the same, nor is it necessary that they should be. Jungles may be as appealing to nature as gardens. Leopards and wolves are as legitimately ingredient in the order of nature as spaniels and potatoes. Species unification, I suspected, would prove not to be a blessing, but a trap and a bane, a pathology and curse, a societal sanitarium in which the great and strong would be reduced to, or must pretend to be reduced to, the level of the blinking, the cringing, the creeping and the tiny. To be sure, values are involved here, and one must make decisions. It is natural that the small and weak will make one decision, and the large and strong another. There is no single humanity, no single shirt, no correct pair of shoes, no uniform, even a gray one that will fit all men. There are a thousand humanities possible. He who denies this sees only his own horizons. He who disagrees is the denier of difference, and the murderer of the better futures.
"It is unfortunate," said Sardak, speaking to Kog, "that they have not achieved species unification. Else, once the Priest-Kings are disposed of, it would be easier to herd them to our cattle pens."
"That is true," said Kog.
What Sardak said seemed to me, too, likely to be true. Highly centralized structures are