Uncharted Stars by Andre Norton Page A

rest of the hide; the paws, still firm on the limbs, they used as cover for hands and feet. Save for the showing of their faces they might well be beasts lumbering about on their hind legs.
    Their faces were many shades darker than the golden fur framing them, and their eyes narrow and slitted, as if after generations of holding them so in protection against the glare of sun on snow and ice this had become a normal characteristic.
    They appeared to keep no guard at their gate, but three of them, who must have been summoned by the gong, gestured to me with short crystal rods. Whether these were weapons or badges of office I did not know, but I obediently went with them, down the central street. Sornuff had been built in circular form, and its center hub was another cone temple, much larger than Zeeta’s shrine.
    The door into it was relatively narrow and oddly fashioned to resemble an open mouth, though above it were no other carvings to indicate the rest of a face. This was Torg’s place and the test of my plan now lay before me.
    I could sense no change in warmth in the large circular room into which we came. If there was any form of heating in Sornuff it was not used in Torg’s temple. But the chill did not in any way seem to bother my guides or the waiting priests. Behind them was the representation of Torg, again a widely open mouth, in the wall facing the door.
    â€œI bring a gift for Torg,” I began boldly.
    â€œYou are not of the people of Torg.” It was not quite a protest, but it carried a faint shadow of warning and it came from one of the priests. Over his fur he wore a collar of red metal from which hung several flat plaques, each set with a different color stone and so masively engraved in an interwined pattern that it could not be followed.
    â€œYet I bring a gift for the pleasures of Torg, such as perhaps not even his children of the blood have seen.” I brought out the best of the zorans, a blue-green roughly oval stone which nearly filled the hollow of my hand when I had unrolled its wrappings and held it forth to the priest.
    He bent his head as if he sniffed the stone, and then he shot out a pale tongue, touching its tip to the hard surface. Having to pass it through some strange test, he plucked it out of my hold and turned to face the great mouth in the wall. The zoran he gripped between the thumb and forefinger of each hand, holding it in the air at eye level.
    â€œBehold the food of Torg, and it is good food, a welcome gift,” he intoned. I heard a stir and mutter from behind me as if I had been followed into the temple by others.
    â€œIt is a welcome gift!” the other priests echoed.
    Then he snapped his fingers, or appeared to do so, in an odd way. The zoran spun out and away, falling through the exact center of the waiting mouth, to vanish from sight. The ceremony over, the priest turned once more to face me.
    â€œStranger you are, but for one sun, one night, two suns, two nights, three suns, three nights, you have the freedom of the city of Torg and may go about such business as is yours within the gates which are under the Guardianship of Torg.”
    â€œThanks be to Torg,” I answered and bowed my head. But when I in turn faced around I found that my gift giving had indeed had an audience. There were a dozen at least of the furred people staring intently at me. And though they opened a passage, giving me a free way to the street without, one on the fringe stepped forward and laid a paw-gloved hand on my arm.
    â€œStranger Who Has Given to Torg.” He made a title of address out of that statement. “There is one who would speak with you.”
    â€œOne is welcome,” I replied. “But I am indeed a stranger within your gates and have no house roof under which to speak.”
    â€œThere is a house roof and it is this way.” He trilled that hurriedly, glancing over his shoulder as if he feared interruption. And as it did seem