"John Norman - Gor 01- Tarnsman of Gor" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norman John)

"Look," he cried in actual despair, waving his blue robed arms hopelessly at the messiest chamber
I had seen on Gor. His desk, a vast wooden table, was piled with papers and pots of ink, and pens
and scissors and leather fasteners and binders. There was no square foot of the chamber that did
not contain racks of scrolls, and others, hundreds perhaps, were piled like cord wood here and
there. His sleeping mat was unrolled, and his blankets must not have been aired for weeks. His
personal belongings, which seemed to be negligible, were stuffed into the meanest of the scroll
racks.

One of the windows into Torm's chamber was quite irregular, and I noted that it had been forcibly
enlarged. I imagined him with a carpenter's hammer, angrily cracking and banging away at the wall,
chipping away the stone that more light might enter his room. And always under his table a brazier
filled with hot coals burned near the feet of the scribe, perilously close to the scholarly litter
with which the floor was strewn. It seemed that Torm was always cold or, at best, never quite warm
enough. The hottest days would be likely to find him wiping his nose on the sleeve of his blue
robes, shivering miserably and lamenting the price of fuel.

Torm was of slight build and reminded me of an angry bird which enjoys nothing so much as scolding
squirrels. His blue robes were worn through in a dozen spots, only two or three of which had been
ineptly attacked by thread. One of his sandals had a broken strap that had been carelessly knotted
back together. The Goreans I had seen in the past few weeks had tended to be meticulous in their
dress, taking great pride in their appearance, but Torm apparently had better things on which to
spend his time. Among these things, unfortunately, was berating those like myself who were hapless
enough to fall within the ambit of his wrath.

Yet, in spite of his incomparable eccentricities, his petulance and exasperation, I felt drawn to
the man and sensed in him something I admired-a shrewd and kind spirit, a sense of humor, and a
love of learning, which can be one of the deepest and most honest of loves. It was this love for


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his scrolls and for the men who had written them, perhaps centuries before, that most impressed me
about Torm. In his way, he linked me, this moment, and himself with generations of men who had
pondered on the world and its meaning. Incredible as it may seem, I did not doubt that he was the
finest scholar in the City of Cylinders, as my father had said.

With annoyance, Torm poked through one of the enormous piles of scrolls and at last, on his hands
and knees, fished out one skimpy scroll, set it in the reading device -a metal frame with rollers
at the top and bottom and, pushing a button, spun the scroll to its opening mark, a single sign.

"Al-Ka!" said Torm, pointing one long, authoritative finger at the sign. "Al-Ka," he said.

"Al-Ka," I repeated.

We looked at one another, and both of us laughed. A tear of amusement formed along the side of his
sharp nose, and his pale blue eyes twinkled.

I had begun to learn the Gorean alphabet.