The man of Barrakesh looked at him and laughed. "Why fight it, Winters?
You can't keep away from Shanga."
Winters asked, "Where is your high priestess? Has she wearied of the
sport?"
Kor Hal shrugged. "Who knows the mind of the Lady Fand? She comes and
goes as she will." He leaned forward. "Go on, Winters! The fire of
Shanga is waiting. Look how he sweats there, trying to be a man! Go on,
apeling--join your brothers!"
The shrill jeering laughter of the Martians fell upon Winters with the
sharpness of spears.
He stood there, naked in the sunlight, his head held stubbornly erect,
and he did not move. He could not control the trembling of his limbs
nor the harshness of his breathing. The sweat ran in his eyes and
blinded him, and the fire of Shanga danced on the writhing bodies, and
he thought he would go mad with torment, but he stood there and would
not move. He thought he was going to die, but he would not move.
And the Martians watched.
Kor Hal said, "Tomorrow, then. Perhaps the next day--but you'll go,
Earthman."
Winters knew that he would. He could not go through this again. If
he were still alive in the garden of Shanga the next time the gong
sounded, he would go with his brothers.
The fire of Shanga died at last from the prisms, and the creatures of
its making lay still on the ground. The Martians sighed. The first stir
of departure ran through them.