As Ardelan's reserve thawed out, Verrill pressed him with questions.
"Your men talk about nothing but raids on your neighbors' flocks, and
about feuds. Haven't you enough sheep?"
"Doctor, you know how to save lives, but you know nothing at all about
living."
Ardelan pointed toward the gateway, which opened from courtyard to
the square. Half a dozen women, high-breasted and long-limbed, were
gossiping at the well. Their wild gracefulness was blood-stirring.
Verrill contrasted them with the studiedly elegant ladies of Venus, and
with Linda particularly.
"We have enough sheep, and enough women," the chief explained. "The
sheep don't make trouble. The women do. If my men are not to cut each
other's throats, they must have outside enemies to keep them busy. Or
the jealousies of their wives would prod them to too much competition
with each other."
Thinking back to his quarrel with Gil Dawson, Verrill had to concede
Ardelan's point and principle. And then he got back to the perils of
being a stranger. The following day, he proposed, "Let me take part in
the fire ceremony of an evening. In that way, I won't be a stranger so
long."
The chief got up, presently, and clapped his hands. A retainer came
forward with two horses. They were hammer-headed, shaggy, Roman-nosed,
and with fierce eyes. The saddles were sheepskin pads. There were no
stirrups.