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I was beginning to feel sick with fear, with anger. - (Assassin of Gor, Chapter 18, Sentence #339)

You, Killer, would never make a Player. Grimly, the paga bottle in my hand, I went back into the corridor and found the stairs that took one to lower floors in the cylinder, and eventually to its depths. Lower and lower I went into the cylinder, the thought pounding in my brain: You, Killer, would never make a Player. I was beginning to feel sick with fear, with anger. A realization that horrified me seemed to claw at the back of my brain, as the beast had torn at the door, unseen, in the corridor far above. You, Killer, would never make a Player. Now, paga bottle in hand, I was passing guards and found myself walking down the narrow iron runways over the pens below, now filled with drunken slaves, some sleeping, some sitting stupefied in the center of their pen, some singing brokenly to themselves, some trying to crawl again to the trough to lap there at the paga mixed with their water. - (Assassin of Gor)