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There was no mistaking the smell of brewing Kal-da. From behind three or four of the low tables, to the left of the counter, a band of sweating musicians sat happily cross-legged on the rug, somehow producing from those unlikely pipes and strings and drums and disks and wires the ever intriguing, wild, enchanting—beautiful—barbaric melodies of Gor. I wondered at this, for the Caste of Musicians had been, like the Caste of Poets, exiled from Tharna. Theirs, like the Caste of Poets, had been a caste regarded by the sober masks of Tharna as not belonging in a city of serious and dedicated folk, for music, like paga and song, can set men's hearts aflame, and when men's hearts are aflame it is not easy to know where the flame may spread. As I entered the room the men rose to their feet and shouted and lifted their cups in salute. Almost as one they cried out, "Tal, Warrior!" "Tal, Warriors!" I responded, raising my arm, addressing them all by the title of my caste, for I knew that in their common cause each was a warrior. It had been so determined at the Mines of Tharna. - (Outlaw of Gor, Chapter )