"> The Dixtar, his hands clasped behind him, was pacing to and fro on a plush-padded dais that fronted a luxuriously cushioned throne, which hung on four heavy golden chains depending from the ceiling. He was a small man, sparely built and quite bald. Thin-lipped, sharp-nosed and beady-eyed, his face bore the unmistakable stamp of the zealot and reformer. Irintz Tel paced up and down for some time without taking the slightest notice of Kov Lutas and his prisoner. After a lapse of some minutes, Irintz Tel paused midway in his pacing and, swinging on his heel, faced Kov Lutas. "Well?" he demanded, in a high-pitched, squeaky voice. Kov Lutas raised both hands in salute, holding them before his face. "I shield my eyes in the glory of your presence, O mighty Dixtar of Xancibar and Commander of the Kamud." Thorne was astounded, for he had been told that under the Kamud all salutations of this sort had been abolished.
