The Mystery of Free Women

In many ways, the free woman is a greater mystery than the slave girl. That should be prefaced, perhaps. A slave girl can potentially be a delight to a man for the length of his life or, at least, several years of it. She is a conquered thing, constantly striving to please. She enhances her essential self for her owner's pleasure and at her owner's pleasure. If he wishes her to be literate, she will be beaten until she can read, write and speak intelligently on a variety of topics. If he wishes her to cook, she will learn his favorite dishes and also learn to anticipate what he might find pleasing to eat, providing that to him in hopes she has learned his palate enough to delight him with something new now and again. And she will, in time, on his schedule, not her own, reveal every nuance of herself to him. Yes, he may spend months dallying over her physicality. Memorizing every curve and valley, every scent and sensation her body has to offer, but eventually he will plumb her depths. He will want to know her intimately, because he owns her. She is his. It is true that some men do not wait more than a few ehn to tear down a slave girl's walls, baring her soul. And some never bother to do so at all. In general, most men will want full value whether the girl was purchased or otherwise acquired. They will own her fully and, in doing so, will know her. Her mystery, whether she believes it or not, will be known to him.

The free woman, however, remains a mystery. For some, that seems like a good thing. A quality. Something to strive toward. I think it is an emptiness, however. A lack of fulfillment. Without the bravery to step forward and admit what she is, what all women, in essence, truly are, she must content herself with being a mystery. Hidden behind veils, she is constrained by the laws and social mores of her city, the expectations of her family. I admit to observing them, wondering after them. What man hasn't caught sight of an inadvertantly exposed ankle and pondered what else lay beneath the heavy brocade? Having seen an errant strand of hair, loose from its pins, would not most men consider her mane? I think most would. I have done so. However strong a draw the mystery is, the free woman is not a female slave. It takes very little to draw one's thoughts from contemplating a free woman. The scent of a slave girl's perfume on the air or even the sight of such a woman walking in her short, revealing garment is generally enough to distract any man. It is no wonder such women are sometimes cruel to their sisters of the brand and the collar. Sexual congress with a free woman may be enjoyable. It might even prove to be an excellent way to spend one's time. Such relationships with slave girls, however, are guaranteed to be pleasing. If not the slave may be severely beaten. The free woman, normally, would suffer no consequence for being less than adequate. It would be, in fact, somewhat suspect if she were skilled at pleasing a man past the rudimentary mechanics of the act.

I saw two free women in the Teiban Sul Market last evening, each with an agenda. Lady Tia of the Bakers wished to have a discussion, the topic of which was never revealed. I told her my door was open to her. I will speak with her, I assume, before the end of this hand. Noemi, too, wished to speak of matters not thoroughly explored at our last meeting. She also wished to bestow gifts upon the Girl Six and Elise. I am a particular fellow when it comes to garmenting and accessorizing my property. Scheduling meetings for the remainder of the hand as my trip to market concluded for the day was not the only event of note last evening. The rivalry between Noemi and Tia was a rather revealing incident. Tiffs between free women are generally limited to such things as a pointed scoff or disdain, public displays like the refusal to greet one another or the aversion of eyes, coupled by a haughty lift of chin. Occasionally, insults are tossed lightly at one another, stinging little barbs that point out the supposed inadequacy of one another's behavior. Noemi and Tia, however, were anything but limited in their vitriol. It was the pointed dismissal of Noemi by the Baker, turning her back to the woman, that escalated the affair. As it was a squabble between women, it was neither my place nor my inclination to get involved. When food was thrown and a market basket full of ripe, juicy peaches was used as a weapon, I did step between them, cautioning them to act in a more proprietous manner. We were, after all, in a public place. Were they slave girls, I might have taken a quirt to each of their behinds. Not for squabbling, of course. Nobody cares that slave girls fight, so long as they do not inflict serious injury or permanently mar one another's appearance. When it moves beyond a squabble and becomes a distraction that, for example, might require a free person to divert his path to avoid their tousle, then correction becomes necessary. They are only slaves. Free women, however, are generally separated by their Guards and conducted home, that they do not further embarass themselves in public, that their mystery be maintained.

Of Dancing and Dancers

The crowd left the Braided Whip early last evening, which is per usual in the middle of the hand. It is difficult to justify drinking late into the evening or, in essence, early into the next day, when one rises with Lar-Torvis as many in this district must. Some do linger, dallying with one of the rent girls or having lost track of time in conversation or, as it happens not too infrequently, in the Game. With the quiet drone of czezhar and a steady tempo provided by the tabla, I instructed the Girl, Six to remove her garment and step into the sands. I was not gentle in the instruction. Slaves do not respond positively to being coddled. Told to be compelling, she assumed a standard pose that lengthened her lines. I asked her if she intended to be a Dancer that drew men into the tavern or one that was fit to straddle a man's thigh in a dark corner. Any slave can dance, in my opinion. That includes women in collars and women not yet legally imbonded. The curvier sex is built for it, just as they are built to be overtaken, dominated and raped, held to a man's will. A woman can learn to hold a man's attention, to seduce and captivate a fellow, but a Dancer must hold an entire room, ignite the lust of thirty men or more. There is the distinction. Does she dance? Or is she a Dancer? I have seen some phenomenal dancers in my time. Aside from Emily, toward whom I am biased, Fateemah comes to mind. I saw her dance in chalwars and an open vest, her bosom ripe and heavy, like fruit ready to be picked. She perspired, slick-skinned under the gaze of men, the proud girl of a Pasha. Selke of Ianda, dark as Portia, a Merchant man's prize, could make you feel the breeze of her tropical home, intoxicate you with the controlled shake of her hips. As a guest in the House of Clark of Thentis, I was fortunate to see his matched pair, Phais & Tellia, dance. Blonde and fair like bond maids beneath the axe of a Son of Torvald, but built sleek like they prefer them in Thentis, the cold mountain climate was easily forgotten in the midst of those sirens. I challenged Six, a girl once permitted to be called Sana, to be as those girls were. I will push Portia similarly. The two of them earned well as Red Door whores. I expect them to be just as productive, if not more, in this new venture.

Fees, Licenses & Red Tape

I was reviewing the previous day's applications for vendor licenses. Most vendors, by nature, are of low caste. When we receive an influx of peddlers, sutlers, traders and the like, it makes sense to peruse the type of vendors that are entering the city. If too many are sellers of goods of the like that can already be purchased in the city, the licenses are denied or, if already granted, revoked. Those that sell a unique product are generally welcomed into the city. The bulk of fees for this administrative work finds its way back to the Office of the Magistrate to pay the various clerks and record-keepers. It has been my policy to redistribute the surplus evenly amongst the lower castes, sometimes defraying their tax or other various fees for doing business. It is generally not much more than a goodwill gesture, a show of faith that the administration, at my end of it, is not trying to turn a profit at the expense of the people it serves.
From time to time, we welcome vendors that can only be described as unique. Charlatans, tricksters and tellers of hoaxes to name a few. Some sell unseemly things such as hair-dyes and love tonics. Others sell bina, trying to pass it off as bana. From far off parts of the world, the distasteful practice of domesticating animals is brought to Ar, hobbling tiny Schendian birds in cages, for example, just to have their warbling on demand. The citizens are generally sharp enough to spot the less-than-genuine sorts, so most licenses are approved and then brought to my attention the following day. If something is out of the ordinary, I will send out a revoke notice and have the person escorted from the city. Other times, something will simply catch my eye as odd, but not warrant immediate action.

"Wait a moment," I said to the functionary, delivering the previous days applications for license.

"Magistrate?" he asked, pausing.


"This one," I said, holding up the license which was stamped for approval, the fees accepted. He leaned in a bit closer, scanned the document and nodded.


"Older woman. Called herself an al-kem-ist," he answered. "Seller of herbs or something. Al-kem-i-cal products. Medicines."


"Should irk the Physicians, but I doubt they will lend her much credence," I posited. "She was assigned slot 1301. Where is that?"


"The Great Square, Magistrate. Northwest corner. High Street," he answered.


"Alright then," I nodded. "Keep an eye on her."

The Braided Whip

When the Red Doors closed, I decided to increase my investment in another establishment. Adjacent to the Teiban Sul Market is a tavern in the vein of the famous Chatka & Curla. The Braided Whip features three floors with seating lining the curved walls, the center open for a view of the dancing sands. In the early days of the Boarding House, I invested a small amount of the earnings in the Whip. That investment steadily increased over time. Having a reputation as a whoremonger is not without benefit. I have partners, of course, but the profits earned from a greater investment allow me to divert my attention from an old business to a new one. With the brothel closed, the girls will learn the trade of tavern slave. They will join the dancer Keri, a sinuous slut from the wharf taverns of Port Kar, the alluring Dahlia and a host of rent girls, rotated in from the municipal pens of Ar. Elise, once the first girl of the famed Curulean, will manage these women. Perhaps others, in time, will be conscripted on a more permanent basis. For the moment, aside Keri and Dahlia, it will be up to the reputation of the former Red Door Whores to draw customers. Portia and Six have already started working there. Others will follow.
While it seems irresponsible to begin a new business venture with the difficulties I am experiencing as People's Magistrate, the truth is it is a burden lifted. There are partners in the tavern, others responsible for keeping the cash flow liquid and the balance statement reconciled. During the day, the women will be able to maintain the Anbar residence and focus on the transition between street whore and tavern slave. I have no doubt the transition will go smoothly. I wear a belt. Elise, I think, will have the most difficulty. While she has experience managing women, she is long removed from it. Keri, in particular, may prove her greatest challenge. She danced on the sea-warped planks of wharf taverns in Port Kar for years, captivating Sailors, Pirates and other rough trade in the Jewel of Thassa. She is a long girl. Leaner that most prefer, but undeniable in her appeal. Removed from the place she first submitted, she has proven herself in the world's greatest metropolis. She is an arrogant slave and, to some extent, she is allowed her arrogance. Elise will bend more than one switch to the point of breaking on that sultry bitch's ass. It will not be anything she hasn't already seen (and dealt with) at the Curulean.

Quid Pro Quo

"There is trust between us," I said to Lucius Verus, recently returned to Ar.

"Delightful, Poet," he answered. "But your faith is not shared by the rest of us."

"I do not have the resources," I responded.

"You will be held responsible for this choice," he told me.

"I am well aware of the gravity of my decision," I answered.

"I should have stayed in Lara," he muttered.

Lucius was once of the Caste of Scribes, he wore the Blue in the finest city of Gor. Respected. Trusted. A foremost researcher of a wide variety of subjects. During the Occupation, he was asked to compromise his ethics to support the puppet regime. When he refused, he was discredited. His residence was razed. His libraries were burned. Rather than suffer further ignominy, Lucius Verus left the city of his birth. His status in the Caste of Scribes was removed in absentia. He is a traveling peddler now. He sells trinkets and baubles in cities along the Vosk River, but mostly in Lara. Gaunt and tall, fair-haired and blue-eyed, he wears an unlikely turban and long robe more suited to a swarthier sort in a desert clime. The slander I've endured pales to that which Lucius suffered. The loss of his Caste was a serious blow. They did not ban him from the city, but the import of their actions were clear. It is not hard to comprehend why Lucius is cautious with trust. He will not stay long. What I've shared should not be shared, but I do not have the resources to solve this dilemma. I do not have a choice. Quid pro quo. An equitable exchange. I must change the Game. I will not surrender the Home Stone to the collective ego of the elite.

"Find the salt," I said to her.

Exposing the culprits and colluders, the guilty and the guileful, will benefit us both. Snakes and favors, a secret for a secret.

Seasons Change

My Game, tonight, as usual, was no match for the Player Rufus. After he thoroughly bested the Player Hephaistion, who holds a chair on the high bridges of Ar near the Central Cylinder, I took my place at his humble table in an alley just off of District Anbar's notorious Sixth Street. Our matches are not about winning and losing, so much as they are about spending time with one another, discussing the details of the day. Rufus is not so far removed from vagrancy that he does not see things others easily miss. My friendship with the fell-from-grace Player started during the Occupation and has continued since.

"He is not very good," a fellow watching us commented.

"No, but the Player enjoys his Game," another answered.

"He plays with no discernible strategy. He relies on the Scribe," the first argued. "Who relies on the Scribe?"

I was not offended by their comments. The Game is something men take seriously, most moreso than I. That they chose to watch and had any inkling of curiosity over what I might or might not do was compliment enough. Elise was with me, behind and a bit to the left where she belongs. She is not permitted to know much of the Game, so I had her face the other direction. I could sense her bristling at the frank manner in which men spoke of her owner's lack of anything more than a rudimentary knowledge of Kaissa, but she was cognizant of her own response enough to keep her chin low and her thoughts to herself.

"When the pantry is empty," the Player said to me. "Know what lies beneath."

"I know a way," I answered.

"Seasons change," he countered.

As we conversed, the pieces moved fluidly. Our conversation seemed independent of the match, but that is never the case. I would find an avenue and he would divert me another way. His comments seemingly cryptic and obtuse were rather pointed and direct. Piece by piece, he removed my men from the playing field.

"Dig a little deeper," he told me. "You will find what you are looking for."

It was inevitable I would lose the match, and when it came to a point that the yellow men were hopelessly outnumbered and surrounded by a sea of red, I put my finger on the Home Stone. Rufus smiled and then spoke, "Lose when you must. Concede nothing. Let your mistakes play out."

Game is life. The more I play, the more I learn.

Closing Doors

It had a good run, the Boarding House, and it served its purpose. I have decided to close the doors on the most infamous brothel Ar has ever known. Some would argue that the various brothels on Ludmilla's nefarious alley are far less savory, far more scandalous, but I disagree. Where but the Boarding House could men part with as little as three copper tarsks (four for the blonde) to ride something as sinuous and seductively servile as what the Poet had to offer? Natives, barbarians, outlaw women. All trained to please the eye and stir the loins. Every one of them literate, able to converse intelligently if need be. Now, the property will serve as a residence.

Six will spend the afternoon sanding the doors down, removing the red paint. They will wear a more conservative brown, no longer a beacon for the satiation of lust. Consumer-driven carnality will be taken elsewhere, I suppose. There is a shortage of salt in my city, but there is never a shortage of slut. Of course, some of them may still be sent out to hook for coin. One must keep one's women productive. They will simply have to conduct their lewd transactions on street corners or down alleyways.

The notices have been put up on the boards in the Great Square and in the Anbar herself. It is both a somber day and a day fraught with possibility.

Sense & Probability

It could be anywhere. Or nowhere. I do not believe it is in the Anbar, nor the Metellan. I have been assured there is trust between us, those that oversee those districts and myself. Despite the talk that has cropped up in recent days, I choose to honor that trust. So that leaves the rest of the city, Glorious Ar in its entirety. Where would one hide enough salt to sate a city this size for a hand? For two hands? For a passage hand or more? Would they even be so bold as to hide it within the walls? It is hard to believe, and I do not have the resources to confirm my assumption regardless. Perhaps it is time to rely upon others, to delegate responsibilities rather than take this on myself. If it is, as it seems, corruption on a grand scale, I am ill-equipped to fight it alone. The first moves in a Game often spell the difference between victory and defeat. However, efficient strategy at mid-match can tip the scales in one's favor. I suppose I feel guilty for missing my match with Rufus this hand. Iam leaning too heavily upon Kaissa metaphors.

It is enough to say I have favors to ask. Decisions to make.

If the salt is not in the city, the first logical place it might be is Torcadino. Only a few days west of Ar, the colluders would be able to reintroduce the commodity back into the city at the most opportune moment, painting themselves as saviors and swaying public opinion in the same bold stroke. And while I thought earlier in terms of the potential profit, I wonder if bringing a city to its knees - just to demonstrate how magnanimously the Administration can help the population get back on its feet - is not profit enough? I despise politics. Worse, I despise having to think like a politician just to make sense of it all.

Slander & Correction

I sent Tupita to her kennels early last evening, allowing her the indulgence of her girl-kennel a few ahn earlier than what has become usual these past hands. I was visited by a woman in pristine white robes, trimmed in silver and complemented by beaded slippers and a pale pink veil. Noemi tends to dress for her audience. Her wardrobe ranges from the utterly scandalous to her own interpretation of current fashions. I suggested she wear no less than three veils and that wealthy women of Ar wear no less than five and as many as seven. Proprietous dressing was not the purpose for her visit, however. I have long maintained that the woman requires discipline. All women require discipline from time to time. It can take the form of a mild upbraiding or be meted out much more severely.

When it was mentioned that the Physician Claudius had taken an interest in pursuing a contract of companionship with the woman, I had assumed that he would tend to her sorely needed discipline. It has become clear that such a union is not forthcoming. Most recently, the unruly strumpet had the nerve to slander my name, perhaps assuming that my polite, affable demeanor somehow made me less likely to take exception. When she was told to remove her veil in my presence, she protested mildly, but acceded the directive when I asked her if she wished for me to repeat a command. She understood, of course, what it meant to face strip herself before a man, but she is a vain thing. Her face is not uknown to men. She was less inclined to remove the rest of her garment when I told her to do so. She rose dramatically and said a lot of things that I confess I do not remember. What I do remember is she was soon nude, her elaborate garments put aside. She similarly protested when she was directed to fetch the quirt I keep on the shelves in my office. It, too, was soon in hand, however. She has a curious nature, this woman. She protested every step of this discipline, but ultimately obeyed. Told to crawl, she scoffed, but she crawled. I was then kind enough to discipline the woman. I do not think her vanity prepared her for the type of discipline she received. It was certainly not what she would have liked, but it was exactly what she needed. Afterward, she was instructed to return the quirt to the shelves. I allowed her to dress herself. I, then, dismissed her.

Deeper

The Trevelyan District of my city is not a welcome place for strangers, particularly after dark. It is much like the Anbar in that respect, suspicious and quick to level judgment on those that wander into her midst. Having said that, I was not to be deterred. If the salt is making it into the city surreptitiously, held in reserve until the Administration has the population under control, it will be in the warehouses of the Trevelyan or somewhere equally foreboding. That is my assumption, that it will be kept where no one wishes to go looking for it, if it is in the city at all. I know it isn't in the Anbar, arguably the only place more foreboding than the Trevelyan in the entire city. There are few that would perpetrate such an insult against their neighbors in that District, the District in which I personally do business. If there is a perpetrator of this sort in that neighborhood, he will not have to worry over a mere Magistrate of the People when he is found out.

My sojourn into the Trevelyan last evening was ill-advised. My presence, particularly in an official capacity, was not welcome. I traveled with two slaves, Elise and Six, but they were unharmed. Rational men are unlikely to harm beautiful women. There are better uses to put such things to. I expected resistance, even hostility when I made my intent known. I would inspect the warehouses, unannounced, and demand an accounting of their inventories. I did not bring a cadre of armed men, for such a display only invites an armed defense. Also, I do not feel as if I can rely upon men not directly under my employ. I trusted the imperium of the Office, such that it is, and a self-assured tone would be enough. It was not. I was turned away by the man standing watch over the warehouse doors. And, to further the point, I was fired upon by an unseen assailant with a crossbow. In time, I am sure I will feel more shaken by the experience than I do right now. However, the sound of the bolt rushing by my ear and burying itself in the wood of the warehouse door isn't something I am able to get out of my head. The 'sssst' and the thunk as it struck the timbers brought me out of my sleep several times last evening. The only consolation is that it was obviously a warning and not an earnest attempt to put me down. I am running into too many obstacles in the search for answers. And I am in over my head.

Faith & Microeconomics

I am coming to the conclusion there is nothing I can do to disprove the legitimacy of the Salt Shortage within the walls of the city. Too, I cannot wait on return correspondence from Habib. There is no guarantee my Merchant contact is even in Tor to receive the missive. Also, much as I like Habib, I cannot vouch for his integrity on this matter. It could be that salt is being delivered, per usual, and stock-piled somewhere. Or, the chokepoint could be further south, back in the city of Tor herself. If so, those Merchants allegedly colluding with the Administration stand to make more money withholding their goods for future shipment than they do selling it at present market value. Economics is a Merchant science, but I have read enough to gain the understanding that demand equals profit. The longer the shortage continues, the greater the demand. The greater the demand, the higher the price. And the Administration, should all of this be true, benefits by profiting from hardship subsidies in the interim. I don't want that to be true. I would rather believe what I am told in those sequestered Council meetings; there is no salt to be had. Without proof otherwise, there is no point in continually repealing tax increases. I find myself in the unenviable position of being alienated by my Magisterial peers and, worse, the constituency that loses further faith with each passing day that I am unable to effect change.

"It is my right to speak out," the Lady Tia of the Bakers said to me. Particularly, she intimated, when the man elected to be her voice has failed. While her tone was unacceptable, her sentiment carried a rueful veracity that I could not argue. Unless I can discover some scandalous stockpile of salt, hidden away from the public behind the very walls of my city, I will take the road west to Torcadino. From there, I will journey south to Kasra and points beyond, including the desert destination of Tor.

Irony

"Post it in the Great Square, Tupita," I said to her, handing the shorn-headed slave that serves my Office the latest document for wide dissemination.
It put a sour taste in my mouth, honestly. I had no choice but to deem the latest tax increases 'reasonable.' I have no evidence otherwise. The city-wide shortage of salt, by definition, is a hardship to the state which allows a recalculation of tax assessments. To suggest, in light of that, the People not forward the amounts demanded, would be to endorse anarchy. Publically, I cannot call for such a thing. Privately, I do not know that it is such a bad idea. I have sincere doubt that the shortage of salt is anything but a strong-arm tactic by the Administration to put the lower castes 'in their place.' Suspecting such a thing and proving it are two very different notions.
Were I a politician, the reversal of my repeal would be a serious blow to my career, but I am not a politician. Nor am I concerned about a lengthy career in politics. I am not trying to curry favor by making empty promises. If there is power to be had in this office, that power belongs to the People this office represents. It does not belong to Szol of Ar. It takes so few whispers, however, to create so many rumors. If I cannot change the tack the Administration has taken, I may be the most convenient source for the People to vent their frustrations upon. For someone with such a dissident past, it is a bitter irony.

The Inevitable Course

There are notices on the Public Boards for citizens to pay their taxes or forfeit their properties. There is an inexplicable shortage of salt in the city that only worsens each day. I find constituents with brusque responses and wary glances cast my way or, at times, a physical reminder that their faith in best intentions and honest effort is fickle at best. We, the lower castes, are looking for someone to blame. It is disheartening to think that we would look amongst ourselves, amidst our own, for culpability. Those that know me remain unwavering, of course, but I have been elected to represent all with caste beneath the high five. Even those hostile. I understand the hostility, of course. I share it. For lack of a clear villain, the mob must sate its desire to vent. Gnieus Lelius was once labeled an enemy of amity, a subverter of peace and a tyrant. He had the unfortunate honor of holding the title of Regent during the occupation. History was not kind to Gnieus Lelius. He was, in my estimation, a good man. He was a competent administrator, overburdened and underappreciated. In the end, he was a victim of propaganda and a verr led to an all-too convenient slaughter. Those were dark days in my city. With Winter approaching, the time Lar Torvis shines shorter, I wonder just how dark it will get before we see the Spring.

Preservation

In recent days, there have been reports of mild violence; heated tempers and some instances of fisticuffs, in the various markets around the city. It turned out to have something to do with shortages of salt. What little is available for purchase has been priced out of the reach of most consumers and small business owners. I first became aware of it through the girl, Elise. She shops for dry goods several times a week, keeping the pantry of the Boarding House stocked. A fellow made mention to her that he wished to speak to me. I assume he wishes to voice his concerns and I am all too available to hear them, but I am not certain what I can do about the problem. Portia, too, has relayed tales of brawls in the street over perceived favoritism about some receiving more than their fair share and at what price.
It seemed, at first, an issue for the Caste of Merchants to handle directly. They oversee trade; the imports and exports of the City. If there is a shortage of salt, they should be brokering deals to obtain what the City needs to sate itself. However, after tiring extra-curricular research, I find that a shortage of salt can have a rippling effect on more than household consumers and purveyors of food. Most people understand that salt is used to season or preserve food. However, there are several salt-related by-products that do much more. There are medicinal and antiseptic products derived from salt, as well as tanning chemicals, cleansers and bleaches. The manufacture of bottle glass, too, requires salt. Just off the top of my head, the shortage of salt, then, would directly affect the Caste of Physicians, the Caste of Leather Workers and the Caste of Brewers, in addition to the Merchants and a myriad of sub-castes. Of course, any and all castes and vocations having to do with food and/or the preparation of food will be affected. Nearly one fourth of the world's salt comes from the region of the Tahari and, due to it's relative proximity, I assume my City relies upon that region for an even greater percent for its own share. I do not know if the shortage is due to our dealings with the desert or elsewhere, but it seems a logical conclusion. I know of two Merchants from that area; Hadj and Habib, both of Tor. Hadj is an acquaintance, he brings his rugs to my City once or twice per year. Habib is a friend, a man I have known for some time. I have traveled in his caravan on two or three occasions. He may know more. It is just a matter of finding him.