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But on the platform before which these golden creatures stood there lay the Mother, perhaps blind, almost insensate, the large, feeble thing they revered, weak, brownish, withered, the huge worn body at last wrinkled and empty. - (Priest-Kings of Gor, Chapter 27, Sentence #114)

I looked at the golden rows of Priest-Kings, alert, immobile, their heads wreathed in green leaves, about their necks dangling the tiny, primitive, silverish tools telling of a distant, simpler time before the Scanning Chamber, the Power Plant and the Flame Death. I could not to my emotional satisfaction conjecture the ancientness of this people on which I gazed, and I could but dimly understand their powers, what they might feel, what they might hope or dream, supposing that so old and wise a people were still akin to the simple dream, the vagrant, insuppressible perhaps, folly of hope. The Nest, had said Sarm, is eternal. But on the platform before which these golden creatures stood there lay the Mother, perhaps blind, almost insensate, the large, feeble thing they revered, weak, brownish, withered, the huge worn body at last wrinkled and empty. You are dying, Priest-Kings, I said to myself. I strained my eyes to see if I could pick out either Sarm or Misk in those golden rows. I had watched for perhaps an hour and then it seemed that the ceremony might be over, for some minutes passed and no further Priest-King approached the Mother. - (Priest-Kings of Gor)