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It was with a feeling of relief that I finally got my arm over the crossbar of the windlass and drew myself up. - (Nomads of Gor, Chapter 16, Sentence #69)

I suspected that if anyone could manage the madness on his mind it would surely be he, or someone such as he, someone quite as courageous, or daft. On the other hand, I reminded myself, my own probabilities of success and survival were hardly better—and here I was, his critic—climbing up the drum rope, wet, cold, puffing, a stranger to the city of Turia, intending to steal an object—the egg of Priest-Kings—which was undoubtedly, by now, as well guarded as the Home Stone of the city itself. I decided that I would nominate both Harold and myself for an Idiocy Scar and let the Tuchuks take their pick. It was with a feeling of relief that I finally got my arm over the crossbar of the windlass and drew myself up. Harold had already taken up a position, looking about, near the edge of the well. The Turian wells, incidentally, have no raised wall, but are, save for a rim of about two inches in height, flat with the level. I joined Harold. - (Nomads of Gor)