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Our food, in the temporary light of lamps or lanterns, was thrown from pails to us, garbage perhaps, from the meals of others, and we could not, under penalties of the whip, use our hands to retrieve it. - (Dancer of Gor, Chapter 6, Sentence #251)

I did not know what a sleen might be, but I did know what an urt was. When we had begun our training, shortly after we had been branded and collared, we had been kept in a lower level of the house, in a dank, dark, cold, musty area, seeming to consist largely of narrow corridors and cells, an area of damp, cold stone walls, of shadows and pools of water, chained in a large, common cell. In this cell we bedded on damp straw, cast over the stone. Our food, in the temporary light of lamps or lanterns, was thrown from pails to us, garbage perhaps, from the meals of others, and we could not, under penalties of the whip, use our hands to retrieve it. Too, as we soon discovered, we were not the only denizens of that place. Often the urts, those tiny, swift, sleek, furtive rodents, bold in their familiarity with, and seemingly assumed privileges in, the place, would rush to food before we could reach it and, almost at our cheek, snatch it up and scurry away to their holes, through the narrowly spaced bars and small crevices. They would come at night, too. - (Dancer of Gor)