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"Mip lives!" Mip now hung on the neck of Green Ubar, his body parallel to the saddle, clinging to the bird, his face pressed against it, his lips moving, speaking to it. - (Assassin of Gor, Chapter 22, Sentence #207)

Suddenly Green Ubar, in the flash of the wings and the cries of the riders passing him, righted himself and with a cry of rage and pain burst toward the rings, Mip sagging in the saddle. Then the bird, which had in its time won a thousand races and more, addressed itself again to that fierce and familiar path in the Stadium of Tarns. "Look!" I cried. "Mip lives!" Mip now hung on the neck of Green Ubar, his body parallel to the saddle, clinging to the bird, his face pressed against it, his lips moving, speaking to it. And it is hard to say what I then saw. The crowd roared, the tarns screamed, and Green Ubar, his rider Mip, flew, eyes blazing, for those final moments marvelous and incandescent in his youth, like a bird and rider come from the dreams of old men, as they knew them once, when they too were young. Green Ubar flew. - (Assassin of Gor)