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My nose wrinkled. - (Outlaw of Gor, Chapter 24, Sentence #13)

The shop itself was now hung with perhaps half a hundred lamps and the walls were bright with the caste colors of the men who drank there. Thick rugs had been thrown under the low tables and were stained in innumerable places with spilled Kal-da. Behind the counter the thin, bald-headed proprietor, his forehead glistening, his slick black apron stained with spices, juices and wine, busily worked his long mixing paddle in a vast pot of bubbling Kal-da. My nose wrinkled. There was no mistaking the smell of brewing Kal-da. From behind three or four of the low tables, to the left of the counter, a band of sweating musicians sat happily cross-legged on the rug, somehow producing from those unlikely pipes and strings and drums and disks and wires the ever intriguing, wild, enchanting—beautiful—barbaric melodies of Gor. I wondered at this, for the Caste of Musicians had been, like the Caste of Poets, exiled from Tharna. - (Outlaw of Gor)