waters from inland mountains and come to rest at half-sunken, moss-covered wharves that stand on rotting logs sunk in the muddy bottom. Some unload here their cargoes of rare spices or strange fruits from the interior; others, perhaps, put in only for the night, for none desire to sail along the river in the starless darkness of the Evening Star, wherein abound dangers not to be described.
The sailors do not mind putting in at Oo, that wondrously strange city, the like of which is not to be found elsewhere. They like its smiling, fat little people with their chubby faces and ever readiness to burst out into peals of hearty laughter. They like the quaint hearty laughter. They like the quaint little shops and the narrow winding streets and, best of all that which tickles their fancy, the queer towers and objects made in Oo.
All this lies along the waterfront. There is the heart of the city, there lies the soul of Oo, towards the river it turns its face. But it is in the back of the city that the second entrance lies. In those semi-deserted stretches the high dank jungle presses against the ancient crumbling walls and long green vines hangdown from the branches out-thrust over the wall and push their way along the streets, seeking the cracks and devices with which to entrench themselves and slowly, with the passing of centuries, to tear apart the pavements and buildings.
That was how Woth of Druun came to Oo. He came through the jungle path and went through the little door. And none saw him because nobody comes through that way and few dwell near there.
Woth was a tall thin man clad in the skintight somber garments of his native land. Typical of Druun were his ways, for which reason he had not cared to be seen by too many. For the people of Druun believe in Swish, the God of Darkness. And Swish teaches that all things belong to any who have the ability to take them. For, according to his ideas, those who can make off with what is another's successfully must be wise and clever and skilled in silent cunning. And perhaps Swish may be right. Who are we to tell?
Woth traversed rapidly the back part of the town and soon entered the wider, better kept and more frequented streets where the life of the little city lies. And as he passed into these parts and went among the populace and the inhabitants, his manner changed. He lost his furtive quiet airs and assumed a peaceful unhurried stroll and a gay smile. He nodded here and there to make people think he had many acquaintances and he joined in the laughter of the shopkeepers and sailors. But as he walked his eyes and hands were busy. He took in, in his easy glance, all the little details and hints of the homes and shops around him that make the difference between the expert and the bungler. He never hesitated to assist passersby in their little troubles. He helped the little old ladies in their quaint robes to carry their bundles. He assisted the funny plump shopkeepers to make sales to the gullible river men, never hesitating to assure them that the purchase was very excellent. He would be there when anyone should slip on the pavements and would always graciously help the person to his or her feet. And by and by the long deep pockets of his clothes began to become very bulky and heavy. For Woth was always repaid for his kindness, even if involuntarily.
But mostly his attention was on the town about him. For Oo is a most unusual city the like of which might never be seen again on the face of any of the globes of the sun. Not for nothing is it called the Unfinished City. For it is indeed unfinished. Every tower and every structure is incomplete. Each of the many stone towers that top every house of any importance ends in that half-complete chamber on top. Exactly as if the builders had suddenly been called away and never got time to come back and finish. And every wall and house has a corner or a section that is not complete. In everything there was some imperfection. In the clothes of the people there are parts that seem unfinished. In the tables and three legged chairs there is some part that is not polished or colored or carved and that makes it imperfect. Even the very names of the people drawl off into hints of something left unsaid. If you go into a shop and buy something you will find it incomplete. For the things that are made in Oo are never perfect.
Woth became most amazed at this constant imperfection and somewhat annoyed, for he was a connoisseur and it pained him to see these things with imperfections that marred their value. He sat himself down before a little dispenser of liquid refreshments, and, as he quaffed his not entirely filled goblet (for which he had not paid the entire amount), he spoke to the smiling keeper.
"Tell me, oh man of Oo, why is it that nothing here is perfect in your most respected city? It finds me most astonished."
The dispenser of liquid goods looked at him with blank incredulity. "Surely from what far off land do you come, oh man of dark garments, that you know not of us? I thought that none did not know of Oo and its God."
"Indeed, oh most honorable man, my land is so far off that you would not know its name," lied Woth glibly. "But, tell me, why is nothing here perfect?"
The shop-keeper answered sonorously as if repeating something he had learned by heart. "Nothing is perfect save Noom. And Noom is the God of Oo. None but Noom can make anything perfect. We who are only his children and his servants can
