Conspirators of Gor

Chapter Two

On your world you take so much for granted.

I wonder sometimes if you see things as they are. You value your lives, surely, and your Home Stones, and your fellows, but I wonder if you value your world, truly, or, perhaps better, value it enough. Perhaps you will value it more if you could see it, if only for a moment, through the eyes of another, one astonished, one from a quite different world, a world which was much like a charnel house, or a smoke house, a world with little pride, but much vanity, a world of crowding, scrambling about, cruelty, hating, treachery, hypocrisy, pollution, noise, corruption, foulness, a world muchly lacking in pride, and honor, a world without Home Stones.

I suppose you find that strange, a world without Home Stones.

Indeed, I wonder if you believe me, that there could be such a world, one without Home Stones.

It does exist.

I am not permitted to lie.

I am collared.

Conceive then, if you can, a world such as that from which I was obtained, a world without Home Stones, a world so meaningless, so forlorn, so petty, so empty. What are we worthy of, we, we without Home Stones? To such as those with Home Stones, of what value could such as we be? I touch my collar, and suspect. Of what else could we be good for? I look in the mirror, and understand.

I hope to please my master.

I am well aware of the penalties for failing to do so.

The men here are virile, and powerful, and are not patient. We learn to obey instantly, and unquestioningly.

It is very different here, from the world from which I was brought.

I do not object.

I think that I, even on my old world, longed for something like this, a world in which nature was recognized, and respected.

I wonder if that is hard to understand.

I do not think so.

Here is a world on which men take us, as it pleases them, and master us.

I do not object.

This is a world on which I kneel, and, head down, humbly lick and kiss the feet of my master.

He permits this.

I am grateful.

Do not despise me.

I am a female.

This is very different from being a male.

How long I longed to be taken and owned! How long I longed for a collar, and a master!

Now I am as I should be.

I am collared, and mastered.

Many of you, as I understand it, disbelieve in the existence of Earth, or, if you give some credit to the stories, you speculate that it lies to the east, beyond the Voltai, or far to the south, perhaps far beyond Bazi and Schendi, or west, like the Farther Islands. If you have attained, on the other hand, to the Second Knowledge, you understand it is alleged to be a different world, one of several orbiting Tor-tu-Gor, Light-upon-the-Home-Stone, but, even so, many of you, even with the Second Knowledge, remain skeptical, regarding it as no more than a myth or fable, and then, again, better credit the suppositions of the First Knowledge that it, if it exists, is here, on your world, but in a remote area, far from civilization.

But here I am to speak little of my old world.

In this narrative I am to deal, at least largely, with certain dark matters, political and military, matters which few here suspect, matters certainly unbeknownst to the vast majority of you, you who, in your scattered communities, in your villages, your towns, and walled cities, inhabit this fresh, wild, unspoiled, scarcely populated, beautiful place. You do not realize the danger which threatens you, what lurks in the brush, in the shadows, so to speak, so close, even at your elbow, and, too, far off, yet close enough, what crouches, watching, in the sky.

Know, good Masters and Mistresses, that others know of your world, sparkling in the darkness of the night, your morning world, so fresh, green, and sunlit, others who inhabit metal globes, who once owned such a world themselves, so beautiful, but destroyed it, and who now long for another.

I am to speak.

Many will disbelieve what I say.

And what could most do, even if they credited this narrative?

But I am to speak, nonetheless.

When in the presence of free persons, we commonly kneel. When we speak, when we are permitted to do so, we commonly speak softly, and with our heads lowered. But this is known to you. It is appropriate. We are collared.

So please forgive me for addressing you, for speaking first.

Do not think me bold.

I assure you I have learned my place.

My master has taught it to me well.

Many women on my old world do not know their place. At one time I did not know it, but I know it now.

My master has taught it to me well.

I am content in my place, for it is where I belong.

I have been commanded to speak.

I must obey.

I have no choice, I am collared.

But, too, I wish to speak.

Suppose then, if you wish, if it is easier for you, that I have been admitted to your presence, unworthy though I am, and am kneeling before you, head down, naked if you wish, a meaningless, purchasable barbarian who, with your permission, begins to speak.

She will speak of cities, and secret places, of a metal box, a Metal Worker, of beasts, large, hirsute, and dangerous, of an underground workshop, of pride, ambition, and devotion, of warriors and slaves, of gold and steel, of cords, and silk, of ships and worlds.

And so she begins.