Explorers Of Gor

2
I Attend The Market Of Vart

The girl screamed, fighting the sales collar and the position chain.

She tried to pull it from her throat.

The two male slaves, to the right, turned the crank of the windlass and she was drawn, in her turn, struggling, before the men.

The men in the crowd regarded her, curiously. Had she never been sold before?

She tried to turn away, and cover herself, her feet in the damp sawdust. The inside of her left thigh was stained yellow, as she had lost water in her terror.

The auctioneer did not strike her with his whip. He merely took her arms and lifted them, so that the position chain, attached to each side of the sales collar, lay across her upper arms. Then he had her clasp her hands behind the back of her neck, so that the chain, on each side of the collar, was in the crook of her arms, and she was exposed in such a way that she could be properly exhibited.

In a higher class market girls are usually fed a cathartic a few hours before the sale, and forced to relieve themselves shortly before their sale, a kettle passed down the line. In the current market such niceties, especially in large sales, were seldom observed.

By the hair the auctioneer pulled her head up and back so that her features might be observed by the men.

"Another loot girl taken by our noble Captain, Bejar, in his brilliant capture of the Blossoms of Telnus," called the auctioneer. He was also the slaver, Vart, once Publius Quintus of Ar, banished from that city, and nearly impaled, for falsifying slave data. He had advertised a girl as a trained pleasure slave who, as it turned out, did not even know the eleven kisses. The Vart is a small, sharp-toothed winged mammal, carnivorous, which commonly flies in flocks.

"A blond-haired, blue-eyed barbarian," called the auctioneer, "who speaks little or no Gorean, untrained, formerly free, a purse not yet rent, a thigh not yet kissed by the iron. What am I offered?"

"A copper tarsk," called a man from the floor, a fellow who rented chains of work girls.

"I hear one tarsk," called the auctioneer. "Do I hear more?"

"Let us have the next girl!" called a man. The slaves at the windlass tensed, but the auctioneer did not tell them to move the chain, removing the blond girl and bringing forth the next item on the chain.

"Surely I hear more?" called the auctioneer. "Do I hear two tarsks?" I suppose he may have paid two or three tarsks for her himself, to Bejar.

The girl was beautiful, but not as beautiful, it was true, as most Gorean slave girls. I did not think she would bring a high price. Unfortunately, then, almost anyone might buy her. I looked about. It seemed a common, motley crowd for the house of Vart, where men came generally to buy cheap girls, sometimes in lots, at bargain prices. His establishment was located in a warehouse near the docks. I conjectured there were some two hundred buyers and onlookers present. I wore the tunic, and leather apron and cap, of the metal worker.

"Look at her," said the man beside me. "How ugly she is, what a she-tarsk."

"A true she-tarsk," agreed another.

They had seen, I gathered, few Earth girls. They did not understand the effects of years of insidious, pervasive, anti-biological conditioning. Their own culture, perhaps because of the limitations imposed on it by Priest-Kings, who did not wish to be threatened or destroyed by an animal with which they shared a world, had taken different turnings. They would not understand a world in which dirty jokes had point, a world in which a woman's attractiveness was supposedly a function of the utilization of certain commercial products, or a world in which men and women were taught that they were the same, and in which they attempted to believe it, and would hysterically insist it was true, bravely ignoring the evidence of their reason, senses and experience. Civilization may be predicated upon the denial of human nature; it may also be predicated upon its fulfillment. The first word that an Earth baby learns is usually, "No." The first word that a Gorean baby learns is commonly, "Yes." The machine and the flower, I suspect, will never understand one another.

"Let us see another girl!" called yet another man.

"A new girl!" cried others.

Many women, of course, once under the helpless condition of slavery, increase considerably in beauty. This has to do primarily I think with psychological factors, in particular with the destruction of neurotic patterns, inculcated in the Earth female, of male-imitation, and the concurrent necessity imposed upon her by the whip, if necessary, to reveal and manifest her deeper self, that of a female. On the other hand, doubtless, the dieting, exercise, instruction in cosmetics and adornment, and the various forms of slave training, are also not without their effect.

"Do I hear two tarsks?" asked the auctioneer.

If a woman truly is, in her secret heart, a man's slave, how can any female who is not a man's slave be truly a woman? And how can any woman who is not truly a woman be happy?

Can a woman be free only when she is a slave? Is this not the paradox of the collar?

"Come Masters, Kind Sirs," called the auctioneer. "Can you not see the promise of this slender, blond, barbarian beauty?"

There was laughter from the floor, "What a cheap, slovenly man of business is our friend, Vart," said the fellow next to me. "Look, he has not even had her branded."

"Add that into her price," grumbled another.

"At least you do not have to worry about that," said a man, to me.

I wore the garb of a metal worker. Usually girls, if not marked by a slaver, are marked in the shop of a metal worker.

I smiled.

The auctioneer was now calling off her measurements, and her collar, and wrist and ankle-ring size. He had jotted these down on her back with a red-grease marking stick.

"Will not an urt hunter give me at least two tarsks for her?" called out the auctioneer good-humoredly, but with some understandable exasperation.

I wished that either Bejar or Vart had had her branded. It would be easier to keep track of her that way.

"She is not worth tying at the end of a rope and using in the water as a bait for urts," called out a man, the fellow who had first suggested that she be removed from the sales position.

There was laughter.

"Perhaps you are right," called out the auctioneer, agreeably.

"Would an urt want her?" asked another man.

There was more laughter.

"Perhaps an urt!" laughed a man.

"Go down to the canals," said another man. "See if you can get two tarsks from the urts!"

There was again general laughter. The auctioneer, too, seemed amused. He apparently recognized that it was futile, and a bit amusing, to be attempting to get an interesting price on this particular bit of slave meat.

There were tears now, and bitterness, in the girl's eyes. I knew, from her general attitudes and responses, that she understood very little of what was transpiring, and yet, clearly, she must understand that she was the butt of the laughter of the men, who held her in contempt and scorned her, who were not interested in her, who had not bid hardly upon her, who obviously wished her to be taken from their sight. She was a poor slave. She stood there, in the collar, with the position chain attached to each side of it, the chain, on each side, over an upper arm, held in the crook of her arms, her hands clasped behind her neck.

"I hate you," she cried, suddenly, to them, in English. "I hate you!"

They, of course, did not understand her. The hostility of her mien, however, was clear.

The auctioneer took handfuls of her long blond hair, from the right side of her head, rolled it into a ball between his palms, and thrust it in her mouth. She stood there. She knew she must not spit out the hair. She knew she was not then to speak.

"I am afraid that you are almost worthless, my dear," said the auctioneer to her, in Gorean.

She looked down, bitterly. I knew this type of response. The woman who fears she cannot please men then sometimes tends to feel hostility toward them, perhaps turning her own rage and inward disappointment outward, laying the blame upon them, and developing the obvious defensive reactions of belittling sexuality and its significance, and attempting, interestingly, to become manlike herself, to be one with them, though in an aggressive, competitive manner, often attempting to best them, as though one of themselves. Since she was not found desirable as a woman she attempts to become a more successful man than the men who failed to note her attractiveness. This type of response, however, however natural on Earth in such a situation, would not be feasible on Gor in a slave. Gorean free women, of course may do what they wish. The slave girl, on the other hand, does not compete with the master, but serves him. The blond-haired girl might or might not hate men, but on Gor, as a slave, she would serve them, and serve them well. The woman who fears that she is unattractive to men, of course, is generally mistaken. She need only learn to please men. A woman who pleases men, and pleases them on their own terms, would, on Earth, be a startling rarity, an incredibly unusual treasure. On Gor, of course, she would be only another of hundreds of thousands of delicious slaves. On Gor a readiness to please men, and an intention to do so, and on their own terms, is expected in any girl one buys. Should a girl prove sluggish in any respect, it is simple to put her under discipline. Eventually, of course a woman learns that to please a man on his own terms is the only thing that can, ultimately, fulfill her own deepest needs, those of the owned, submitting love slave.

"I am afraid you are almost worthless, my blue-eyed, blond-haired prize," said the auctioneer to the girl. She looked out, dully, bitterly, at the crowd, her hands clasped behind her neck, hair from the right side of her bead looping up to her mouth.

I had little fear for her, however. Her neurotic responses, functions of her Earth conditioning, would have little place on Gor.

They cannot be maintained on Gor.

They would be broken.

She would learn slavery well, like any woman.

The crowd watched the auctioneer, who stood close by the girl.

I was curious, however, that Kurii had brought her to Gor. She did not seem, objectively, of quite the same high quality of beauty as most of the wenches brought by Kurii to Gor, either as agents or as simple, immediate slaves.

The auctioneer made certain her hands were clasped tightly behind the back of her neck. He actually took her hands in his and thrust them closely together. She looked at him, puzzled, slightly frightened. He stepped behind her.

I smiled.

She suddenly screamed, and sobbed and gasped, her hair, wet, expelled from her mouth. She looked at the auctioneer, in terror, but dared not release her hands from the back of her neck. He, with one hand, wadded together her hair, and thrust it again in her mouth. She must not cry out, or speak. In his right hand, coiled, he held the whip which he had removed from his belt a moment before. He had administered to her the slaver's caress with the heavy coils. She shook her head, wildly. She tried to draw back, but his left hand, behind the small of her back, held her in place.

She threw back her head, shaking it wildly, negatively. Then there was a spasm. Then she sobbed, shuddering, tensing herself. The auctioneer then, holding her, brought the coils near her again. She put her head back, her eyes closed. But he did not touch her then. She opened her eyes, looking up at the ceiling of the warehouse in which she was being sold. Still he did not touch her. She whimpered. Then I saw her legs tense and move, slight muscles in the thighs and calves. She half rose on her toes. Still he did not touch her. Then I saw her, with a sob, thrust herself toward the coils. But still he did not touch her. Then, as she looked at him, tears in her eyes, he, looking at her, deigned to lift the coils against her piteous, arched, pleading body. She then writhed at the chain, sobbing, her hands clenched behind her neck, her teeth clenched on her own hair. She tried to hold the whip between her thighs. He then withdrew the whip, and turned to the crowd, smiling. He fastened the whip at his belt.

"What am I bid?" he asked.

The girl whimpered piteously. He turned about and, with his right hand, open, cuffed her, as one cuffs a slave. Her head was struck upward and to the left. There was a bit of blood at her lip, which began to swell. There were tears in her eyes. She looked at him. She was silent.

"What am I bid?" asked the auctioneer.

"Four tarsks," said a man.

"Six," said another.

"Fifteen," called out another.

"Sixteen," said a man.

The girl, shuddering, standing as she had, her hair in her mouth, her hands behind her head, put her head down, miserably. She did not dare to look even at the bidders, who might own her. She knew that her needs had betrayed her.

I smiled to myself. The selection of this woman for service in the Kurii cause now seemed clearer than it had before. She, like others, doubtless, when their political duties were finished, would have been collared and silked, and set to the task of learning to please masters. I thought she would make, in time, a good slave. She was already adequately beautiful and, in time, in bondage, might become incredibly beautiful. Her responsiveness, though not unusual for a slave girl, was surely impressive for an unmarked Earth girl in her first sale. Responsiveness, of course, is something that can increase and deepen in a woman, and under the proper tutelage and discipline, does so. The female slave, in the fullness of her womanhood, and helplessness, attains heights of passion from which the free woman, in her pride and dignity, is forever barred. She is not a man's slave.

"Twenty-two tarsks," called a man in the crowd.

"Twenty-four!" called another.

Yes, the responsiveness of the girl on sale had been impressive. In some months, in the proper collar, and at the right slave ring, I suspected she would become paga hot, hot enough to serve even in the paga taverns of Gor. Her head was down.

"Twenty-seven tarsks," called a man.

How shamed she was. Why was she so ashamed that she had sexual needs and was sensuously alive? Of course, I reminded myself, of course, she was an Earth girl.

"Twenty-eight tarsks," called a man.

The girl's body shook with an uncontrollable sob. Her secret, doubtless long hidden on Earth, that she had a deep, latent sexuality, had been ruthlessly and publicly exposed in a Gorean market. She had writhed, and as a naked slave.

"Twenty-nine tarsks," called a man.

She had writhed not only as a woman, but as a slave.

Her head was down. Her body shook.

For a moment I almost felt moved to pity. Then I laughed, looking at her. Her responses had revealed her as a slave.

"Forty tarsks," said a voice, triumphantly. It was the voice of Procopius Minor, or Little Procopius, who owned the Four Chains, a tavern near Pier Sixteen, to be distinguished from Procopius Major, or Big Procopius, who owned several such taverns throughout the city. The Four Chains was a dingy tavern, located between two warehouses. Procopius Minor owned about twenty girls. His establishment had a reputation for brawls, cheap paga and hot slaves. His girls served nude and chained. Each ankle and wrist ring had two staples. Each girl's wrists were joined by about eighteen inches of chain, and similarly for her ankles. Further each girl's left wrist was chained to her left ankle, and her right wrist to her right ankle. This arrangement, lovely on a girl, produces the "four chains," from which the establishment took its name. The four-chain chaining arrangement, of course, and variations' upon it, is well known upon Gor. Four other paga taverns in Port Kar alone used it. They could not, of course, given the registration of the name by Procopius Minor with the league of taverners, use a reference to it in designating their own places of business. These four taverns, if it is of interest, are the Veminium, the Kailiauk, the Slaves of Ar and the Silver of Tharna.

"Forty tarsks," repeated Procopius Minor, Little Procopius. He was little, it might be mentioned, only in commercial significance, compared to Procopius Major, or Big Procopius. Big Procopius was one of the foremost merchants in Port Kar. Paga taverns were only one of his numerous interests. He was also involved in hardware, paper, wool and salt. Little Procopius was not little physically. He was a large, portly fellow. To be sure, however, Procopius Major was a bit larger, even physically.

The girl looked up now, sensing the cessation in the bidding, the repeating of a bid, the tone of the voice of Procopius Minor.

Her hands were still behind the back of her neck. She had not been given permission to remove them. She looked out at Procopius Minor. She shuddered. She realized that he might soon own her, totally.

"I have heard a bid of forty tarsks," said the auctioneer, Vart. I supposed it would be good for the girl to serve for a time in a low paga house. It is not a bad place for a girl to begin to learn something of the meaning of her collar. "Do I hear another bid, a higher bid?" called Vart. Yes, she would look well in chains, kneeling to masters in a paga tavern. "My hand is open," called Vart. "Shall I close my hand? Shall I close my hand?"

He looked about, well pleased. He had never counted on getting as much as forty tarsks for the blond barbarian.

"I will now close my hand!" he called.

"Do not close your hand," said a voice.

All eyes turned toward the back. A tall man stood there, lean and black. He wore a closely woven seaman's aba, red, striped with white, which fell from his shoulders; this was worn over an ankle-length, white robe, loosely sleeved, embroidered with gold, with a golden sash. In the sash was thrust a curved dagger. On his head he wore a cap on which were fixed the two golden tassels of Schendi.

"Who is he?" asked the man next to me.

"I do not know," I said.

"Yes, Master?" asked the auctioneer. "'Is there another bid?"

"Yes," said the man.

"Yes, Master?" asked the auctioneer.

"I take him to be a merchant captain," said a man near me.

I nodded. The conjecture was intelligent. The fellow wore the white and gold of the merchant, beneath a seaman's aba. It was not likely that a merchant would wear that garment unless he were entitled to it. Goreans are particular about such matters. Doubtless he owned and' captained his own vessel.

"What is his name and ship?" I asked.

"I do not know," said the man.

"What is Master's bid?" asked the auctioneer.

There was silence.

We looked at the man. The girl, too, in the sales collar and position chain, her hands behind her neck, looked at him.

"What is Master's bid?" asked the auctioneer.

"One tarsk," said the man.

We looked at one another. There was some uneasy laughter. Then there was again silence.

"Forgive me, Master," then said the auctioneer. "Master came late to the bidding. We have already on the floor a bid of forty tarsks."

Procopius turned about, smiling.

"One silver tarsk," said the man.

"Aiii!" cried a man.

"A silver tarsk?" asked the auctioneer.

Procopius turned about again, suddenly, to regard the fellow in the back, incredulously.

"Yes," he said, "a silver tarsk."

I smiled to myself. The slave on sale was not a silver-tarsk girl. There would be no more bidding.

"I have a bid for a silver tarsk," said Vart. "Is there a higher bid?" There was silence. He looked to Procopius. Procopius shrugged. "No," he said.

"I shall close my hand," said the auctioneer. He held his right hand open, and then he closed it.

The girl had been sold.

The girl looked at the closed fist of the auctioneer with horror. It was not hard to understand its import.

The auctioneer went to her and pulled the hair from her mouth, then threw it back over her right shoulder. He smoothed her hair then, on both sides and in the back. He might have been a clerk adjusting merchandise on a counter. She seemed scarcely conscious of what he was doing. She looked out, fearfully, on the man who had bought her.

The auctioneer turned to the buyer. "With whom has the house the honor of doing business?" he asked.

"I am Ulafi," said the man, "captain of the Palms of Schendi."

"We are truly honored," said the auctioneer.

I knew Ulafi of Schendi only by reputation, as a shrewd merchant and captain. I had never seen him before. He was said to have a good ship.

"Deliver the girl to my ship," said Ulafi, "at the Pier of the Red Urt, by dawn. We will depart with the tide."

He threw a silver tarsk to the auctioneer, who caught it expertly, and slipped it into his pouch.

"It will be done, Master," promised the auctioneer.

The tall black then turned and left the warehouse, which was the market of Vart.

Suddenly the girl, her hands still behind the back of her neck, threw back her head and screamed in misery. I think it was only then that her consciousness had become fully cognizant of the import of what had been done to her.

She had been sold.

Vart gestured to the slaves at the windlass and they turned its large, two-man crank, and the girl 'who had been sold was drawn from the sales area. The next girl was a comely wench from Tyros, dark-haired and shapely. At a word from Vart she stood with her hands behind her neck, arching her body proudly for the buyers. I could see she had been sold before.