Guardsman Of Gor

Chapter 8 — I CONDUCT BUSINESS UPON THE _TAMIRA_; I RETURN TO THE _TINA_, BRINGING WITH ME SOME THINGS WHICH I FIND OF INTEREST

I, knife between my teeth, in the water, clung to the starboard rudder of the _Tamira_. Then, lifting myself from the water, clutching at the rudder, I inched my way upward. It was some eight feet in length. I then had my feet on the broad blade of the rudder and grasped the upright shaft. The tarred cables, some four inches in width, moved. The rudder creaked.

I looked over to the windows of the stern cabin. These were high, and formed of a lacing of wood and glass. The _Tamira_ had once been an ornate, richly appointed merchantman. This guise, doubtless, still served her well in her work for the Voskjard. Her darker offices would not be evident from her respectable and stately exterior.

I climbed upward, and swung on ornamental grillwork, toward the windows. Then I stood beside the sill of the port window, back that I not be visible through it. This cabin, surely, would be that of Reginald, her captain. I had little doubt but what I sought, either it or a copy, would lie within.

The _Tamira_ shifted in the current. I reconnoitered, as I could, moving the side of my head slightly. I peered into the cabin. I saw a table, and charts. I could not see his berth. I could not see the entire cabin. I assumed the cabin was empty. Surely Reginald himself, captain of the _Tamira_, would be above decks and forward, presumably on the stem castle taking note of the course of the battle. On the other hand if he should be in the cabin, or if it should be otherwise occupied, I must enter swiftly and without warning, that I might, if necessary, strike before being struck. I wiped the knife on my thigh. The preservation of the life of Reginald, or of another within, was not essential to the pursuit of my objectives.

With a shattering of glass and wood I crashed into the cabin.

She screamed, suddenly rising to a kneeling position in the berth, clutching the scarlet sheet about her throat.

I stood between her and the door, half-naked, the knife in my hand.

"Who are you?" she cried.

I backed from her and then, turning, tried the door. She had been locked within, as I had speculated. From the inside, then, scarcely taking my eyes from her, I dropped the heavy bar into place, in its brackets, securing the door from the inside. I then, with its chain, and ship's lock, secured the bar in place.

"Who are you?" she demanded, holding the sheet high about her.

"Lower the sheet to your shoulders," I told her.

She looked at me, angrily. Then she obeyed. There was a close-fitting steel collar on her neck.

Seeing that she was a slave, no longer did I fear to compromise the modesty of a free woman. "Discard the sheet," I told her. She, kneeling in the berth, dropped it to her knees. "Completely," I told her.

She cast the sheet aside.

She was voluptuous, and blond, and blue-eyed. I saw that she would bring a high price in a slave market.

"I shall scream," she said.

"Do so, and I shall cut your pretty throat from ear to ear," I said.

"Who are you!" she demanded.

"Your master," I told her.

"I am the slave of Reginald," she said. "Captain of the _Tamira_."

"Are you aware that there is a battle going on outside?" I inquired.

"Yes," she said, uneasily, squirming, naked, in the berth.

I grinned. Gorean men sometimes order their women to await them, thus. Indeed, that sort of thing is done even on Earth, by men who own their women. Perhaps a telephone call instructs the woman to be waiting naked in bed for them when they arrive. She lies there alone, unclothed, under the sheets, awaiting her master. When he arrives, she is well ready to be touched.

"Reginald, I take it," I said, "anticipates victory."

She tossed her head. "Of course," she said.

"This is the scout ship of Ragnar Voskjard," I said.

"Perhaps," she said.

"Why are you aboard?" I asked.

"It pleased my master to bring me," she said.

"Are you a Luck Girl?" I asked.

She shrugged. "I am a female slave," she said.

I smiled. Many Goreans regard the sight of a female slave as good luck. Certainly, at the very least, they are joys to look upon. The presence of a free woman on a ship, incidentally, causes some Gorean sailors uneasiness. Indeed, some, superstitiously, and mistakenly, in my opinion, regard them as harbingers of ill fortune. This is probably, from the objective point of view, a function of the dissension such a woman may produce, particularly on long voyages, and of the alterations in seamanship and conduct which can be attendant upon her presence on shipboard. For example, knowing that a free woman is on board, and must be accommodated and protected, can adversely, whether it should or not, affect the decisions of a captain. He might put into shore when it would be best to remain at sea; he might run when he should fight; when he should be firm, he might vacillate; when he should be strong, he might be conciliatory and weak.

There have been occasions recorded when a free woman, usually one who has been haughty and troublesome, has been, by order of the captain, who is supreme on the vessel, simply stripped and enslaved on board. The reservations of Gorean seamen pertaining to the presence of free women on board, incidentally, do not apply to the presence of slave girls. Such girls are under effective discipline, and must be pleasing and obedient. If they are not, they know they may be simply thrown overboard. Similarly, they are commonly available to the crew, to content and please them. Their presence on board is a delight and convenience. The men are fond of them, regarding them with affection. They are, in effect, pets and mascots. A round of paga and a girl is a pleasant way to relax after one's watch on deck. Incidentally the reservations held by some Gorean seamen pertaining to free women on board, also, interestingly, do not hold of free women who are captives. Even the pirates of Earth found uses to which such women could be put.

"Are you available to the crew?" I asked.

"Only if I do not sufficiently please Reginald, my master," she said.

"Do you strive to please him?" I asked.

"Yes," she said, shuddering. "I do."

"This ship," I said, "in league with the _Telia_, captained by Simak, of the holding of Policrates, took recently upon the river a merchantman, the _Flower of Siba_." I had learned this in the court of Kliomenes, in the holding of Policrates. The loot had been divided. Part of that loot had been Florence, a curvaceous, auburn-haired slave, who had belonged to Miles of Vonda.

"Perhaps," she said.

"Prisoners, then, from the _Flower of Siba_," I said, "are still on board."

"Perhaps," she said. I gathered from the nature of her response that this was, indeed, true. More importantly, I gathered from her response what I had been truly after, that the _Tamira_ had made her rendezvous with the Voskjard's fleet in the western Vosk, and not at his holding. Had the rendezvous been made at the holding the prisoners, presumably, would no longer be on board.

"The captain of the _Tamira_," I said, "is an important man, and much trusted by Ragnar Voskjard."

"Yes," she said, proudly.

"The rendezvous of the _Tamira_ with the fleet of the Voskjard," I said, "took place then not at his holding, but in the river." I recalled that in open battle the _Tamira_ had been supported, and, indeed, convoyed, by two heavy galleys. This had further confirmed my suspicion that she carried a cargo more precious than many understood.

"Perhaps," said the girl.

"Has Reginald boarded the flagship of Ragnar Voskjard since the return from the holding of Policrates?" I asked.

"No," she said, "though signals were exchanged. Why?"

"Then what I seek," I said, "must still be on board."

"I do not understand," she said.

"Doubtless it is in this very cabin," I said.

"I do not understand," she said, uneasily.

"When Reginald returned from the holding of Policrates, doubtless you met him, either on deck, or in the cabin, as a naked, kneeling slave, licking and kissing at his sea boots, begging to serve him."

"Yes," she said, shrinking back.

"He would have been carrying an object, so precious that it would have been in his hands alone."

"No," she said.

"Then it would have been papers, in his tunic," I said. "You, in his cabin, undressing him, bathing him, serving him, would have seen what he did with the."

"No!" she said.

"Do not look to the place where he concealed them," I said.

I saw her glance wildly to my right, to the side of the cabin.

I smiled.

Then, knowing she had betrayed herself, she slipped, frightened, half crouching, from the berth.

"Were you not to remain in the berth until Reginald came for you?" I asked.

She looked at me, frightened.

"Do you not fear you will be slain?" I asked.

She glanced beyond me, across the cabin. I stepped back, that she might have free passage.

"But I do not object," I told her. "I did not order you to remain in the berth. I own you now."

I saw her tense her lovely body. I stepped further back. Then, suddenly, she darted past me, falling to her knees at the side of a great sea chest. She flung up its lid and, frantically, with two hands, rummaged in the chest.

I slipped my knife in my belt. I removed an object from the cabin wall.

Then she had leaped to her feet, wildly, clutching, holding over head, what appeared to he two, flat, rectangular sheets of lead, bound together. She ran to the windows of the cabin, those between and above the rudders, through which I, breaking the frames and glass inward; had entered. She drew back her arms, holding the bound lead sheets over her head, to hurl them into the Vosk.

The whip cracked forth, lashing, snapping, whipping about her startled wrists, binding them together, causing her, crying out with pain, to drop the leaden sheets. By her wrists, temporarily caught in the coils of the whip, I jerked her back and to the side, and she fell, stumbling, among the glass and wood, to my right. With my foot I spurned her to the side of the berth, on the cabin floor. The coil of the whip was then freed.

She whimpered.

I had gathered from the fact that the chest had not been locked, that it had been open to her, and that she had acted with such alacrity, that a charge had been placed upon her in the matter with which I was concerned. That charge, of course, could only have been to see to the immediate destruction of the documents in the event of an emergency. On shipboard, of course, it would be possible to immediately dispose of the documents only by casting them overboard. The lead weighting, of course, would carry them to the mud at the bottom of the Vosk. In a short time, then, the inks would run, and the papers held between the sheets, would disintegrate. My surmises in these matters had been correct. The girl had proved useful.

Whimpering, she was now on her hands and knees at the side of the berth. She extended her hand toward the leaden sheets. The whip clacked savagely and, quickly, she drew back her hand.

"I do not wish to become impatient with you," I told her.

"You do not own me," she said.

I smiled. I lifted the whip before her. "You are mistaken," I told her.

She eyed the leaden sheets. "Who are you?" she asked.

"Jason," I said, "of Victoria, your master."

"I am the woman of Reginald, captain of the _Tamira_," she said.

"No longer," I said.

She looked at me, angrily. "I am a captain's woman," she said.

"You are a mere slave," I said, "who must crawl to any man."

"No!" she said.

"Are you haughty?" I asked.

"If you like," she said.

I turned from her, to search for oiled cloth and wax, something, anything, with which to make a sealed packet.

I heard wood and glass suddenly move, as she scrambled across the cabin floor, on her hands and knees, toward the leaden sheets.

With a cry of rage I spun about and smote down with the whip. The stroke caught her across the back and buttocks and struck her to her stomach on the floor, amidst the wood and glass. Her extended hand was a foot from the leaden sheets. It had not occurred to me that she would attempt to reach the leaden sheets. Apparently she did not yet know who owned her.

I looked down upon her.

She lay there on her stomach, in the wood and glass, absolutely quietly. She did not move a muscle. She had felt the whip.

"I am not pleased," I told her.

"No," she cried. "No!"

I then, displeased, her Gorean master, savagely lashed the slave. She tried to crawl from the whip, but could not do so. Then she tried to crawl no more, but knelt, her head down, her head in her hands, weeping, at the side of the berth, a whipped slave.

"Forgive a slave for having been displeasing, my Master!" she begged.

She looked up, and I held the whip before her. Eagerly, crying, she took it in her hands and kissed it, fervently.

"Fetch oiled cloth, a lantern, sealing wax, a candle, such things," I said.

She hurried to obey, and I replaced the whip on the wall. In Gorean domiciles, wherein serve female slaves, it is common to find a whip prominently displayed. The girls see it. They know its meaning. Too, displayed so, it is readily available for us.

I went to the leaden sheets and, with my knife, cut away the binding holding the sheets together. I took the envelope from within, and opened it. I examined the papers which I had extracted from the envelope. I smiled. They contained what I had expected.

The girl, from a shelf to one side, fetched a large candle, some five inches in diameter. This candle was set in a shallow, silver bowl. She had lifted the bowl upward, off the shelf. In its bottom, protruding, was a spike. This spike had been sitting in an aperture cut in the shelf, that the bowl might sit evenly on the wood. There was a similar aperture, about a half of an inch in width, in the table. She set the spike into this hole and, again, the silver bowl rested evenly on wood. This prevents the movement of the candle in rough weather. The table, too, was bolted to the floor. For similar reasons ships' lanterns, in cabins or below decks, are usually hung from hooks overhead. Thus, in rough weather they may swing, but they are not likely to fall, scattering flaming oil about, with attendant dangers of fire. Most ships' furniture, of course, berths and such, are fixed in place. This prevents the shifting of position which, otherwise, of course, particularly in rough seas, would be inevitable.

She lit the candle. On the table, too, in a moment, she placed waxed paper, and an envelope of oil cloth. Such things are not uncommon on ships, to protect papers which might be carried in the spray or weather, for example, on a longboat between ships, or between ships and the shore. Sealing wax, too, in a rectangular bar, she placed on the table. She then knelt beside the table. She kept her head down, deferentially, not daring to meet my eyes.

"Head to the floor," I told her.

She obeyed, swiftly.

I replaced the papers in their envelope, from with I had withdrawn them to examine them. I then wrapped the envelope in several thicknesses of waxed paper. Then, with the sealing wax, melted by the candle, drop by drop, then smoothing the drops into rivulets of liquid wax, I seamed shut the waxed paper.

The girl trembled, to one side, kneeling, her blond hair forward, on the dark, polished floor of the cabin. The collar was clearly visible on her neck, and the small, heavy lock, by means of which it was secured upon her.

"What is your name?" I asked her, while working.

"Luta," she said.

"Oh?" I asked.

"Whatever Master wishes," she said, quickly. "Please do not whip me further, Master," she begged.

"Your name now," I said, seaming shut the last opening on the waxed paper, "is Shirley."

"'Shirley'!" she sobbed. "That is an Earth-girl name."

"Yes," I said.

Her shoulders shook with the indignity of what had been done to her.

"I was a captain's woman," she said.

"Do you not rejoice in your new name?" I asked.

"Yes, Master," she said, quickly, "I rejoice in my new name."

"Good," I said.

She began to sob.

I inserted the envelope, now enclosed in several thicknesses of sealed waxed paper, in the larger envelope of oil cloth.

"Master," she said.

"Yes," I said.

"Please do not whip me," she said.

"We shall see if you are sufficiently pleasing," I said.

"With such a name," she said, "will I be expected to be so abject, so low, as those hot, surrendered sluts of Earth, so obedient, so owned, so helpless, in the arms of their Gorean masters?"

"What is your name?" I asked.

"'Shirley'," she said.

"What?" I asked.

"'Shirley'" she said. "'Shirley'!"

"Is the answer to your question not now obvious?" I asked.

"Yes, Master," she sobbed.

Earth girls have a reputation on Gor of being among the lowest and hottest of slaves. There are doubtless various reasons for this. Perhaps one is that Earth girls are alien to Gor and have no Home Stones. They are thus subject to unmitigated predation and total domination. They are slave animals, completely. Gorean men, accordingly, treat them as such. In turn, of course, their womanhood is reborn and blossoms, as it can only in a situation in which the order of nature both obtains and flourishes.

A second reason, however, I suspect, why Earth girls make such astoundingly desirable slaves, is their background. In their native environments they encounter few but psychologically and sexually crippled men, men whose merest intuitions of their blood rights are likely to be productive of conditioned, internally administered shocks and anxieties, or externally administered sanctions of censorship, suppression, ridicule and denunciation, imposed by those who are perhaps only a bit more rigid and fearful than themselves.

In such a world, largely the ideological product of superstition and hysteria, it is difficult for manhood to exist, even dormantly. Accordingly, when an Earth female finds herself translated to Gor, she finds herself, for the first time, in the presence of large numbers of men to whom nature and power are not anathema. Moreover, she is likely to find herself belonging to them. Beyond this, of course, the culture itself, for all its possible defects and faults, is one which has been constructed to be congenial to the natural biological order, and neither antithetical to, nor contradictory of it. The culture has not suppressed the biotruths of human nature but found a place for them.

The culture is a setting which transforms and enhances the simplicities and rudenesses of nature, ennobling her and exalting her, lending her glory and articulation, refining her, fulfilling her, rather than a sewer and a trap, in which she is kept half-starved and chained.

An example of this sort of thing is the institution of female slavery. It is clearly founded on, and expressive of, the order of nature, but what a wonder has civilization wrought here, elevating and transforming what is in effect a genetically coded biological datum, male dominance and female submission, into a complex, historically developed institution, with its hundreds of aspects and facets, legal, social and aesthetic.

What a contrast is the beautiful, vended girl, branded and collared, desiring a master and trained to please one, kneeling before her purchaser and kissing his whip, with the brutish female, cowering under her master's club at the back of his cave. And yet, of course, both women are owned, and completely. But the former, the slave girl, is owned with all the power and authority of law. If anything, she is owned even more completely than her primitive forebear. Civilization, as well as nature, collaborates in her bondage, sanctifying and confirming it.

It is no wonder that the institution of slavery provides the human female, in all her sensitivities and vulnerabilities, in all her psychophysical complexity, with the deepest fulfillments and most exquisite emotions she can know.

Briefly put, the second reason that Earth girls make such astoundingly desirable slaves is that they have been, in their Earth years, subjected, in effect, to sexual and emotional starvation. They have labored in a fruitless desert, often not even understanding the causes of their unhappiness, of their misery and frustration. Confused, they have lashed out at themselves and others, ultimately profitlessly and meaninglessly.

Translated to Gor, encountering true men in large numbers, in overwhelming numbers, so different from the crippled males of Earth, finding themselves in an exotic environment, and participating in a culture markedly different from their own, and in many respects both fearful and beautiful, and founded on the order of nature, they find themselves, in effect, restored to love. The Gorean girl knows such joys can exist, though she may or may not have experienced them. The Earth girl, commonly, did not know that such joys, truly, could exist. Only in her troubled sleep, perhaps, did the Earth girl dream of the slaver's noose or the harsh, flat stones of the dungeon on which she might be forced to kneel.

There was a sudden, loud pounding on the cabin door.

The startled girl lifted her head, suddenly, fearfully, looking at me.

With a curt gesture I signaled she should flee to the captain's berth. She crawled rapidly into it. I accompanied her to the berth, and stood beside her. She knelt there, on the berth, frightened. If she were to speak, her voice must be recognized, through the door, as coming from the vicinity of the berth.

She knelt there, clutching the scarlet sheet. I did not speak.

Again came the pounding. "Luta," called a voice. "Luta!"

"Respond to the false name," I told the girl.

"Yes, Master," she called.

"Are you naked, and in the berth?" called the voice.

"Yes, Master," she called.

"Are you all right?" he asked, through the door.

I drew the knife from my belt and thrust its point a quarter of an inch into her sweet, rounded belly. She looked down at it, wincing.

"Yes, Master," she called.

"Who is it?" I whispered.

"Artemidorus," she whispered, "first officer."

"Are you certain that you are all right?" asked the officer, through the door.

I placed my left hand behind the small of her back, so that she could not pull back from the point of the knife. A plunging slash, she knew, might disembowel her.

"Yes, Master," she called.

"Are you keeping yourself hot for your master?" laughed the voice, roughly.

"Yes, Master!" she called. "Is the battle nearly over?" We could hear the occasional sounds of fighting outside, from some hundreds of yards off, across the water.

"Curiosity is not becoming in a Kajira," laughed the fellow.

"Yes, Master. Forgive me, Master," she said.

"Keep yourself hot," he said.

"Yes, Master," she said.

I then heard him laugh again, and then turn about and climb five stairs, which must have led to the main deck, from a short companionway.

"The battle must be nearly over," she said.

"Why do you think so?" I asked.

"My readiness for the master was being checked," she said.

"It is fortunate that he did not choose to check it by hand," I said.

"Yes," she said, shuddering. She looked down at the knife.

I was curious to know how the battle outside waged. I removed my hand from the small of her back, and the knife from its ready and threatening location at her belly. She respired in relief. I placed the knife in my belt again. I saw that her lower belly, so sweetly rounded, was beautiful.

"Lie down," I told her.

She lay on her back, and by the brass rings, some two inches in diameter, and by the leather thongs, near her shoulders, and at the bottom sides of the berth, tied her upon it.

I looked down upon her. She was beautiful, and secured.

I then went to the shattered window at the rear of the cabin. I did not make my surveillance obvious.

"May I inquire as to the situation, Master?" she asked.

"No," I told her.

"Yes, Master," she said.

Through a gap in the pirate fleet, I could see that the beleaguered, desperate ships of the defenders fought on, stoutly.

I was convinced that they, still active, pennons still flying on their stem-castle lines, could hold out until nightfall. Yet I did not think they could withstand the concerted attacks of the pirate fleets for another day. How nobly, and well, they had fought. I was bitter. I looked back to the berth. There, tied upon it, helpless, was she who had been the woman of a pirate captain, she who had been the woman of one of my enemies. I then looked again out the window. In the water, among the larger ships, were small boats, manned by pirates. Considering them I became furious. These were being used to hunt for survivors, luckless fellows, struggling in the water, fishing for them with attentive leisure, with arrows, and with spear and knife. They would also make it difficult to return to the _Tina_. I glanced to the table, to the packet, now in its oil-cloth envelope, which lay there. It had immense value, if only it could be exploited. I looked again, out the window, at the ships of the pirate fleet, and at the defenders, and then I returned to the table, and sat before it.

"Master," said the girl.

I did not respond to her.

"Forgive me, Master," she whispered.

That the defenders had lasted this long was a function largely of two factors, first, of the crowding of the pirate fleet which made it difficult for them to bring their rams and shearing blades into play, and, secondly, the unusually large numbers, and skill, of the soldiers of Ar who had been transported in the holds of the ships of Ar's Station, making boarding hazardous and costly.

The tactics which seemed to me obvious in such a situation the Voskjard had not yet employed.

I suspected then he might not be with his own fleet, that it might be under the command of a lesser man.

Carefully, with the sealing wax, I closed the oil-cloth envelope. I then folded it over, into a rectangular packet, and, with some binding fiber, cut from a coil of such fiber, looped at the bottom of the berth, tied it in this shape. I noticed that the girl was watching me. Accordingly, not speaking, I tore a broad strip from the scarlet sheet and, folding it five times, encircling her head with it, tied it tightly behind the back of her head, blindfolding her with it.

"Forgive me, Master," she whimpered.

I then broke loose a board from the wall, a shelf, some two feet in length, with spike holes in it, to accommodate projections such as that on the silver candle bowl on the table. With binding fiber I tied the packet to this board. Then, with more binding fiber, I improvised a towing loop for the board. This board, then, with its towing loop, and its cargo, the packet in the sealed, oil-cloth envelope, I placed near the window.

It was at this time that I heard the signal horns of the pirate fleet. The orders, I thought, had been too long delayed. I looked out the window. As I had thought, the pirate fleet was now drawing back. The self-frustrating futility of their attack, obstinate and unimaginative, had, at long last, apparently been brought home to its commander. The pirate ships now, sent forward judiciously, singly or doubly, supported as need be, no longer crowded together in useless attempts at boarding, could now bring their rams and shearing blades into play against the cornered, pathetically outnumbered barks of the defenders. But it was now quite late in the afternoon. Doubtless this attack would be postponed until morning, that the slaughter might lose nothing of its effect, some survivors perhaps being enabled, in small boats or in the water, to slip away under the cover of darkness.

I turned and slowly walked back to the side of the berth, on which the voluptuous slave was blindfolded and bound.

I looked down upon her. She knew I stood beside her. She trembled. Her sweet wrists and slim ankles moved in the leather bonds which, tied to the brass slave rings, confined them.

I removed the folded, scarlet strip of the sheet which had covered the upper part of her head, and cast it to one side.

She looked up at me, frightened. She shrank deeper, back in the berth. She had been the woman of Reginald, one of the captains of the Voskjard.

"Please, Master," she whispered, "do not hurt me."

She had been a woman of the enemy.

"Please, Master," she begged, "show me mercy."

How beautiful she was in her collar, close-fitting, and of gleaming, engraved steel, which she could not remove. How beautiful women are in collars. It is no wonder men enjoy putting them in them. How beautiful is the collar itself, and yet how insignificant is the beauty of the collar compared to the beauty and profundity of its meaning, that the woman is owned.

"You are well tied, Slave," I told her. "You are absolutely helpless."

"Yes, Master," she said.

"You are lovely," I told her.

"Thank you, Master," she said.

"A veritable delicacy," I mused, "which was to have been kept simmering on the stove, so to speak, awaiting the pleasure of her master."

"Yes, Master," she smiled.

"Why did Artemidorus, the first officer, when he inquired as to your readiness, not attempt to enter the cabin, and check you by hand?"

"None may touch me save Reginald, my master," She said, proudly, "unless I have displeased him."

"Oh," she cried. "Oh!"

"Have you forgotten, so soon," I asked, "pretty slave, to whom it is that you now belong?"

"To you," she said, "to you, Master! Oh!"

"It seems you are still simmering, little sweet, little delicacy," I said.

She looked at me, wildly. "Your touch!" she whispered. "What is it doing to me?" Then she lifted her body, piteously, the sweet, rounded centralities of her, to me. Then I took her by the hips, holding her, pressing my thumbs into the sides of her belly. She recoiled, frightened. "Show me mercy," she said.

"No," I said.

I pulled the portion of the wadded strip of scarlet sheet, wet and heavy, out of her mouth, a portion of the same, and still attached to it, that I had used earlier to blindfold her. I had thrust it in her mouth to muffle her cries. She was moaning softly, and kissing at me.

"I see that you are still simmering," I said.

"Simmering?" she laughed, ruefully, softly. "You brought me to a boil, and then, when you had well tasted of me, let me subside, and then again, when it pleased you, made me simmer, and then again brought me to a boil, and then again made me simmer, and then, once again, brought me to a boil."

I brushed back some blond hair from her face.

"You well know how to prepare a girl for your delectation, Master," she whispered. "Surely you are a gourmet of slave use, a master chef well trained in the art of preparing delicious slave viands for the satisfaction of your lustful hungers."

"Be quiet, little delicacy," I told her.

She then thrust her body again against me, and I saw her need. Again I thrust the portion of the scarlet sheet, wadded, into her mouth. She could not protest. There were tears in her eyes. Again she pressed herself, as she could, against me.

The candle on the table had burned out. It was dark outside. I returned from the window of the cabin.

"Please, Master, once again," she begged.

"You are an amorous, passionate wench," I said.

"I cannot help myself," she said. "I am a female slave."

I smiled to myself. Slavery brings out the female in a woman.

I gently joined her on the berth. My knife was thrust, point deep, in the wood above the berth, and to one side, to my right, where I might reach it, if need be. It had been necessary only once to hold it to her jugular. I wadded the portion of scarlet sheet together in my hands and then, holding it between the thumb and fingers of my right hand, pushed it back in her mouth, deeply, behind her teeth.

I untied her and put her on her stomach, in the darkness, on the berth. The portion of cloth I had used to gag her lay to the left side of her head. Her head, too, was turned to the left.

"Am I not as low and passionate as the collared sluts of Earth?" she asked.

I took her wrists behind her back. "There is hope for you," I granted her. I then tied her wrists behind her back.

"Bah," she said, "a Gorean girl is a thousand times more passionate than an Earth slut."

"Perhaps," I said. I smiled. Let them compete with one another, to see who could please men more. Both Earth girls and Gorean girls, I knew, were marvelous. Both were women.

I then pulled the girl to her feet and stood her beside the berth.

"You have tied my hands behind my back," she said. "You have stood me naked before you. What are you going to do with me?"

I regarded her.

I removed the knife from where I had wedged it in the wood above the berth, to one side and to the right. I held it to her belly.

"Please do not kill me," she begged.

I thrust the knife in my belt.

She shook with relief.

"It is late," I said. "Go to the window."

In the darkness of the cabin, barefoot, stepping softly through the glass and bits of frame scattered on the floor, she went, as commanded, to the window. She stood facing it. I fetched the wadding of scarlet silk which I had earlier used to gag her and put it in my belt. I also fetched the remains of the scarlet sheet from which, standing beside her, I tore what I needed, and then discarded the rest.

"Do you intend to take me with you?" she asked.

I blindfolded her. She would be absolutely helpless in the water.

"Yes," I said. I thought someone might want her. She was a hot and lovely slave. Perhaps I could give her to Aemilianus.

"Listen," I said, suddenly. There was a step on the stairs leading down to the companionway.

"It is Reginald," she said, lifting her head. I did not doubt this. Slaves, like many domestic animals, can often recognize the step of their master.

"Reginald," she whispered, frightened. Her lip trembled. The step had approached down the companionway, and halted before the cabin door. I heard a heavy key thrust complacently into a lock on the outside of the door. It was late. Reginald had come to enjoy his slave. Gorean masters may or may not knock before entering compartments occupied by their slaves. The decision is theirs, as is the slave. If he knocks it is usually only to make his presence known to the slave, and the knock is commonly authoritative and rude, often startling her, even though she expects it, signaling her in no unclear or ambiguous fashion that she is to prepare herself, and well, to greet him, her master, which she does then in a position of docility and submission, usually kneeling and head down.

I heard the padlock, on its chain, fall to the side of the door. "Flee!" whispered the girl to me. Her head twisted in the blindfold. Her small wrists fought futilely the thongs that confined them.

I heard the door push inward, but, of course, it could not move, as I had secured it from the inside, with a lock and bar.

There was a silence.

I took the towing rope, attached to the board and packet, and looped it, and put it through the girl's collar. I passed the lower end of the loop about the board and packet.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Is this door locked?" inquired Reginald, not pleasantly from the other side of the door. I smiled. Clearly it was locked.

I pulled the rope tight on her collar.

"Open this door!" said Reginald. He struck the heavy wood with his fist.

The girl moaned. As she moved, the board, on its towing loop, cracked against her legs.

"Open this door!" commanded Reginald. He struck it twice, angrily, with his fist.

"Can you swim?" I inquired.

"No," she said, "and I am bound!"

"Open the door," commanded Reginald. Then he shouted, "Artemidorus! Surtus!"

The girl moaned in misery, unable to obey. I thrust her a step toward the window, holding her by the arm. I looked out I saw no small boats in the vicinity.

"Oh, no," moaned the girl, "please, no!"

I heard men joining Reginald, outside the cabin door.

"I cannot swim," she said.

"Good," I said.

"I am bound!" she protested.

"Excellent," I said.

I then took the wadding from my belt. "No!" she said. Then I pushed it, still heavy and damp, deep in her mouth. Then I secured it in place with a folded, twisted strip from the torn sheet I had decided that she would not now, for the time, be permitted to communicate with me. I would remove the gag from her later, if I chose, at my convenience.

"Luta!" called Reginald. "Are you in there?"

I tossed the board and packet, on its towing rope, outside the window. It caught against her collar. I lifted the helpless girl in my arms.

"Luta! Luta!" called Reginald, angrily. "Are you in there?"

"No one called Luta is in here," I called back, cheerily, through the door, "but there is one here who once was known by that name, one whom I have renamed 'Shirley, giving her, as seemed fitting, the name of an Earth girl."

The girl squirmed in my arms, writhing in misery, but could not free herself.

"Who are you? Who speaks?" demanded Reginald.

"I am taking your slave, who is quite good," I said, "and something else, too, which I have found of interest."

"Who speaks? Who speaks?" cried Reginald.

"Jason," said I, "Jason, of Victoria!" Then I climbed to the shattered window and, holding the girl, crouched there for a moment. She was uttering small, muffled sounds, whimpering piteously. Then I leapt into the water. As I leapt to the water I heard the men outside the cabin begin to hurl their shoulders against the wood.