Magicians of Gor

3 The Camp

"Stones! Guess stones!" called a fellow. "Who will play stones?"

This is a guessing game, in which a certain number of a given number of "stones," usually from two to five, is held in the hand and the opponent is to guess the number. There are many variations of "Stones," but usually one receives one point for a correct guess. If one guesses successfully, one may guess again. If one does not guess successfully, one holds the «stones» and the opponent takes his turn. The game is usually set at a given number of points, usually fifty. Whereas the «stones» are often tiny pebbles, they may be any small object. Sometimes beads are used, sometimes even gems. Intricately carved and painted game boxes containing carefully wrought «stones» are available for the affluent enthusiast. The game, as it is played on Gor, is not an idle pastime. Psychological subtleties, and strategies, are involved. Estates have sometimes changed hands as a result of "stones." Similarly, certain individuals are recognized as champions of the game. In certain cites, tournaments are held. I wiped my mouth with my forearm and rose to my feet. I was now much refreshed. "Do not leave me, I beg you," said the girl at my feet, on the mat. Her hands were about my ankle. "I would kneel to you," she said.

"You do not have permission even to rise to your knees," I reminded her. She groaned.

"Paga! Paga!" called a fellow, with a large bota of paga slung over his shoulder.

"I belly for you!" said the girl, her head down, over my foot.

She held still to my ankle, her small hands about it. Her hair was about my foot. I felt her hot lips press again and again to my foot. She looked up. "Buy me," she begged. "Buy me!" the marks of the rush mat were on her back. She was a blonde, and short, voluptuously curvaceous. She drew her legs up then, and lay curled on her side, looking up at me, her hands still on my ankle. "Buy me," she begged.

"Lie on your back," I told her, "your arms at your sides, the palms of your hands up, your left knee raised."

She did so.

"Buy me!" she begged.

I could not walk away from her.

"Please," she begged.

Her words puzzled me. Why would she want me to buy her? Certainly I had not accorded her dignity or respect, or such things. Indeed, it had not even occurred to me to do so, nor would it have been appropriate, as she was a mere slave. Similarly I had not handled her gently. Indeed, at least in my second usage of her, purchased with a second tarsk bit placed in the shallow copper bowl beside her, she had been put through fierce, severe, uncompromising slave paces. Once, when she had seemed for an instant hesitant, I had even cuffed her. "I want to be your slave," she said. "Please buy me!"

I considered her. She was certainly a hot slave.

"Please, Master," she begged.

"Are you finished?" asked a fellow behind me.

I looked again at the female, luscious, collared, on the mat.

"Please buy me!" she begged.

I considered my purposes in coming to Ar, the dangers that would be involved. "I do not think it would be practical," I said.

She sobbed.

"You are finished?" asked the fellow, again.

"Yes," I said.

"Master!" she wept.

As I left, slinging about me my accouterments, I heard a new coin entered into the copper bowl.

Some peasants were to one side. Every now and then, presumably at some joke, or recounted anecdote, perhaps one about some tax collector thrown in a well, they would laugh uproariously.

A fellow brushed past me, drawing behind him two slaves, their wrists extended before them, closely together, pulled forward, the lead chains attached to their wrist shackles.

I was looking about for Marcus and Phoebe.

I glanced over to the walls of Ar, some hundred or so yards away, rearing up in the darkness. Here and there fires were lit on the walls, beacons serving to guide tarnsmen. The last time I had been to Ar, that time I had received the spurious message, to be delivered to Aemilianius, in Ar's Station, there had been no need of yellow ostraka, or permits, to enter the city. Such devices, or precautions, had in the interim apparently been deemed necessary, doubtless for purposes of security or to control the number of refugees pouring into the city which, even earlier, had been considerable. Many had slept in the streets. I had rented, at that time, a room in the insula of streets. One permitted residence in Ar received the identificatory ostrakon, for example, citizens, ambassadors, resident aliens, trade agents, and such, was a function of heir owner's possession of such ostraka. Others might enter the city on permits, usually for the day, commencing at dawn and concluding at sundown. Records were kept of visitors. A visitor whose permit had expired was the object of the search of guardsmen. Too, guardsmen might, at their option, request the presentation of either ostraka or permits. Ostaka were sometimes purchased illegally. Sometimes men killed for them. The nature of the ostraka, for example, taking different colors, being recoded, and so on.

I saw some fellows gathered about a filled, greased wineskin. There was much laughter. I went over to watch. He who manages to balance on it for a given time, usually an Ehn, wins both the skin and its contents. One pays a tarsk bit for the chance to compete. It is extremely difficult, incidentally, to balance on such an object, not only because of the slickness of the skin, heavily coated with grease, but even more so because if its rotundity and unpredictable movements, the wine surging within in. "Aii!" cried a fellow flailing about and then spilling from its surface. There was much laughter. "Who is next?" called the owner of the skin. This sort of thing is a sport common at peasant festivals, incidentally, thought there, of course, usually far from a city, within the circle of the palisade, the competition is free, the skin and wine being donated by one fellow or another, usually as his gift to the festival to which all in one way or another contribute, for example, by the donations of produce, meat or firewood. At such festivals there are often various games, and contests and prizes. Archery is popular with the peasants and combats with the great staff. Sometimes there is a choice of donated prizes for the victors. For example, a bolt of red cloth, a tethered verr or a slave. More than one urban girl, formerly a perfumed slave, sold into the countryside, who held herself above peasants, despising them for their supposed filth and stink, had found herself, kneeling and muchly roped, among such a set of prizes. And, to her chagrin, she is likely to find that she is not the first chosen.

I was brushed by a fellow in the darkness. While I could still see him I checked my wallet. It was there, intact. The two usual modalities in which such folks work are to cut the strings of the wallet from the belt, carrying it away, or to slit the bottom of the wallet, allowing the contents to slip into their hand. Both actions require skill.

I saw a line of five slave girls, kneeling, abreast, their hands tied behind their back. bits of meat were thrown to them, one after the other. A catch scored two points for the master. A missed piece might be sought by any of the girls, scrambling about, on their bellies. She who managed to obtain it received one point for her master. The girls were encouraged from the sidelines, not only by their masters but by the crowd as well, some of whom placed bets on the outcome.

"Would you like to purchase a yellow ostrakon?" asked a fellow. I had hardly heard him. I looked about, regarding him. His hood was muchly pulled about his face. Were his offer genuine, I would indeed be eager to purchase such an object.

"Such are valuable," I said.

"Only a silver tarsk," he said.

"Are you a resident of Ar?" I asked.

"I am leaving the city," he said. "I fear Cos."

"But Cos is to be met and defeated on the march to Ar," I said.

"I am leaving the city," he said. "I have no longer a need for the ostrakon."

"Let me see it," I said.

Surreptitiously, scarcely opening his hand, he showed it to me.

"Bring it here, by the light," I said.

Unwillingly he did so. I took it from his hand.

"Do not show it about so freely," he whispered.

I struck him heavily in the gut and he bent over, and sank to his knees. He put down his head. He gasped. He threw up into the dirt near the fire.

"If you cannot hold your paga, go elsewhere," growled a peasant.

The fellow, in pain, in confusion, in agony, looked up at me.

"It is indeed a yellow ostrakon," I said, "and oval in shape, as are the current ostraka."

"Pay me," he gasped.

"Only this morning I was at the sun gate," I told him, "where the current lists are posted, the intent of which is to preclude such fraud as you would perpetrate."

"No," he said.

"The series of this ostrakon," I said, "was discontinued, probably months ago."

"No," he said.

"You could have retrieved from a carnarium," I said. This was one of the great refuse pits outside the walls.

I broke the ostrakon in two and cast the pieces into the fire.

"Begone," I said to the fellow.

He staggered to his feet and, bent over, hobbled quickly away. I had not killed him.

"They may have to give up ostraka," said the peasant sitting cross-legged by the fire.

"Why?" I asked.

"It is dangerous to carry them," he said. "Too many folks are killed for them."

"What then will Ar do?" I asked.

"I think she will shut her gates," he said.

"But her forces are interposed between her gates and Cos," I said.

"True," said the peasant.

I then continued my search for Marcus and Phoebe. He was, of course, quite proud of her. I did not doubt but what he was now circulating about, seemingly merely wandering about, but showing her off. She would surely be one the most fetching slaves in the area.

How lofty, I thought, are the walls of Ar. Yet they were only of stone and mortar. They could be breached. Her bridges could be, as the Goreans have it, washed in blood. But there were forces of Ar between her walls and banners of Cos. It was well.

I stopped for a moment to watch an amusing race. Several slave girls are aligned, on all fours, poised, their heads down. Then, carefully, a line of beans, one to a girl, is placed before them. She must then, on all fours, push the bean before her, touching it only with her nose. The finish line was a few yards away. "go!" I head. The crowd cheered on its favorites. On this sport, as well as on several others, small bets were placed. Sometimes a new slave, one who has recently been a haughty, arrogant free woman, is used in such a race. Such things, aside from their amusing, and fitting, aspects, are thought to be useful in accommodating her to her new reality, that of the female slave. In them she learns something more of the range of activities that may be required of her.

I passed two fellows wrestling in a circle, others watching.

Another group, gathered about a fire, were singing and passing about a bota, I presume, of paga.

I passed a pair of fellows intent over a Kaissa board. It seemed they were in their own world.

A female slave passed me, looking shyly down. She moved, excellently. I saw another regarding me. She was on her master's leash. I recalled that Phoebe, too, had been on a leash. Perhaps by now, I though, Marcus would have returned with his slave, suffering in her need, to the tent, if only to satisfy himself with her, for he, too, I was certain, was in an agony to have her. Yet, in spite of his need, his intense desire for her, which it seemed he would choose to conceal from her, and her obvious, even explicitly expressed piteous need, which he chose to ignore, thereby supposedly, I suppose, indicating to her its meaninglessness to him, he had, as though nothing were afoot, simply taken her from the tent, as though merely to take in the sights, to see what might be seen in the camp. If Marcus had returned to the tent by now, of course, I did not think it would do for me to drop back, at least just yet. I wondered if, even now, Phoebe might be writhing at his mercy in an intricate slave binding, one which might make her so much the more helpless under his touch. Yet, given what I knew of Marcus, and his will, and determination, he was probably still about in the camp. But how long, I wondered, could he hold out. Certainly Phoebe had been superb in her tunic, adjusted on her by the slave girdle. The mere sight of her had led me to hurry to the mats. I supposed, however, that they were somewhere about. Knowing Marcus I would suppose so. He was excellent at gritting his teeth. I wondered if Phoebe had dared yet, in her need, to come close to him, on her leash, or even, perhaps, to brush against him, perhaps as though inadvertently. If Marcus though such a thing deliberate on her part it might have earned her another cuffing. To be sure, it doubtless amused Marcus, or seemed fitting to him, to lead her about on her leash, suffering in a need which might be detectable even in the darkness and the shifting shadows. He might regard that as quite appropriate for a "slut of Cos."

There was, from one side, a sudden sound of grunting and the cracking of great staffs, and urging cries from men. Two fellows, brawny lads, in half tunics, were doing staff contest. Both were good. Sometimes I could scarcely follow the movements of these weapons. "Watch him!" called a fellow to one of the contestants. "Cheers for Rarir!" called another. "Aii!" cried one of the lads, blood at the side of his head and ear, stumbling to the side. "Good blow!" cried an onlooker. But the lad came back with redoubled energy. I stayed for a moment. The lad from Rarir, as I understood it, then managed to pierce the guard of his opponent and thrust the staff into the fellow's chest. He followed this with a smiting to the side of the fellow's head which staggered him. he then, at the last moment, held back. the opponent, dazed, sat back in the dirt, laughing. "Victory for Rarir!" cried one man. "Pay us!" called another. Extending his hand to the foe the victor pulled him to his feet. They embraced. "Paga! Paga for both!" called a fellow.

I circled about a bit.

I saw no sight of Marcus or his lovely slave. Perhaps they had returned to the tent.

In one place, hearing the jingling of bells, I went over to a large open circle of fellows to watch a game of "girl catch." There are many ways in which this game, or sort of game, is played. In this one, which was not untypical, a female slave, within an enclosure, her hands bound behind her back, and hooded, is belled, usually with common slave bells at the collar, wrists and ankles and a larger bell, a guide bell, with its particular note, at her left hip. Some fellows then, also hooded, or blindfolded, enter the enclosure, to catch her. Neither the quarry nor the hunters can see the other. The girl is forbidden to remain still for more than a certain interval, usually a few Ihn. She is under the control of a referee. His switch can encourage her to move, and, simultaneously, of course, mark her position. She is hooded in order that she may not determine into whose power she comes. When she is caught that game, or one of its rounds, is concluded. The victor's prize, of course, is the use of the slave.

I continued to walk about.

Two fellows were haggling over the price of a verr.

I saw a yoked slave girl, two buckets attached to the ends of the yoke. She was probably bearing water for draft tharlarion. There were some in the camp. I had smelled them.

A fellow stumbled by, drunk.

I looked after the girl. She was small, and comely. She would probably have to make several trips to water the tharlarion.

I wondered if the drunken fellow knew where his camp was. Fortunately there were no carnaria in this vicinity. It would not do to stumble into one.

Around one of the campfires there was much singing.

I heard the sound of a lash, and sobs. A girl was being disciplined. She was tied on her knees, her wrists over her head, tied to a horizontal bar between two poles. I gathered that she had been displeasing.

In a tent I heard a heated political discussion.

"Marlenus of Ar will return," said a fellow. "He will save us."

"Marlenus is dead," said another.

"Let his daughter then, Talena, take the throne," said another.

"She is no longer his daughter," said a fellow. "She has been disavowed by Marlenus. She was disowned."

"How is it then her candidacy for the throne is taken seriously in the city?" asked a man.

"I do not know," admitted the other.

"Some speak of her as a possible Ubara," said a man.

"Absurd," said another.

"Many do not think so," said a man.

"She is an arrogant and unworthy slut," said another. "She should be in a collar."

"Beware, lest you speak treason," said one of the men.

"Can it be treason to speak the truth?" inquired a fellow.

"Yes," said the other fellow.

"Indeed," said a man, heatedly, "she may even know the whereabouts of Marlenus. Indeed, she, and others, may be responsible for his disappearance, or continued absence."

"I have not heard what you said," said a man.

"And I have not said it," was the rejoinder.

"I think it will be Talena," said a man, "who will sit upon the throne of Ar."

"How marvelous for Cos!" said a fellow. "That is surely what they would wish, that a female should sit upon the throne of Ar."

"Perhaps they will see to it that she does," said a man.

"Ar is in great peril," said a man.

"She had might between Cos and her gates," said a fellow. "There is nothing to fear."

"Yes!" said another, fervently.

"We must trust in the Priest-Kings," said another.

"Yes," said another.

"I can remember," said a fellow, "when we trusted in our steel."

I then left the vicinity of this tent.

I wondered if I could balance on the greased wineskin. I knew a fellow who, I had little doubt, could have done so, Lecchio, of the troupe of Boots Tarsk-Bit. I recalled the free female whose capture I had noted in Ar, that which had taken place in a street-level room in the Metallan district. Surely she must have know the law. The consorting of a free female with another man's slave renders her susceptible to the collar of the slave's master. The net had been cunningly arranged, that it might, when released, activated perhaps by springs or the pulling of a lever, fall and drape itself over the couch. It was clearly a device designed for such a purpose. The net and the room doubtless constituted a capture cubicle, simpler perhaps, but not unlike those in certain inns, in which a woman, lulled by the bolting on the doors, and feeling herself secure, may complete her toilet at leisure, bathing, combing her hair, perfuming herself and such, before the trap doors, dropped from beneath her, plunge her into the waiting arms of slavers. Guardsmen and magistrates, I had noted, had been in immediate attendance. She had had light brown hair and had been excellently curved. Yet I did not doubt but what her figure, even then of great interest, would be soon improved by diet and exercise, certainly before she would be put up on the block. To one side, in the half darkness, I heard the grunting of a man, and a female's gasping, and sobbing. There, to one side, in the shadows, difficult to make out, a slave girl, I could see the glint of her collar, writhed in a fellow's arms. I wondered if he owned her, or had simply caught her in the darkness. She was gasping, and squirming, and clutching at him. Her head twisted back and forth in the dirt. Her small, sweet, bared legs thrashed. Such responsiveness, of course, is not unusual in a female slave. It is a common function of the liberation of bondage. It comes with the collar, so to speak. Indeed, if a new slave does not soon exhibit profound and authentic sexual responsiveness, which matter may be checked by the examination of her body, within, say, an Ahn or so, the master's whip will soon inquire why. One blow of the whip is worth six months of coaxing. I though again of the captured free woman, she taken in the net. Doubtless, she, too, soon, given no choice, would become similarly responsive. Indeed, she, like other female slaves, would soon learn to be, and discover that she had become, perhaps to her initial dismay and horror, helplessly responsive to the touch of men, any man.

The pair thrashed in the darkness. She was pinioned, she sobbed with joy. To be sure, if one prefers an inert, or frigid, or anesthetic, so to speak, woman, one may always make do with a free female, inhibited by her status, and such. They are plentiful, dismally so. Goreans, incidentally, doubt that any female is, qua female, irremediably or ultimately frigid. It is a common observation, even on Earth, that one man's petulant and frigid wife is another man's, to be sure, a different sort of man's. passionate, begging, obedient slave.

"I yield me, Master!" wept the slave, softly.

"It is known to me," he said.

"Yes, Master," she said.

I heard the sound of a tabor several yards away, and the swirl of a flute, and the clapping of hands.

I went in that direction.

"Marcus," I said, pleased, finding him in the crowd there.

"Women are dancing," he said.

"Superb," I said.

Behind Marcus was Phoebe, standing very straight, and very close to him, but not touching him. She was holding her lower lip between her teeth, presumably to help her keep control of herself. Also there was a little blood at the left side of her mouth. I gathered she must have dared in her need to brush hopefully or timidly against her master, or whimpered a bit more than he cared to hear. Indeed, perhaps she had even dared to importune him. Her wrists were still bound behind her. The lead on her leash looped up to Marcus' grasp.

"The camp is in a holiday mood," I said.

"Yes," he said.

I saw more than one fellow looking at Phoebe. She had marvelous legs and ankles, and a trim figure. She stood very straight. It was not difficult to tell now, even by glancing at her, that she was in need. One of the fellows looking her over laughed. Phoebe trembled, and bit her lip a little more.

A fellow tore off the tunic of a slave girl and thrust her out, into the circle. "Aii!" cried men.

The female danced.

"I entered Phoebe in "meat catch", " said Marcus, "but she failed to catch even a single morsel."

"I am not surprised," I said. "She can hardly stand."

"That one is pretty," said Marcus. He referred to a redhead, thrust into the circle.

"I had thought you might have taken Phoebe to the tent by now," I said.

"No," said Marcus.

There were now some four or five girls in the circle. One wore a sigh that said, "I am for sale."

Phoebe made a tiny noise.

"I think Phoebe is ready for the tent now," I said.

"She did not even want to leave it," said Marcus.

"True," I said.

"Perhaps you should take Phoebe back to the tent," I said. "She is hot."

"Oh?" asked Marcus.

"Yes," I said.

"Perhaps I should put her into the circle," he said.

"She can scarcely move," I said.

"Oh," he said. I think he was pleased.

"She is in desperate need of a man's touch," I said.

"It does not matter," he said. "She is only a slave."

"Look," said Marcus. He referred to a new girl, joining the others in the circle. She wore ropes and performed on her knees, her sides, her back and stomach.

"She is very good," said Marcus.

"Yes," I said.

The dance in the circle, as one might have gathered. Was not the stately dance of free maidens, even in which, of course, the maidens, though scarcely admitting this even to themselves, experience something of the stimulatory voluptuousness of movement, but slave dance, that form of dance, in its thousands of variations, in which a female may excitingly and beautifully, marvelously and fulfillingly, express the depths and profoundness of her nature. In such dance the woman moves as a female, and shows herself as a female, in all her excitingness and beauty. It is no wonder that women love such dance, in which dance they are so desirable and beautiful, in which dance they feel so free, so sexual, so much a slave.

Another woman entered the circle. She, too, was excellent.

"How do you like them?" Marcus asked Phoebe. It was no accident, surely, that he had brought her here to watch the slave dance.

"Please take me to the tent, Master," she begged.

As Marcus had undoubtedly anticipated the sight of the slave dance would have its effect on his little Cosian. She saw how beautiful could be slaves, of which she was one. On the other hand, I suspected he had not counted on the effect on himself.

Another girl, a slim blonde, was thrust into the circle. Her master, arms folded, regarded her. She lifted her chained wrists above her head, palms facing outward, this, because of the linkage of the manacles, tightening it, bringing the backs of her hands closely together. She faced her master. Desperate was she to please him. There was a placatory aspect to her dance. It seemed she wished to divert his wrath.

"Ah," said Marcus, softly.

The girl who wore the sign, "I am for sale," danced before us, as she had before others, displaying her master's proffered merchandise. I saw that she wanted to be purchased. That was obvious in the pleading nature of her dance. Her master was perhaps a dealer, and one, as are many, who is harsh with his stock. Her dance, thusly, was rather like the "Buy me, Master," behavior of a girl on a chain, the "slaver's necklace," or in a market, the sort of behavior in which she begs purchase. A girl on such a chain, or in a market, who is too much passed over has reason for alarm. Not only is she likely to be lowered on the chain, perhaps even to "last girl," which is demeaning to her, and a great blow to her vanity, but she is likely to be encouraged to greater efforts by a variety of admonitory devices, in particular, the switch and whip. Earth-girl slaves brought to Gor, for example, are often, particularly at first, understandably enough, I suppose, afraid to be sold, and accordingly, naturally enough, I suppose, sometimes attempt, usually in subtle ways, to discourage buyers, thereby hoping to be permitted to cling to the relative security of the slaver's chain. Needless to say, this behavior is soon corrected and, in a short time, only too eager now to be off the slaver's chain, they are displaying themselves, and proposing themselves, luscious, eager, ready, begging merchandise, to prospective buyers.

The girl for sale was a short-legged brunet, extremely attractive. I considered buying her, but decided against it. This was not a time for buying slaves. I gestured for her to dance on. She whirled away. A tear moved diagonally down her cheek.

She might, of course, not belong to a dealer.

There are many reasons why a master might put his girl, or girls, up for sale, of course. He might wish, for example, if he is a breeder, to improve the quality of his pens or kennels, trying out new blood lines, freshening his stock, and such. He might wish, casually, merely to try out new slaves, perhaps ridding himself of one to acquire another, who may have caught his eye. Perhaps he wants to keep a flow of slaves in his house, lest he grow too attached to one, always a danger. Too, of course, economic considerations sometimes become paramount, these sometimes dictating the selling off of chattels, whose value, of course, unlike that of a free woman, constitutes a source of possible income. Indeed, there are many reasons for the buying and selling of slaves, as there are for other forms of properties.

I continued to watch the female, the sign about her neck, dance. No, I said to myself, it would not do to bring her into peril. Then I chastised myself for weakness. One would not wish to purchase her, of course, because she might constitute an encumbrance. Still, she was attractive. Even as I considered the matter she received a sign from a fellow, her master, I suppose, and she tore open her silk, and danced even more plaintively before one fellow and then another. She seemed frightened. I suspected she had been warned as to what might befall her if she should prove unsuccessful in securing a buyer. I saw her glance at her master. His gaze was stern, unpitying. She danced in terror. "Ahh," said Marcus. "Look!"

He was indicating the slim blonde, she with the chained wrists, whose dance before her master seemed clearly placatory in nature. She had perhaps begged to be permitted to appear before him in the dancing circle, that she might attempt to please him. he had perhaps acquiesced. I recalled he had thrust her into the circle, perhaps in this generously according her, though perhaps with some impatience, and misgivings, this chance to make amends for some perhaps unintentional, minuscule transgression. Perhaps his paga had not been heated to the right temperature. Women look well in collars.

"See?" asked Marcus.

I wondered how long he could hold out.

"I can do that, Master," sobbed Phoebe, trying to stand very still.

The blonde was now on her knees, extending her arms to her master, piteously, all this with the music in her arms, her shoulders, her head and hair, her belly.

"Aii!" said Marcus.

Her master seized her from the circle then and hurried her from the light, her head down, held by the hair, at his left hip. This is a common leading position for female slaves being conducted short distances. As the master holds her hair in the left hand, it leaves his right hand, commonly the sword hand, free. Another woman was thrust into the circle.

I thought the blonde had very successfully managed to divert her master's wrath, assuming that was what she was up to. The only whip she need fear now, muchly, at any rate, would seem to be the "whip of the furs." To be sure, she might be given a stroke or two, if only to remind her that she was a slave.

"Look," said Marcus, interested.

I saw that the girl with the sign about her neck had taken a leaf from the book of the blonde, and cunningly, too. She, too, was now on her knees, advertising her charms, attesting mutely to the joys and delicacies that would be attendant upon her ownership. I saw her owner look at her, startled. She, of course, did not now see him. I gathered he had never seen her in just this fashion or way before, her silk parted, writhing on her knees, kissing, lifting her hands, her head moving, her hair flung about. "I will buy her!" called a fellow. "How much do you want?" inquired another, eagerly. Her master rushed into the circle. "Close your silk, lascivious slut!" he ordered her. Swiftly she clutched the silk about her, startled, confused, kneeling small before him. He looked about, angrily. He jerked her by one arm to her feet. She struggled to keep her silk closed with the other hand. "She is not for sale!" he said. He then drew her rapidly from the light, into the darkness outside the circle. We heard a tearing of silk. There was much laughter.

"He did not know what he owned!" laughed a man.

"No!" agreed another.

I guessed that the possession of such a wench might not, after all, even in my situation, have been too burdensome. After all, one could always have gotten a great deal of good out of her, and a great deal of work. On the other hand, she was no longer for sale.

"I can do that, Master," said Phoebe.

"Nonsense," said Marcus.

"I can!" she said.

Marcus and I watched the women in the circle. I think perhaps about two Ihn passed. Perhaps one might have wiped one's nose, quickly, in the interval. "Well," said Marcus, wearily, "it is getting late."

"It is still early, Master," said Phoebe.

"I think that I shall return to the tent," said Marcus.

"A good idea," I said. "But I think, I shall dally a bit outside."

"Oh?" said Marcus, concerned, but, I think, not excessively disappointed. "Yes," I said.

"Perhaps we will return to the tent now," said Marcus to Phoebe.

"As Master wishes," she said, lightly. I thought she had carried that off rather well.

"I thought you wished to return to the tent," said Marcus.

"I am a slave," she said. "I must obey my master."

"Do you not want my touch?" asked Marcus.

"I am a slave," she said. "I must submit to the will of my master."

"I see," said Marcus.

Phoebe moved her lovely little head in the leash and collar, and looked off into the distance. "I am at your disposal," she said.

"I am well aware of that," said Marcus.

"Yes, Master," she said.

Phoebe's mistake, of course, was to look away. In this fashion she did not anticipate Marcus' touch. Too, it was firm, uncompromising, and not soon released. "Ohh!" she cried.

Marcus regarded her.

She, eyes wide, looked at him, startled, reproachfully, unbelievingly. She was half bent over. The leash dangled down from her collar.

She then began to tremble. Her small wrists pulled at the binding fiber, pinioning her hands behind her. Then, not even daring to move, she stood, partly bent from the waist, before him.

"Please," she whispered. "Please, my Master!"

"Perhaps you can move interestingly on your knees?" he said.

"Yes!" she said. "Anything! Anything!"

"And on your back and stomach?" he asked.

"Yes!" she said.

"And your sides?" he asked.

"Yes!" she said.

"Perhaps you desire to do these things," he said.

"Yes!" she said. "Yes!"

"Perhaps you will be bound," he said.

"Yes, Master!" she said. "Bind me!"

It is common to bind slave girls.

"Do you have any petitions, any supplications?" inquired Marcus.

"Take me to the tent!" she begged. "Take me to the tent!"

He regarded her.

"I beg your touch, my Master!" she gasped.

"Oh?" he said.

"I beg it! I beg it, my Master," she wept.

"Slut of Cos!" snarled Marcus suddenly.

"Your slave, only your slave, Master!" she wept.

He then, angrily, picked her up and threw her over his shoulder, her head to the rear. It is in this fashion that slaves are commonly carried. I saw her eyes for a moment, wild, but frightened, and grateful. Then he had sped with her from the place.

"A hot little vulo," said a man.

"Quite so," said a man.

"She could light a fire," said another.

"I wonder what he wants for her," said another.

"I do not think she if for sale," I said.

We then returned our attention to the dancing circle. New women entered it upon occasion, as others were withdrawn. There were now some ten to fifteen slaves in the circle. How beautiful women are!

"How disgusting," said a free woman, nearby. I had not noticed her standing there until now.

"Begone, slut!" said a peasant.

The free woman gasped, and hurried away. Peasants are not always tolerant of gentlewomen. To be sure, they do not always object to them when they come into their possession, as, say, they might after the fall of a city, or if one, say, has been captured and deliberately sold to them, perhaps by some male acquaintance, for one reason or another. Indeed I suspect the hardy fellows upon occasion rather enjoy owning such elegant women, women who are likely in their loftiness to have hitherto disparaged or despised their caste. It is pleasant to have them in ropes, naked at their feet. Sometimes they are asked if they rejoice to now be owned by peasants. If they respond negatively they are beaten. If they respond affirmatively they are also beaten, for lying. Quickly then will the women be taught the varied labors and services of the farm. Interestingly these women, under the domination of their powerful masters, often become excellent farm slaves. Sometimes they are even permitted to sleep in the hut, at their master's feet.

"That is an excellent dancer there," said a fellow.

"Yes," I said.

"I think she has auburn hair," said another fellow. It was difficult to tell in the light.

"Yes," said another.

Auburn hair is highly prized in the slave markets. I recalled the slave, Temione, now, as I understood it, a property of Borton, a courier for Artemidorus of Cos. Her hair was a marvelous auburn. Too, by now, it would have muchly grown out, after having been shaved off some months ago, for catapult cordage.

I noted that the free female had gone a bit about the outside of the circle, and now stood there, back a bit from the circle, where there was a space between some men. From that position of vantage she continued to watch the dancers. This puzzled me. If she found such beauty, such sensuous liberation, such fulfilling joy, such reality, such honesty, the marvelousness of owned women before their masters, offensive or deplorable, why did she watch? What did she see there in the circle, I wondered. {pg. 50) What so drew her there, what so fascinated here there? Like most free women she was perhaps inhibited, frustrated and unhappy. She continued to gaze into the circle. perhaps she saw herself there, clad in a rag and collar, if that, moving, turning with the others, like them so beautiful, so much alive, so vulnerable, so helpless, so owned. Does her master lift his whip? She must then redouble her efforts to please, lest she be lashed. I supposed that she, even there, standing so seemingly still, pretending to be a mere observer, could feel the dance in her body, in its myriad incipient movements, tiny movements in her legs, in her belly, in her body, in herself, in the wholeness of her womanhood. Perhaps she wished for her robes to be torn off and to be collared, and to be thrust, in her turn, into the circle. I did not doubt but what she would be zealous to please. Indeed, she had best be! But how strange that she, a free woman, would even linger in this place. Perhaps free women are incomprehensible. A Gorean saying came to mind, that the free woman is a riddle, the answer to which is the collar.

"Away!" called a fellow, who had turned about and seen the free woman. he waved his arm, angrily, "Away!" he said. The free woman then turned about and left the vicinity of the circle, hurriedly. I felt rather sorry for her, but then, I thought, surely the fellow was right, that the circle, or its vicinity, was no place for a free female. It was a place, rather, for the joy of masters and their slaves. Similarly, the vicinity of such places, though I did not think it would be so in this camp, at this particular time, can be dangerous for free women. For example, sometimes free women attempt, sometimes even disguising themselves, to spy on the doings of masters and slaves. For example, they might attempt, perhaps disguised as lads, to gain entrance to paga taverns. And often such entrance is granted them but later, to their horror, they may find themselves thrown naked to the dancing sand and forced to perform under whips. Similarly if they attempt to enter such establishments as pretended slaves they may find themselves leaving by the back entrance, soon to become true slaves. In many cities, such actions, attempting to spy on masters and slaves, disguising oneself as a slave, garbing oneself as a slave, even in the supposed secrecy of one's own compartments, lingering about slave shelves and markets, even exhibiting an interest in, or fascination with, bondage, can result in a reduction to bondage. The theory is apparently that such actions and interests are those of a slave, and that the female who exhibits them should, accordingly, be imbonded.

I noted a fellow approaching the circle, who had behind him, heeling him, an unusual lovely slave.

"Teibar!" called more than one man. "Teibar!"

I have, more than once, I believe, alluded to the hatred of free women for their imbonded sisters, and to how they profess to despise them and hold them in contempt. Indeed, they commonly treat such slaves with what seems to be irrational and unwonted cruelty. This is particularly the case if the slave is beautiful, and of great interest to men. I have also suggested that this attitude of the free female toward the slave seems to be motivated, paradoxically enough, by envy and jealousy. In any event, slave girls fear free women greatly, as they, being mere slaves, are much at their mercy. Once in Ar, several years ago, several free women, in their anger at slaves, and perhaps jealous of the pleasures of masters and slaves, entered a paga tavern with clubs and axes, seeking to destroy it. This is, I believe, and example, though a rather extreme one, of a not unprecedented sort of psychological reaction, the attempt, by disparagement or action, motivated by envy, jealousy, resentment, or such, to keep from others pleasures which one oneself is unable, or unwilling, to enjoy. In any event, as a historical note, the men in the tavern, being Gorean, and thus not being inhibited or confused by negativistic, antibiological traditions, quickly disarmed the women. They then stripped them, bound their hands behind their back, put them of a neck rope, and, by means of switches, conducted them swiftly outside the tavern. The women were then, outside the tavern, on the bridge of twenty lanterns, forced to witness the burning of their garments. They were then permitted to leave, though still bound and in coffle. Gorean men do not surrender their birthright as males, their rightful dominance, their appropriate mastery. They do not choose to be dictated to by females. The most interesting portion of this story is its epilogue. In two or three steps the women returned, mostly now barefoot, and many clad now humbly in low-caste garments. Some had even wrapped necklaces or beads about their left ankle. They begged permission to serve in the tavern in servile capacities, such as sweeping and cleaning. This was granted to them. At first the slaves were terrified of them but then, when it became clear that the women were not only truly serving humbly, as serving females, but that they now looked timidly up to the slaves, and desired to learn from them how to be women, and scarcely dared to aspire to their status, the fears of the slaves subsided, at least to a degree. Indeed, it was almost as though each of them, though perhaps a low girl in the tavern rosters, and much subject to the whip, had become "first girl" to some free woman or other, a rare turnabout in the lives of such collared wenches. Needless to say, in time, the free women, learning the suitable roles and lessons of womanhood, for which they had genetic predispositions, and aided by their lovely tutors, were permitted to petition for the collar. It was granted to them. It seems that his was what they had wanted all the time, though on a level not fully comprehensible to them at the beginning. One does not know what has become of them for, in time, as one might expect, they being of Ar, they were shipped out of the city, to be disposed of in various remote markets. "Greetings, Teibar!" called a fellow.

"Hail, Teibar!" called another.

From the latter manner of greeting, I gathered this Teibar might be excellent with the staff, or sword. Such greetings are usually reserved for recognized experts, or champions, at one thing or another. For example, a skilled Kaissa player is sometimes greeted in such a manner. I studied Teibar. I would have suspected his expertise to be with the sword.

"His Tuka is with him," said a fellow.

"Tuka, Tuka!" called another, rhythmically.

"Tuka' is common slave name on Gor. I have known several slaves with that name. The girl who had come with Teibar, Tuka, I supposed, now knelt at his side, her back straight, her head down. Her collar, like most female slave collars, particularly in the northern hemisphere, was close fitting. There would be no slipping it. I had no doubt that this Teibar was the sort of fellow who would hold his slave, or slaves, in perfect discipline.

"Tuka, Tuka!" called another fellow.

"She is extremely pretty," I said.

"She knows something of slave dance," said a fellow, licking his lips.

"Oh?" I said.

"Yes," he said.

"Tuka, Tuka, Tuka!" called more men.

The fellow, Teibar, looked down at his slave, who looked up at him, and quickly, timidly, kisses at his thigh. How much she was his, I thought.

"Tuka, to the circle!" called a fellow.

"She is a dancer," said a man.

"She is extraordinary," said another.

"Put Tuka in the circle!" called a fellow.

"Tuka, Tuka!" called another.

Teibar snapped his fingers once, sharply, and the slave leaped to her feet, standing erect, her head down, turned to the right, her hands at her sides, the palms facing backward. She might have been in a paga tavern, preparing to enter upon the sand or floor. I considered Teibar's Tuka. She had an excellent figure for slave dance.

"Clear the circle!" called a fellow.

The other dancers hurried to the side, to sit and kneel, and watch.

I considered the slave. She was beautiful and well curved.

Teibar gestured to the circle.

"Ahh!" said men.

"She moves like a dancer," I said.

"She is a dancer," said the fellow.

I considered the girl. She now stood in the circle, relaxed, yet supple and vital, her wrists, back to back, over her head, her knees flexed.

"She is a bred passion slave," I said, "with papers and a lineage going back a thousand years."

"No," said a man.

"Where did he pick her up," I asked, "at the Curulean?"

"I do not know," said a fellow.

I supposed she was perhaps a capture. I did not know if a fellow such as this Teibar, who did not seem of the merchants, or rich, could have afforded a slave of such obvious value. A fellow, for example, who cannot afford a certain kaiila might be able to capture it, and then, once he had his rope on its neck, and manages to make away with it, it is his mount.

"Aii!" cried a fellow.

"Aii!" said I, too.

Dancing was the slave!

"She is surely a bred passion slave," I said. "Surely the blood lines of such an animal go back a thousand years!"

"No! No!" said a man, rapt, not taking his eyes from the slave.

I regarded her, in awe.

"She is trained, of course," said a man.

Only too obviously was this a trained dancer, and yet, too, there was far more than training involved. Too, I speak not of such relatively insignificant matters as the mere excellence of her figure for slave dance, as suitable and fitting as it might be for such an art form, for women with many figures can be superb in slave dance, or that she must possess a great natural talent for such a mode of expression, but something much deeper. In the nature of her dance I saw more than training, her figure, and her talent. Within this woman, revealing itself in the dance, in its rhythm, its joy, its spontaneity, its wonders, were untold depths of femaleness, a deep and radical femininity, unabashed and unapologetic, a rejoicing in her sex, a respect of it, a love of it, an acceptance of it and a celebration of it, a wanting of it, and of what she was, a woman, a slave, in all of its marvelousness.

"Tuka, Tuka!" called men.

Men clapped their hands.

The slave danced.

Much it seemed to me, though there might be two hundred men about the circle, she danced for her master.

Once he even indicated that she should move more about which, instantly, commanded, she did.

"Tuka, Tuka!" even more called some of the other slaves about the edges of the circle, sitting and kneeling there, unable to take their eyes from her, clapping, too. Teibar's Tuka, it seemed, was popular even with the other slaves, of which she was such a superb specimen.

I watched her moving about the circle.

"Aii!" cried men, as she would pause a moment to dance before them. I had little doubt she might once have been a tavern dancer. Such dancers must present themselves in such a fashion before customers. This gives the customer an opportunity to assess them, and to keep them in mind, if he wishes, for later use in an alcove.

"Aii," cried another fellow.

I speculated that she would not have languished for attention in the alcoves. "She is superb," said the fellow next to me.

"Yes," I said.

She was working her way about the circle.

It was interesting to me that a master would dare to display such a slave publicly. I gathered that he was quite confident of his capacity to keep her. He must then, I suspected, be excellent with the sword.

"Ah," said the fellow next to me.

The dancer approached.

How marvelous are the Gorean women, I thought. And I thought then, too, sadly, of the women of Earth, so many of them so confused, so miserable, so unhappy, women not knowing what they were, or what they might be, women trapped in a maze of ultimately barren artifices, women subjected to inconsistent directives and standards, women subjected to social coercions, women subjected to antibiological constraints, women forced to deny themselves and their depth natures in the name of freedom, women trying to be men, not knowing how to be women, women torturing themselves and others with their confusions, their inhibitions, their pain, their frustrations. But I did not blame them for they were the victims of pathological conditioning programs. Any beautiful natural creature can be clipped and then instructed to rejoice in it mutilations and mishapeness. It was little wonder that so many of the women of Earth were so inhibited, so frigid, so inert, so anesthetic. That so many of them could even feel their pain was, I supposed, a hopeful sign. If their culture was correct, or judicious, why did it contain so much unhappiness and pain? In a body, pain is an indication that something is wrong. So, too, it is in a culture.

Then the dancer was before me, and I was awed with beauty.

I kept her there before me for a moment, not letting her move away, my gaze holding her.

I wept then for the men of Earth, that they could not know such beauties. How utterly marvelous are the Gorean females! How utterly different they are from the women of Earth! How impossible it would be for a female of Earth to match them!

I watched the dancer then move to the next fellow, and turn about.

Suddenly I was stunned. High on her left arm there was a small, circular scar. It was not, surely, in that place, and given its nature, the result of a marking iron. Indeed, it is by means of such tiny indications, fillings in the teeth, and such, that a certain sort of girl, for which there is a market on Gor, is often recognized.

She is not from Gor!" I said.

"She is from far away," said the fellow next to me.

"From a distant land," said another.

"Called "earth," said another.

"Yes," I said.

"They make excellent slaves," said another. I wondered if this might not be true. The Earth female, starved for sexual fulfillment, suddenly plunged into the gorgeous world of Gor, subject to masculine pleasure, taught obedience, and such, might well, I supposed, after a period of adjustment and accommodation, rejoice in self-discovery, in her true liberation, in her finding herself at last in her place in nature, the beautiful and desirable slave of strong and uncompromising masters.

"I think we should send an army there and bring them all back in chains," said another.

"That is where they belong," said another.

"Yes," said another.

The mark on the girl's arm had not been the result of the imprint of a master's iron. It had been a vaccination mark. I had noted, too, interestingly, just before she had whirled away, that she was shy. I assessed her as being quite intelligent, extremely sensitive, and an excellent slave.

She had now, as the music swirled to its finish, returned to move before her master. Then, the dance ended, men striking their left shoulders in Gorean applause, shouting their vociferous approval, some armed warriors striking their shields with spear blades, she sank to the ground, on her back, breathless, breasts heaving, covered with a sheen of sweat, before her master, her left knee raised, her head turned toward him, the palms of her hands, at her sides, vulnerably exposed.

She had been superb. My shoulder was sore where I had much struck it.

Then with a sensuous, fluid movement she rose to her knees before her master. She spread her knees, widely. She regarded him, beggingly. The dance had much aroused her, and she was totally his, completely at his will, his pleasure and mercy.

"Our gratitude, Teibar!" called a fellow.

"Hail, Teibar!" called another.

He called Teibar then waved to the men about, and turning about, took his way from the area of the circle. The slave rose to her feet and hurried after him, to heel him. more than one man touched her, and as a slave may be touched, as she moved through them, hurrying to catch up with her master. To even these touches I could see her respond, even in her flight. I saw that she was a hot slave, and one, who would be, whether she wished it or not, uncontrollable, helplessly responsive, in a man's arms. Then she was with her master, seeming to heel him, but yet so close to him that she touched him, brushing against him. I had little doubt that she would soon be lengthily used, ravished with all the attention, detail and patience with which Gorean masters are wont to exploit their helpless chattels.

After the dance of Tuka, men and slaves departed from the circle, many doubtless to hurry to their blankets and tents. I, too, thought I had taken comfort earlier with the blond mat girl, was uncomfortable.

"Use me, Master?" said a coin girl.

I looked down at her, a small brunet, half naked in a ta-teera, a slave rag. About her neck, over her collar, close about it, was a chain collar, padlocked shut, with its coin box, and slot.

"Master?" she smiled.

I was angry. She had doubtless come to a circle, knowing that fellows in need, ones without slaves, such as I, might be found there. Her attitude seemed to me insufficiently respectful. She was not even kneeling.

"Oh!" she cried, spinning to the side, cuffed.

I snapped my fingers. "There," I said, pointing, indicating a place before me, "kneel there, facing away from me." Swiftly she crawled to the place, obeying. "On your belly," I snapped. Swiftly did she fling herself, a slave who might have been displeasing, in terror, to her belly. I seized her ankles and parted them, widely, pulling her toward me. "Perhaps you deserve a full lashing," I said. "No, please, Master!" she wept. "How much are you?" I asked. "Only a tarsk bit, Master!" she wept. I considered the matter. I could afford that. I dragged her back to me. She gasped, mine. "Oh!" she cried. "Oh! Oh!" Then I thrust her from me, and stood. She was then on her side, looking back at me. She was grasping. I kicked her, angrily, with the side of my foot. She winced. "Forgive me, Master," she wept. "I beg forgiveness!"

"Perhaps you will learn manners," I said. "Yes, Master," she said. "Perhaps you will know enough next time to be respectful, and to kneel before men," I said. Yes, Master," she said. "Forgive me, Master!" I looked down upon her angrily. I think she feared she might be again cuffed, or kicked. Then she crawled to my feet, and kissed them. Then she looked up at me. "Buy me, "she begged, suddenly. "It is to a man such as you that I wish to belong!" I dragged her to her knees by the hair and, she sobbing, trying to hold me, thrust a coin, a tarsk bit into the coin box. I then thrust her back to the dirt, on her side, and, turning about, angrily, left her. "Master!" she called after me. "Please, Master!" In a time I turned back to regard her. She was where I had left her, except that she was now kneeling. Her shoulders shook with sobs. She had the coin box, on its chain, lifted in her hands. Her head was down, and her hair fell about the coin box. She pressed her lips to it, again and again, sobbing. I did not think that she was a poor slave. I think rather that she merely needed a strong master.

"Well done," said a fellow, passing me.

I looked back at the girl again. She did have pretty thighs, well revealed in the ta-teera. But then I steeled myself against softness, and reminded myself that this was no time to acquire a bond maid, even one with a lovely little figure and pretty thighs, one who was now clearly ready to obey instantly, and with perfection.

I looked to the lofty walls of Ar. Within them lay what danger, what treachery, what intrigue I dared not guess.

"Oh!" said a slave, slapped below the small of the back by a peasant.

"She is in the iron belt," said the fellow, looking at me, grinning.

The girl hurried on.

"Perhaps it is just as well," I said.

He laughed.

She looked well in the tunic.

I passed a couple, the master enjoying his slave.

I looked up at the moons of Gor. They have, it seems, an unusual effect on women. Sometimes female slaves, or captured free women, are chained beneath them. I do not know the nature of this effect. Perhaps it is merely aesthetic, for surely the moons are very beautiful. On the other hand the logical approach the moons may have a profound subconscious symbolism, in its waxings and wanings, clearly suggestive of feminine sexual cycles. But even more interestingly the effect on the female is possibly biological. There are many biological vestiges in the human being. One which is typical and interesting is the tendency of the skin to erupt in tiny protuberances, "goose bumps," when it is cold. This response presumably harkens back to a time when the human animal, or its forebear, had a great deal more hair from the flesh, thusly forming an insulating layer against the cold. So, too, the sight of the moons, and their rhythms, and such, so interestingly approximating the periods of feminine sexual cycles, may at one time have played a role in mating cycles. Perhaps the female came out into the moonlight, in her need, where she might be located and appraised, thought not in the harsh light of day. Perhaps in the moonlight, away from darkness, with its dangers of predators and such, she cried out, or moaned, her needs, attempting to attract attention to herself, calling for the attentions of the male. Perhaps those which would seek to mate in the fullness of light distracted the group from feeding, or were too much fought over. Perhaps those who sought the darkness were not as easily found or succumbed to predators. Perhaps, in time, as a matter of natural selections, operative upon a relatively, at that time, helpless species, those tended to survive whose mating impulses became synchronized with the moons. This might explain why, even today, and doubtless numerous genetic codings later, codings obviously favoring frequent and aperiodic sexuality, some women are, so to speak, in addition, still "called by the moon." It would be a vestige, like the rising of hair on "goose bumps." Aside from this, it might be noted, of course, that the sexual cycle of various species do tend to be correlated with the cycles of the moon, presumably through one natural selection or another. The Kurii, for example, seem to have retained some vestiges along these lines, for in that species, as I understand it, it is not unusual for females to go to the mating cliffs in the moonlight, where, helpless in their sexuality, they cry out, or howl, their needs.

I passed a few fellows playing dice. There are many forms of dice games on Gor, usually played with anywhere from a single die to five dice. The major difference, I think, between the dice of Earth and those of Gor is that the Gorean dice usually have their numbers, or letters, or whatever pictures or devices are used, painted on their surfaces. It is difficult to manufacture a pair of dice, of course, in which the "numbers," tow, three and so on, are represented by scooped out indentations. For example, the «one» side of a die is likely to have less scooped-out material missing than the «six» side of a die. Thus the «one» side is slightly heavier and, in normal play, should tend to land face down more often than, say the «six» side, this bringing up the opposite side, the «six» side in Earth dice, somewhat more frequently. To be sure, the differences in weight are slight and, given the forces on the dice, the differential is not dramatic. And, of course, this differential can be compensated for in a sophisticated die by trying to deduct equal amounts of material from all surfaces, for example, an amount from the «one» side which will equal the amount of the «six» side, and, indeed, on the various sides. At any rate, in the Gorean dice, as mentioned, the numbers or letters, of pictures or whatever devices are used, are usually pained on the dice. Some gamesmen, even so, attempt to expend the same amount of paint on all surfaces. To be sure, some Gorean dice I have seen to use the «scooped-out» approach to marking the dice. And these, almost invariably, like the more sophisticated Earth dice, try to even out the material removed from each of the surfaces. Some Gorean dice are sold in sealed boxes, bearing the city's imprint. These, supposedly, have been each cast six hundred times, with results approximating the ideal mathematical probabilities. Also, it might be mentioned that dice are sometimes tampered with, or specially prepared, to favor certain numbers. These, I suppose, using the Earth term, might be spoken of as "loaded." My friend, the actor, magician, impresario and whatnot, Boots Tarsk-Bit, once narrowly escaped an impalement in Besnit on the charge of using false dice. He was, however, it seems, framed. At any rate the charges were dismissed when a pair of identical false dice turned up in the pouch of the arresting magistrate, the original pair having, interestingly, at about the same time, vanished.

I stayed to watch the fellows playing dice for a few Ehns. I do not think they noticed me, so intent they were on their game. The stakes were small, only tarsk bits, but one would not have gathered that from the earnestness of the players. A slave girl was kneeling nearby, in a sort of improvised slave brace, a short, stout pole, drilled through in three places. Her ankles were fastened to the pole, by means of a thong threaded through one of the apertures, near its bottom, her wrists by another thong passing through a hole a few inches higher that the bottom hole, and her neck by a thong passed through the aperture at the top part of the pole, behind her neck. There are many arrangements for the keeping of slaves, bars, harnesses, and such. I will mention two simple ones, first, the short, hollow tube, usually used with a sitting slave, whose wrists are tied, the thing then passing through the tube to emerge at the far end, where it is used to secure her ankles, and, second, the longer pole, drilled four times, used with a prone or supine slave, in which it is impossible for her to rise to her feet. Her ankles are fastened some six inches or so from the end, and she is then, of course, secured, in one fashion or another, back or belly to the pole, as the master might please, at suitable intervals, by the wrists, belly and neck, the pole usually extending some six inches or so beyond her head. The girl near the gamblers was apparently not a stake in the game. On the other hand, it is not unusual for female slaves, like kaiila and other properties, to serve as stakes in such games, as in races, contests and such. Indeed, in many contests, female slaves are offered as prizes. I had once won one myself, in Torvaldsland, in archery. I had subsequently sold her to a warrior. I trust that she is happy, but it does not matter, as she is only a slave.

"Larls, larls!" called a fellow. "I win!"

"Alas," moaned the other. "I have only verr."

"Larls" would be maximum highs, say, double highs, if two dice were being used, triple highs if three dice were in play, and so on. The chances of obtaining a «larl» with one throw of one die is one in six, of obtaining «larls» with two dice, one in thirty-six, of obtaining «larls» with three dice, one in two hundred and sixteen, and so on. Triple «larls» is a rare throw, obviously. The fellow had double "larls." Other types of throws are "urts," "sleen," "verr," and such. The lowest value on a singe die is the "urt." The chances of obtaining, say, three «urts» is very slim, like that of obtaining three «larls» one in two hundred and sixteen. «Verr» is not a bad throw but it was not good enough to beat "larls." If two dice are in play a «verr» and a «larl» would be equivalent on a numerical scale of ten points, or, similarly, if the dice are numbered, as these were, one would simply count points, though, of course, if, say, two sixes were thrown, that would count as "larls."

A lad danced past, pounding on a tabor.

I stood there, in the camp, looking about, at the various fires and the folks about them. Mostly, as I have suggested, these folks were of the peasants, but, among them were representatives of many other castes, as well, mostly refugees from Torcadino and its environs, in the west, and from the vicinity of Ar's Station, in the north, folks who had fled before the marshes of Cos.

"Ai!" cried a fellow a few yards away, tumbling off the filled, greased wineskin. He would not win the skin and its contents. There was much laughter. "Next!" called the owner of the skin. "Next!" As it cost a tarsk bit to try the game I think he had already made more than the cost of the wineskin and its contents.

I wondered if I could balance on the skin. It is not easy, of course, given the surgent fluid and the slippery surface.

Another fellow addressed himself to the task, but was on his back in the dirt in an instant. There was more laughter about the skin.

"An excellent effort," called the owner of the skin, "would you care to try again?"

"No," said the fellow.

"We will hole you while you mount," volunteered the owner.

But the fellow waved good-naturedly and left.

"A tarsk bit," called the owner. "Only a tarsk bit! Win wine, the finest ka-la-na, a whole skinful, enough to treat your entire village."

"I will try," said a fellow, determinedly.

I walked over to the circle to watch.

The fellow was helped to the surface of the wineskin. But only an Ihn or so later he tumbled off into the dirt. Fellows about slapped their thighs and roared with laughter.

"Where is more wine?" called one of his friends.

There was laughter.

How odd it was, I thought, that these folks, who had so little, and might, were it not for the forces of Ar, such as they were, between Cos and the city, be in mortal jeopardy, should disport themselves so delightedly.

I watched another fellow being helped to the surface of the skin.

I supposed it might be safe, now, to return to the tent. Presumably, by now, it would not be a violation of decorum to return to the tent. Indeed, by now, Marcus and Phoebe might be asleep. Marcus usually slept her at his feet, in which case her ankles would be crossed and closely chained, or at his thigh, in which case, she would be on a short neck chain, fastened to his belt. A major advantage of sleeping the girl at your thigh is that you can easily reach her and, by the hair, or the chain, if one is used, pull her to you in the night. These measures, however, if they were intended to be precautions against her escape, were in my opinion unnecessary. Phoebe, as I have suggested, was held to her master by bonds compared to which stout ropes. Woven of the strongest, coarsest fibers, and chains or iron, obdurate, weighty and unbreakable, were mere gossamer strands. She was madly, helplessly, hopelessly in love with her master. And he, no less, rebellious, moody, angry, chastising himself for his weakness, was infatuated with his lovely slave.

The fellow struggled to stay up on the bulging, shifting wineskin, and then slipped off. He had actually done quite well. Nearly had he won the wine. There was applause about the small circle.

I heard a fellow advertising the booth of a thought reader. This reader probably read coins. One, presumably without the knowledge of the reader or a confederate, selects one coin from several on a tray or platter, usually tarsk bits, and then, holding it tightly in his hand, concentrates on the coin. Then, after the coin has been replaced on the tray or platter, the thought reader turns about and, more often than not, far more than the probabilities would suggest, locates the coin. One then loses one's tarsk bit. If the reader selects the wrong coin, one receives all the tarsk bits on the tray or platter, usually several. I assumed there must be some sort of trick to this, though I did not know what it was. Goreans, on the other hand, often accept, rather uncritically, in my mind, that the reader can actually read thoughts, or usually read them. They reason that if one fellow can see farther than another, and such, why can't someone, similarly, be able to «see» thoughts. Similarly, less familiar with tricks, prestidigitation, illusions, and such, than an Earth audience, some Goreans believe in magic. I have meet Goreans who really believed, for example, that a magician can make a girl vanish into thin air and then retrieve her from the same. They accept the evidence of their senses, so to speak. The taking of auspices, incidentally, is common on Gor before initiating campaigns, enterprises, and such. Many Goreans will worry about such things as the tracks of spiders and the flights of birds. Similarly, on Earth, there is a clientele, particularly in uncertain, troubled times, for those who claim to be able to read the future, to tell fortunes, and such.

"Noble Sir!" called the owner of the wineskin. "What of you?"

I regarded him, startled.

"A tarsk bit a chance?" he invited me. "Think of the whole skin of wine for you and your friends!"

A skin of wine might bring as much as four or five copper tarsks.

"Very well," I said.

There was some commendation from others about. "Good fellow," said more than one fellow.

"Surely you do not intend to wear your sandals," said the owner of the wineskin. "Of course not," I said, slipping them off. I then rubbed my feet well in the dirt near the skin.

"Let me help you up," said the fellow.

"That will not be necessary," I said.

"Here, let me help you," he said.

"Very well," I said. I had not been able to get on the skin.

"Are you ready?" asked the owner, steadying me.

"a€”Yes," I said. I wished Lecchio, of the troupe of Boots Tarsk-Bit, were about. He might have managed this.

"Ready?" asked the owner.

"Yes," I said.

"Time!" he cried, letting go of me.

"How well you are doing!" he cried, at which point I slipped from the skin. I sat in the dirt, laughing. "How marvelously he did!" said a fellow. "Has he gotten on the skin yet?" asked another, a wag, it seems. "He has already fallen off," he was informed. "He did wonderfully," said another. "Yes," said another, "he must have been on the skin for at least two Ihn." I myself thought I might have managed a bit more than that. To be sure, on the skin, an Ihn seems like an Ehn. Before one becomes too critical in these matters, however, I recommend that one attempt the same feat. To be sure, some fellows do manage to stay on the skin and win the wine.

"Next?" inquired the owner of the wineskin.

I looked about, and picked up my sandals. I had scarcely retrieved them when I noticed a stillness about, and the men looking in a given direction. I followed their gaze. There, at the edge of the circle, emerged from the darkness, there was a large man, bearded, in a tunic and cloak. I took him as likely to be of the peasants. He looked about himself, but almost as though he saw nothing. "Would care to try your luck?" asked the owner of the wineskin. I was pleased that he had addressed the fellow.

The newcomer came forward slowly, deliberately, as though he might have come from a great distance.

"One tries to stand upon the skin," said the owner. "It is a tarsk bit." The bearded man then stood before the owner of the wineskin, who seemed small before him. The bearded fellow said nothing. He looked at the owner of the wineskin. The owner of the wineskin trembled a little. Then the bearded man placed a tarsk bit in his hand.

"One tries to stand on the skin," said the owner again, uncertainly.

The large man looked at him.

"Perhaps you will win," said the owner.

"What are you doing?" cried the owner.

No one moved to stop him, but the large man, opening his cloak, drew a knife from his belt sheath and slowly, deliberately, slit the skin open. Wine burst forth from the skin, onto the ankles of the large fellow, and, flowing about, seeking its paths, sank into the dirt. The dust was reddened. It was not unlike blood.

The large fellow then sheathed his knife, and stood on the rent, emptied skin. "I have won," he said.

"The skin is destroyed," said the owner. "The wine is lost."

"But I have won," said the bearded man.

The owner of the rent skin was silent.

"Twenty men were with me," said the large, bearded man. "I along survived."

"He is of the peasant levies!" said a fellow.

"Speak, speak!" cried men, anxiously.

"The skin is rent," said the man. "The wine is gone."

"Speak!" cried others.

The fellow pulled his cloak away and put it over his arm.

"He is wounded!" said a man. The left side of the fellow's tunic was matted with blood. The cloak had clung to it a bit, when he removed it.

"Speak! cried men.

"I have won," said the man.

"He is delirious," said a fellow.

"No," I said.

"I have won," said the man, dully.

"Yes," I said. "You have stood upon the skin. You have won."

"But the skin is gone, the wine is gone," said a fellow.

"But he has won," I said.

"What occurred in the west?" demanded a man.

"Ar has lost," he said.

Men looked at one another, stunned.

"The banners of Cos incline toward the gates of Ar," said the man.

"No!" cried a man.

"Ar is defenseless," moaned a fellow.

"Let the alarm bells sound," wept a man. "Let her seal her gates!"

I had some concept of the forces of Cos. Too, I had some concept of the forces of Ar in the city, now mostly guardsmen. She could never withstand a concerted siege.

"I have won," said the bearded man.

"How have you won?" asked a man, angrily.

"I have survived," he said.

I looked at the rent skin and he reddened dust. Yes, I thought, he was the sort of man who would survive.

Men now fled away from the circle. In Ihn, it seemed, the camp was in consternation.

I stood there, for a time, holding my sandals.

Men moved past me, pulling their carts and wagons. Some had slave girls chained to them. Some of these women, in their manacles, attached to the rear of the vehicles, thrusting and pushing, helped to hurry them ahead. I heard the bellowing of tharlarion being harnessed.

"How far is Cos?" I asked the man.

"Two, three days," he said.

I gathered this would depend on Myron's decision as to the rate and number of marches. I did not think he would press his men. He was an excellent commander and, from what I had gathered, there need be no haste in the matter. He might even rest his men for a day or two. In any event, an excellent commander, he would presumably bring them fresh to the gates of Ar.

I donned my sandals.

Many of the fires in the camp had now been extinguished. It might be difficult finding my way back to the tent.

"Are you all right?" I asked the bearded fellow.

"Yes," he said.

I looked to the walls of Ar. Here and there, on the walls, like shadows flickering against the tarn beacons, I could see the return of tarnsmen. I looked to the west. Out there, somewhere, were the forces of Cos, their appetites whetted by victory. Within a week, surely, they would be within sight of Ar, eager for war, zestful for loot. I listened to the alarm bars in the distance, from within the city. I wondered how well, tonight, would sleep her free women. Would they squirm and toss in fear in their silken sheets? I wondered if they better understood, this night, perhaps better than other nights, their dependence on men. surely they knew in the bottoms of their lovely bellies that they, too, as much as the slaves in their kennels, were spoils. "Pray to the Priest-Kings! "Pray to the Priest-Kings!" wept a man.

I thrust him aside, moving through the press, the throng, the carts and wagons, the tharlarion. In a few Ehn I had come to our tent.