Swordsmen of Gor

Chapter Nine THE THATCHED HUT; THREE TUBS

“When are we to be allowed to see someone important?” asked Miss Wentworth.

“I regret my unimportance,” said Tajima.

“Go away!” said Miss Wentworth.

With a courteous bow, Tajima withdrew.

The camp was quite large.

I had expected it to lie on the northern bank of the Alexandra, but it did not. It was toward the Alexandra, but well inland.

“Someone will pay for this!” said Miss Wentworth. “I will not be kept waiting!”

“There is no ship,” said Pertinax.

“I will see that there is one!” said Miss Wentworth. “Our agreements were clear. The arrangements were clear. We completed our part of the work, and now we must be paid, and returned to Earth, with wealth, wealth!”

“There is no ship,” said Pertinax.

“We will not be betrayed!” said Miss Wentworth.

“Are we ourselves so innocent?” asked Pertinax. “Are we not, ourselves, in our way, guilty of betrayal? Did we not engage, enthusiastically and uncritically, in betrayal, pretending to be what we were not, engaging to deliver a stranger, whom we knew not, to an uncertain fate, one we did not understand, and which might, for all we knew, have proven fatal?”

In a sense, I thought, their betrayal was deeper than they understood, for they had labored, however ignorantly, in the cause of beasts, Kurii, who would covet not only Gor, but Earth, as well. In a sense they had betrayed a world, and a species.

“I think,” said Pertinax, “we have been betrayed not so much by others as by ourselves, by greed.”

“Absurd!” snapped Miss Wentworth.

“You would do anything for money,” said Pertinax.

“So, too, would anyone!” she said.

“I used to think so,” said Pertinax. “I am no longer sure of it.”

“You are a fool,” she said.

“There is no ship,” said Pertinax.

“There will be,” she said. “I will demand it!”

“Perhaps you will be successful,” he mused. “One of your smiles can twist a knife in a man’s guts. I know.”

“Yes!” she said. She laughed.

I gathered she had had little difficulty in having her way with men.

“Brew me tea,” said Miss Wentworth to Cecily.

Cecily looked to me, and I nodded.

“Yes, Mistress,” said Cecily. Cecily knew enough to address all free women as “Mistress,” and all free men as “Master.” On the other hand, having been embonded on a Steel World, that of Agamemnon, later that of Arcesilaus, an unlikely place to encounter free women, she knew little of free women, at least of a Gorean sort. The only free woman with whom she had had contact with on the Steel World had been the Lady Bina, a former Kur pet, who was less a Gorean free woman than a remarkably beautiful, ambitious, vain little animal. I had warned Cecily of free women, but I fear she took my cautions too lightly. She thought my concerns exaggerated, and disproportionate to the likely reality. In my view, however, my concerns and cautions were not excessive, but practical and judicious. She seemed to believe that since the slave and the free woman were both women that there would be a sympathy, an understanding, a rapport, between them. She knew so little. The free woman was a person; the slave was a property, an animal, and an animal which, aside from matters of social advancement, position, wealth, and status, was commonly preferred a thousand times by men to a free woman. But Cecily was highly intelligent, and she would learn quickly, if only under a free woman’s switch. Her safety, of course, would lie with men, and masters, who would to the extent practical, given a free woman’s status and prerogatives, protect her.

We were housed in a small, thatched hut.

The door of the hut was open, but it might be fastened, when one wished, with thongs.

Once in the camp, with the license of Tajima, whom we took as our mentor and guide in these matters, we had freed the girls of their impediments, removing the hoods and leashes, and then unbinding their small wrists. The wrists of women look lovely, thonged, or braceleted, or such.

“I am a free woman,” had said Miss Wentworth to Tajima, rubbing her wrists. “Bring me some decent clothing, now, and arrange an audience, immediately, with your superior. I do not wish to appear before him, as I am, so shamefully garbed.”

“I am sure you will not appear before him so garbed,” said Tajima, politely, and left, quietly, as was his wont.

That, however, had been two days ago.

“Go out,” said Miss Wentworth, to Pertinax, “and demand an audience with someone, anyone!”

“I think we should wait,” I said.

“That would be best, I think,” said Pertinax.

“Then I shall go out!” she cried.

“I would not,” I said. “There are strong men about, Goreans.”

She stamped her small foot, petulantly, and jerked at her collar. It may be remembered that its key had been cast into Thassa, long ago. She could not remove it. To be sure, it might easily be removed with suitable tools.

In the meantime it would remain on her neck.

I had gathered, from earlier conversations between Pertinax and Miss Wentworth, that she had been the employee of a large investment firm and had been primarily utilized to solicit investments from male clients, in which endeavor she had apparently been unusually successful. Her ambitions, however, extended well beyond enticing wealth to her employer’s firm, and obtaining thereby the routine emoluments of a salary and commissions. Why should she herself not have the wealth which she so ably diverted into the channels of others, an illusive wealth to whose passage she stood so near but from which she was yet so far? She seemed to me little more than an unimaginative creation of her time, a creature of ambition and egotism set mindlessly upon the pursuit of the dazzling, gleaming bubbles of a meretricious culture. To be sure, she was quite lovely, and that was doubtless what first drew her to the attention of Gorean slavers. Here was a female, however, who would not only look well in shackles, but, first, might be turned to the advantage of purposes extending far beyond the coins she might bring when taken from the block. And so she had been approached. Pertinax had been a minor clerk in the same firm.

The movements of free women on Gor tend to be restricted, and monitored. One is always aware when they are about. They are precious. One pays attention to them. Slaves, on the other hand, are generally free to come and go, as they please, not much noticed. They may have to request their master’s permission to leave their domicile, and they may have to return at a stipulated time, subject to discipline, and, indeed, has one not seen them hurrying frantically through the streets hoping to cross their master’s threshold before the ringing of the fifteenth bar, but one is used to them, and pays them little attention when they are about in the streets, the alleys, the markets, the plazas, and parks, save, of course, to speculate on their lineaments and wonder how they might look at one’s slave ring. Accordingly, it is not unprecedented that a female Kur agent on Gor, to increase her mobility and anonymity, may be dressed as though she were, despite her freedom and importance, no more than a slave. And if that is the case, will she not require a male to complete her disguise, one who will pose as her master?

And, as noted, earlier, free women are rare in certain locales, such as the northern forests. Thus, if a project is afoot in such an area, and one may wish to have a female agent on hand, one who may be useful with respect to its success, it is almost certain that she will be disguised as a female slave, and, if her disguise is to be plausible, she must have one about who will appear to be her master.

Mr. Gregory White, a minor employee at the investment firm, was no more immune to the charms of Miss Margaret Wentworth than a great many other males. Indeed, he had long looked upon her from afar, acutely, and poignantly, well aware of the chasms, social and commercial, which separated him from such a different and special creature. A clever, beautiful young woman, she was well aware of his hapless infatuation, just as she was in the case of a number of other males of no interest or importance to her, whom she scarcely deigned to notice. It gave her great pleasure to be above them, remote, frosty, businesslike, inaccessible, beyond their level, out of their grasp. She was above them; they were beneath her. It was she who could come and go within the doors of the great and powerful, doors they could not even approach. Kur agents, of course, often recruited pairs, primarily, one supposes, for the reasons suggested earlier. When she learned that she might have to disguise herself as a slave, she almost withdrew from the project. She, a slave! How absurd! How disgusting! To be sure, this would have meant only that another would have been sought in her place, and she would have been placed on an acquisition list for a later pick up, not as an agent, of course, but merely as another slave, her beauty perhaps then indistinguishable amongst that of many others. The cages and pens, after all, are filled with beautiful women. When it became clear to her, however, that the offer was to be withdrawn, and her dreams of unusual wealth were fading, she swiftly relented, agreeing that it might be amusing to play such a role, that of a mere slave. She would need, of course, some fellow to pretend to be her master. They were willing to find her one, but, interestingly, for some reason, she suggested White. Presumably she did this because she thought him a typical, diffident man of Earth, one easily manipulated, one easily dominated. Too, of course, she was well aware of his infatuation, and this would add a delicious, exploitable nuance to the relationship, and put him muchly in her power. It would be amusing to dominate him, and order him about. She could imagine him hurrying to serve her, in this way or that. Yes, it would be amusing.

Her name would be “Constantina.” Not the best choice, perhaps, for it was more of a free woman’s name than a slave’s name, but she wanted something stately and impressive. A more typical slave name would have been, say, Lana or Lita, or, say, a more familiar Earth-girl name, such as Jane, Audrey, or Cecily. Earth-girl names commonly serve as slave names on Gor. That is perhaps because Goreans think of Earth girls as being of slave stock, of superb slave stock. Indeed, some Goreans look for them in the markets, and it is said they are seldom disappointed. And the name of White, whom she easily recruited, would be “Pertinax.”

Miss Wentworth paced back and forth in the hut, angrily.

Later, she was occasionally less certain of the wisdom of her choice in recruiting White, for he was much larger and stronger than she, was, in his way, strikingly good looking, and, annoyingly, was as swift, if not more so, than she, in learning Gorean and certain ways of Gor. Certainly the dolt could not be more intelligent than she! She would have found that intolerable. Accordingly, any evidence of his intellectual superiority she discounted. He was, of course, a man of Earth, and so there was little to fear. Sometimes she felt distinctly uneasy when she was near him, as a female, particularly when she was in her costume, that of a slave. Once, in a fearful dream, as I would learn, she had dreamed he had stripped her publicly in the company offices while others looked on, bemused, or unconcerned. Then he had thrown her to his feet, kicked her, and put a collar on her, and had then put her to his pleasure, while the others continued to look on, and later politely applauded. She recalled going to her belly, crawling to his shoes, and, head down, frightened, kissing them.

After that dream she was very surly, and bitter, toward him.

If she suspected he might be regarding her, perhaps the arch of her chin, the curve of a calf, the turn of an ankle, she would berate him savagely.

She took much pleasure in ordering him about.

Pertinax, or White, if you prefer, understood little of this, and merely, as a man of Earth, redoubled his efforts to please his demanding employer.

By now, some five days after being met in one of the reserves of Port Kar, the yellow signs which we had originally followed east from the coast would have disappeared. Had one followed them, and not been met, it would have been supposed that the likely destination of our trek would have laid still to the east. If one had then elected to continue in this direction, one would then have merely penetrated deeper and deeper, fruitlessly, and possibly dangerously, into the forests. The most direct route from the hut of Pertinax to the camp would have been, as nearly as I could determine, lacking maps and coordinates, either south by southeast, or, more likely, southeast.

The indirection, or circuitry, of our route had been a matter, I supposed, of security. Whatever projects might be afoot in the forests, they were, it seemed, a matter of great secrecy.

I had had a sense of where, in any event, approximately, we might be heading, probably to the Alexandra, some pasangs upriver, but how many pasangs I had no idea, fewer if the direct route was, say, south by southeast, more if it would have been southeast.

This surmise, however, as noted, proved to be incorrect, at least with respect to our destination being the Alexandra, or, perhaps better, it was not so much incorrect as premature.

I became more confident, day by day, that the Alexandra would figure in these matters.

“Is my tea ready?” asked Miss Wentworth.

“Nearly, Mistress,” said Cecily, who was tending the small pot on its rack, over a tiny fire, it in a small hole, a shallow hole, scooped out in the dirt floor of the hut.

“You are slow,” said Miss Wentworth.

“Forgive me, Mistress,” said Cecily.

“Take off your clothes,” said Miss Wentworth.

“What?” said Cecily.

“Completely,” said Miss Wentworth.

“‘Mistress’,” I suggested.

“Mistress?” said Cecily.

“Now,” said Miss Wentworth.

“Must you humiliate her?” asked Pertinax.

“Certainly,” snapped Miss Wentworth. “She is no more than a slave. They exist to be degraded and humiliated.”

Whereas a slave may be degraded or humiliated, or beaten, or chained, or such, at the merest caprice of the master, it is seldom done. There would be no point to it, particularly in the case of a girl who is trying to please. The slave, like any animal, is to be governed with understanding, sympathy, and intelligence. Too, the Gorean master is usually quite fond of his slave, though I suppose few would be likely to admit this. But, fond of her or not, discipline is not to be compromised. Discipline must be firm, strict, and unyielding. She is, after all, a slave. She is to be held under an exact, uncompromised, unswerving discipline. She expects that, and is not disappointed.

The least infraction, she knows, may be punished with the switch or lash.

That is doubtless why there are so few infractions.

The slave thrives under discipline; it comforts her, and orders and regulates her life; she is content; she is mastered; she rejoices in the discipline to which she is subject. She would not have it any other way.

The greatest kindness a man can show a slave is to put her to his feet.

Cecily cast me a frantic, plaintive look.

I think she hated Miss Wentworth, and Miss Wentworth, surely, was not her mistress. Cecily’s relationship to her, of course, was radically shifted, following the unwelcome revelation that her blond, blue-eyed rival in beauty, so to speak, was not like herself a slave, but a free woman.

“Do it,” I said, gently.

Tears in her eyes, Cecily slipped from her tunic.

“Serve me,” said Miss Wentworth.

“Yes, Mistress,” said Cecily.

“No,” I said to Cecily. “Serve me.”

“Yes, Master,” said Cecily, gratefully.

The word of the master, of course, takes precedence over the word of a free person who is not the slave’s master or mistress.

“What of me?” snapped Miss Wentworth.

“Serve yourself,” I said.

“Pertinax!” she snapped.

Pertinax then hurried forward, to fill another cup, which he then, promptly, delivered to Miss Wentworth.

The slave girl, incidentally, and I suppose this is obvious, does not serve a beverage to a free woman in the manner she would serve a male, and certainly not in the way she would serve her master. For example, in paga serving, as in a paga tavern, the serving is done in such as way as, in effect, to entice and seduce the male. In such a situation the girl is trying to interest and excite the male and, at the very least, is petitioning his attention, presumably with the alcove in mind. The use of the girl comes with the price of the drink, and thus which girl is summoned to the table, or which, approaching the table, is accepted, has an import which might not be obvious to the stranger to such establishments. To be sure, many fellows are out for little more than a drink. They enter, they drink, talk, and leave. The customer’s option need not be exercised. Even if one does not conduct one’s waitress, so to speak, to an alcove, it is pleasant, in any event, to be served by a beautiful woman, collared, perhaps belled, in a bit of diaphanous silk, if that.

As noted, then, the slave does not serve the free woman in the manner in which she is likely to serve a male, particularly her master. She would be savagely beaten, if not slain, should she be so ignorant or foolish as to do so. To the free woman the slave girl is, at best, a despicable convenience. She is loathed, probably because of her interest to men. The cruelty of the free woman to the slave is legendary. It is quite different from the usual relationship between a male master and his slave. Gorean slave girls dread free women. It is their fervent hope that they may be purchased by an attractive male, and, ideally, be his only slave.

Sometimes, of course, as an act of cruelty, a free woman, for her amusement, before company, consisting of other free women, will order a terrified slave to offer her drink as she might a male, and then, when she does so, she will be denounced. “What are you doing, you wanton slut? How dare you! Do you think I am a gross, lustful beast! I am a noble free woman, you miserable, disgusting, salacious hussy, you abject, collared she-tarsk! I am insulted! You will pay for that! Bring me the whip!” “Yes, Mistress,” weeps the slave, and hurries to fetch the whip which, to the amusement of the free woman and her guests, will be used on her.

The camp seemed to be, more than anything, a lumber camp, for logging was in process in the vicinity, and one, not unoften, heard the striking of axes, the crash of falling trees. These logs were trimmed, sawn, harnessed, and dragged by grunting, hissing draft tharlarion to staging areas where, skinned of bark, and piled, they awaited hoisting by weights and pulleys onto wagons, which were then drawn by tharlarion down a narrow, muddy road, soon disappearing amongst the trees. Interestingly, this road did not seem to lead west, toward the coast. Rather it seemed to lead southeast. As several of the logs bore the badges of Port Kar, at least some of them must have been taken from reserves, one supposed, illicitly.

I did hear, upon occasion, away in the forest, the scream of a tarn.

The camp was not palisaded, but its perimeters, for those expected to remain in the camp, not the work crews, were clear, a set of wands encircling the camp, rather like those which marked the reserves, but these wands bore no ribbons, with legends.

I had, in wandering about, intended, for my interest, to cross the border of the wands, to scout the area, but I had been warned back by a prowling larl, which was, as nearly as I could determine, although it was not collared, a guard beast. I understood then why the camp, despite the richness of timber about, was not palisaded, at least not in the sense of being encircled by a close-set wall of sharpened palings. It did, of course, in a sense, have its palisade. Such beasts were its palisade.

I held the cup of tea, and looked upon Cecily, who knelt before me. She knelt in the position of the tower slave, not that of the pleasure slave, as there was a free woman present. Cecily looked at me, shyly, and smiled. I, too, smiled. Well she knew that any beautiful woman on her knees, stripped and collared, is pleasant to look upon, in whatever position she kneels.

The position of the Tower Slave is respectful, and demure. Further, she is usually well tunicked, or even robed. To be sure, her collar must always be visible. It would not do to confuse her with a free woman. The position of the pleasure slave, of course, is also respectful, but it is also provocative, and inviting. It must leave no doubt in the observer’s mind as to what sort of slave she is. The palms of her hands are usually down on her thighs, and her head up, but, if she is petitioning caresses, as is not uncommon, the palms are usually up, the backs of the hands on the thighs. The palms of a woman’s hands, as is well known, are unusually sensitive, as might be noted, for example, if one were, lightly, with the tip of a finger, to trace the form of a “Kef” on them. The palms, then, so offered to the master, with their exposed, sweet, sensitive cupping, the backs of the hands down on the thighs, as though bound to them, as though not permitted to leave them without permission, present a sign not difficult to read. Too, at the same time, the girl’s head is usually lowered. This makes clear her humility and need, and how much she is at the mercy of the master, for the least touch. Variations, of course, occur. Sometimes, perhaps in markets, the girl will kneel with her wrists crossed behind her, as though bound, or will have her hands clasped behind the back of her head, or the back of her neck. This lifts the breasts, nicely.

“Oh,” said Miss Wentworth, impatiently, “have the filthy little tart, the disgusting trollop, put her clothes on!”

“She is neither a tart, nor a trollop,” I said. “She is a slave. That is less than both.”

The former Miss Virginia Cecily Jean Pym smiled. She was far, now, from her antecedents, from Mayfair, from Oxford.

She was now naught but a Gorean slave girl, on a world on which men knew what to do with such as she.

I did not, incidentally, despite Miss Wentworth’s command, or behest, give Cecily permission to reclothe herself. Without that permission she would remain naked.

Cecily was quite attractive.

And this is not surprising.

Is not a woman most attractive when she is naked, in a slave collar?

“Slut, then!” said Miss Wentworth.

“Every good slave,” I said, “should be a slut at her master’s feet.”

“Disgusting!” said Miss Wentworth.

“Not at all,” I said.

“Is that what men want, sluts?” said Miss Wentworth.

“Far more than that,” I said, “a slave. Every man wants a slave, a helpless, vulnerable, ardent, needful slave.”

“White,” she said, “does not!”

“I am Pertinax,” said Pertinax.

“What?” said Miss Wentworth.

“There is no ship,” he said.

“There will be a ship!” she cried. “I shall demand it!”

“I am Pertinax,” he said.

“You are mad!” she said. “That is over!”

“No,” he said, quietly. “It has just begun.”

“Pertinax,” she said, angrily, “is a man of Earth. He is civilized!”

“High civilizations,” I said, “have invariably held slaves.”

“He is a gentleman!” she said. “He would not want a slave.”

“Gentlemen,” I said, “have often held slaves.”

“Reassure him, Pertinax,” she snapped. “Tell him that no true man would want a slave!”

I thought it interesting, how words could be twisted about, and used as levers, as cudgels, as whips, and such.

“I am not sure of that,” he said. “Perhaps it is otherwise. Perhaps it is rather that any man who does not want a slave is not a true man.”

“Certainly men desire slaves,” I said to Miss Wentworth. “I think that is clear. Beyond that the dispute seems to me verbal. I suppose one could define the true tarn as one that does not fly, the true larl as one that does not hunt, and so on, but this does not seem helpful in understanding the world. Putting aside cultural and historical considerations, as somehow irrelevant, surprisingly so, or illegitimate, astonishingly so, one might ponder whether or not biology is relevant to the matter, for example the radical sexual dimorphism of the human species, genetic predispositions, the pervasive relationships in nature of dominance and submission, and so on.”

“I am a free woman!” said Miss Wentworth.

I was not clear as to the pertinence of her claim, which was uttered almost hysterically.

“There is also,” I said, “the test of life consequences. For example, what are the effects of one modality of life as opposed to another? Suppose one way of life reduces vitality, produces unhappiness, boredom, even misery, and anomie, a sense of meaninglessness, and another modality of life increases vitality, enhances life, produces happiness, charges one with energy, gives meaningfulness to one’s existence, and so on. Which is to be preferred?”

“I am a free woman!” she cried.

I was not disputing that. I wondered at her outburst.

She was still, of course, in her tunic.

Perhaps that was what motivated her outburst. Perhaps she wanted to utter something which might seem to belie her appearance, an appearance which doubtless made her uneasy, or somehow troubled her. Certainly Pertinax and I had no difficulty in accepting that she was a free woman. It did not seem, then, that she should be trying to convince us of that. Who then was she trying to convince? Pertinax naturally, from his background, I supposed, the antecedents of our situation, and so on, would think of her as a free woman. And I, too, thought of her as a free woman, particularly in view of her awkwardness, clumsiness, stiffness, and such, to say nothing of her manifest psychological and emotional problems. The contrast with Cecily was obvious. Cecily, now, not only accepted her sex, but rejoiced in it. At a man’s feet, owned, and mastered, she had found herself.

She had wanted to end her confusions and conflicts, and had discovered the sweetness and wholeness of a total surrender to the male, her master.

She kissed his feet and became herself.

“I am a free woman,” said Miss Wentworth, “a free woman, a free woman!”

“Of course,” I said.

“I wonder,” said Pertinax, thoughtfully.

Pertinax’s remark surprised me. I had not expected it.

“What?” cried Miss Wentworth.

“In the offices, amongst the desks,” said he, “did I not imagine you often not in your svelte business wear, and high heels, so chic and yet so provocative, so arrogantly, insolently, calculatedly, deliberately provocative, but rather barefoot on the carpeting, naked and collared?”

“You beast, White!” she screamed.

“You will address me as Pertinax,” he said.

“I do not understand,” she said.

“There is no ship,” he said. “Much has changed.”

“There will be a ship!” she cried. “Nothing has changed!”

“I have changed,” he said.

I had the thought, now, that Pertinax might leave a hut, to look after a trussed property, even were a sleen in the vicinity.

And certainly a property, helplessly trussed, lying outside in the darkness, might fervently hope that he might do so.

“I trust,” said Miss Wentworth to Pertinax, “you are not toying with contemplating the possible meaning of your bestial strength, that you are not tempted to acknowledge your desires.”

Pertinax regarded her, angrily.

How fortunate she was that he was not Gorean!

“Your strength and desires must be ignored,” said Miss Wentworth. “It is best if you can convince yourself that they do not exist. Struggle desperately to do that. If that is not possible, you must put them to the side. One must choose sorrow and righteous grief over opportunity and gratification.”

Yes, very fortunate.

“Why?” asked Pertinax.

“Because you are of Earth!” she said.

“Perhaps an Earth which has too long ignored certain truths,” he said, “an Earth in sorry need of recollection, of reformation.”

“You are a cultural artifact,” she said, “engineered to conform to imposed standards, as much as an envelope or motor.”

“No,” he said, “I am a man.”

“A cultural construct!” she said. “A manufactured product, designed to cohere with a complex set of systematically interrelated roles.”

“Surely,” I said, “a test of cultural value should have some relevance to the happiness and fulfillment of human beings.”

“No,” she said.

“To what then?” I asked.

“To the culture itself,” she said, “its prolongation.”

“I see,” I said.

A culture did seem to have its own dynamics, its own life, a life, a biography, to which the welfare or happiness of its components might be only indirectly related, if at all. A plant was organic, and the health of the plant assured the health of its components. A culture, on the other hand, though it might crumble and lapse into obsolescence, was commonly not organic, but mechanistic, and the functioning of the machine required not the happiness, health, or welfare of its parts, but only that they functioned appropriately, contributing to the pointless longevity of the machine itself.

“Is there no such thing as nature?” I asked. “Is there only misery, prisons, guns, and hatred?”

“Nature does not exist,” she said.

“You cannot be serious,” I said.

“It does not exist in any important sense,” she said.

“If not,” I said, “why must it be so fiercely contested, so strenuously fought against?”

“It is inimical to civilization,” she said.

“Only to unnatural civilizations,” I said.

“All civilizations are unnatural,” she said.

“Not necessarily,” I said. “There is no reason why a civilization cannot be an expression of nature, rather than her enemy, in its way an enhancement of nature, a celebration of nature.”

“There are no such civilizations!” she said.

“There have been several,” I said.

“None now!” she cried.

“I know of at least one,” I said.

“No!” she said. “No, no, no!”

“What are you afraid of?” I asked.

“I am not afraid!” she cried. She pulled down, desperately, at the hem of her tunic, with both hands. “Do not look at me so!” she cried to Pertinax.

“There is no ship,” said Pertinax.

I think Pertinax had begun to sense how a woman might be viewed, particularly one in such a tunic.

Women were not men.

They were quite different.

“Do not look at me so!” she said to Pertinax. “Are you some boor, or brute? Have you not been educated?”

“I was not educated,” said Pertinax. “I was trained, indoctrinated. Perhaps only now has my education begun.”

“Beast!” she cried.

“What of the test of life consequences?” I asked.

“I do not understand!” she wept.

“Does the mastery not fill a man with power,” I asked, “with zest, with vitality, with a sense of reality and identity, with a sense of fittingness, with a sense of being himself, with a sense at last of being a part of nature rather than a dislocated, lost, wandering fragment shorn from her?”

“Why have we not been brought before Lord Nishida!” she cried.

“The mastery fulfills a man,” I said. “What man is complete until he has at his feet a slave?”

“A slave! Oh, yes, a slave!” laughed Miss Wentworth, scornfully.

Then she turned to Cecily.

“Slave!” she said.

“Mistress?” said Cecily.

“You are a slave, are you not?” asked Miss Wentworth.

“Yes, Mistress,” said Cecily, frightened.

Surely Miss Wentworth could see that her fair throat was enclosed in the circlet of bondage.

“Worthless, degraded, meaningless, naked slave!” said Miss

Wentworth.

“Yes, Mistress,” whispered Cecily.

“You, slave,” cried Miss Wentworth scornfully to Cecily, “are you happy as a slave, do you want to be a slave, are you fulfilled as a slave?”

“It does not matter, Mistress,” said Cecily, “whether or not I am happy to be a slave, whether or not I want to be a slave, whether or not I am fulfilled as a slave. I am a slave.”

“Answer me, slut,” cried Miss Wentworth. “And speak the truth!”

“I must speak the truth, Mistress,” said Cecily. “I am a slave.”

“That is true,” I said to Miss Wentworth. “The slave must speak the truth. She is not a free woman.”

“Yes, Mistress,” said Cecily. “I am happy to be a slave. I want to be a slave. I am fulfilled to be a slave! It is what I have always been, and knew myself to be, and now the collar is on me! I am a slave, and should be a slave. It is what I am, what I want to be, and what I should be!”

“Disgusting, disgusting, disgusting!” screamed Miss Wentworth.

I did not understand her concern. If some women were slaves, and wished to be slaves, and loved being owned, and wanted to be at the feet of masters, why should she object? What was it to her?

“Have I come at an inopportune time?” inquired Tajima.

“No,” I said.

He had entered in his quiet, polite way, unobtrusively.

“Lord Nishida,” said Tajima, “regrets the delay, but he was awaiting an envoy, one from exalted personages.”

I supposed that would be some Gorean. Perhaps it would be Sullius Maximus, pretending, again, to be an agent of Priest-Kings. I had little doubt that the true agent had been disposed of, doubtless long ago, probably cast to the nine-gilled sharks of Thassa. They often follow in the wake of a ship, to retrieve garbage.

“There!” said Miss Wentworth. “At last! Now we will receive our pay, be conducted to the coast, board ship, and, soon, brought first to an appropriate base, find ourselves again on Earth.”

“Your slave is very pretty,” said Tajima, noting Cecily.

He viewed her as what she was, a lovely animal, perhaps even a prize animal.

“Thank you,” I said.

Masters are often pleased when their beasts are commended. Such commendation, you see, reflects credit on him. In such a way he is complimented on his taste in women, in slaves.

“You may finish my tea,” I told the slave, handing her the cup, with its residue, “and then you may clothe yourself.”

“Yes, Master,” she said. “Thank you, Master.”

She put her head down to drink. She held the cup with two hands, as a Gorean cup is commonly held.

“Do white women make pleasing slaves?” asked Tajima.

“Yes,” I said.

“That is well,” he said.

“I cannot see Lord Nishida like this,” said Miss Wentworth, indicating her brief tunic, little now but a rag, given our journey through the forest. “Bring me something suitable!”

“I have,” said Tajima, who held, over his left forearm, what appeared to be, arranged in several narrow folds, a sheet of rep cloth.

“Give it to me,” said Miss Wentworth, putting out her hand.

“Outside,” said Tajima, “there are three tubs, filled with hot water, in which you may soak, and enjoy yourselves. It will be very pleasant, and there are, at hand, smooth scrapers of sandalwood, scents, oils, and towels.”

“Outside?” said Miss Wentworth.

“She is not used to public bathing,” I said.

“Interesting,” said Tajima. “We shall have one of the tubs brought within the hut.”

“No,” said Miss Wentworth.

“No?” asked Tajima.

“I insist on being brought immediately to Lord Nishida,” said Miss Wentworth.

“You do not wish to bathe?” asked Tajima, surprised.

“No,” she said. “Bring us to Lord Nishida immediately.”

“We shall proceed immediately then,” said Tajima.

“No, no,” said Miss Wentworth, suddenly. “I must dress!”

“Perhaps we might have the honor of greeting Lord Nishida,” I said, “and Miss Wentworth might then follow, shortly.”

“A most suitable suggestion,” said Tajima. “The yellow-haired one may then, if she wishes, dress in privacy.”

“I certainly so wish,” she said.

He handed the rep-cloth sheet to Miss Wentworth, who seized it from him.

“I will send two men to conduct you to the audience,” said Tajima to Miss Wentworth.

“I will wait outside, and accompany her,” said Pertinax.

“As you wish,” said Tajima. “Also, as I recall, it is you who are to present Miss Wentworth to Lord Nishida.”

“I can present myself, I assure you,” said Miss Wentworth.

“It is not customary,” said Tajima.

I then accompanied Tajima from the hut, as did Pertinax, save that he waited discreetly outside, until Miss Wentworth would be ready to attend the audience.

Cecily, now tunicked, heeled me, as was proper.

As I left the hut, I paused, to glance at the three tubs. I would have been pleased to have had the bath. To be sure, I would keep my weapons at the side of the tub. If any approached too closely, I would arm myself. More than one warrior has been slain in the bath.

Outside, at the three aforementioned tubs, Pertinax and I found, waiting, two lovely young women. They might have been of Ar, or Venna, or Telnus, from almost anywhere.

“These would have bathed you,” said Tajima.

“I see,” I said.

Both women looked down, frightened.

Perhaps they were new to their collars.

Both were naked.

“You may look upon them as you wish,” said Tajima. “These are not contract women, trained, refined entertainers, or such. They are simple, coarse slaves, no different from those with which you are familiar. You may note that their necks are encircled with collars, and may be confident that the collars are closed, and locked. Too, if you care to examine their left thighs, you will note, just under the hip, a brand.”

I examined the brands. Both wore the cursive kef, the most common Gorean slave brand.

“They were both free women of Ar, even of high station,” said Tajima. “Several such have come recently into our hands.”

“Ar is troubled, of late,” I said.

“I have heard that,” said Tajima.

“I am surprised,” I said. “I thought such women might not be cultural for you.”

I had some sense of the milieu from which the “strange men” might have sprung. I did not doubt but what ancestors of theirs, from hundreds of years ago, or perhaps thousands, might have been brought to Gor by Priest-Kings on the Voyages of Acquisition, as had representatives, or, perhaps better, specimens, of a number of other backgrounds and cultures. The Garden of Gor, so to speak, both botanically and zoologically, had seemingly been stocked with care, at least at one time, apparently for interests both scientific and aesthetic.

Most Goreans, on the other hand, were, I was sure, completely unfamiliar with the “strange men.”

To be sure, much of Gor is terra incognita.

But what did it bode, or signify, I wondered, that some such men might now be here, in the northern forests, engaged in some project, which appeared to be both mysterious and secret?

And I had been debouched on the northern coast, at specific coordinates, supposedly by the order of Priest-Kings, though Kurii, too, obviously, had been apprised of those coordinates.

What might be, I wondered, the interest of Priest-Kings, or Kurii, in this area, at this time?

“We are a formal, traditional people,” said Tajima. “The old ways are important to us. But we are also an intelligent, adaptive people, and are always ready and eager to adopt useful devices, pleasant customs, and such.”

“I understand,” I said.

“Also, of course, it is not unusual for women to come into our keeping as a result of sale, of raiding, of war, and such.”

“Still, I am surprised,” I said. “I thought such identificatory and custodial details, brands and collars, and such, might not be cultural for you.”

“We have had them for centuries,” said Tajima. “It may be, I do not know, that they were not original with us, but one does, does one not, mark animals?”

“Certainly,” I said.

“Thus, we may very well have come up with them independently, but, if not, we are happy to learn from others. Those of the high cities are so elegant and efficient in these matters that it would do us great honor to recognize, if we did, the perfections which they have developed in their handling of women.”

“Of slaves,” I said.

“Of course,” he said.

It was true. Over centuries the Goreans had developed the handling of female slaves into a fine art.

That is something an Earth woman might remember, if she is brought to Gor as a slave.

“There were three tubs,” I said, “two slaves.”

“One slave to bathe you,” said Tajima, one to bathe Pertinax.”

“We could bathe ourselves,” I said.

“Assuredly,” said Tajima, “but is it not pleasant to be bathed by a naked slave?”

“Yes,” I said.

“The small pleasures of life,” said Tajima, “are not to be scorned.”

“True,” I said.

“Besides,” said Tajima, “the act is beneficial for the women, as well. It helps them to understand that they are women, and that, as women, although they are women, they may prove to be of some value, however humble.”

“What of Miss Wentworth?” I asked.

“Miss Wentworth, as she is a female, may bathe herself.”

“There were only three tubs,” I said.

“Your slave,” said Tajima, “would use your tub, after you had finished.”

“I think you speak English,” I said.

I remembered this from the reserve.

“I learned it far away,” he said.

“On Earth?” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“Have you come recently from Earth?”

“Yes,” he said.

At that moment I heard the roar of a larl.

“Do not be dismayed,” said Tajima, “it is from the pavilion of Lord Nishida.”

“It sounds close,” I said.

“It is,” said Tajima. “There is the pavilion.”