by John Norman
“It is not useful to the machine,” she said.
“No,” I said, “but note, interestingly, in spite of the fact that you perhaps never in your life on Earth encountered such manhood, yet you were capable of understanding and conceiving it, and longing for its manifestation.”
“How can that be?” she asked, frightened.
“It is a genetic expectation,” I told her, “more ancient than the caves, a whisper in your brain bespeaking a lost world of nature, a world in which the human being, both male and female, were bred. You were fitted to one world; you found yourself in another. You were a stranger in a country not of your own choosing, a troubled guest, uneasy in a house you knew was not yours.”
“I fear my feelings,” she said.
“They hint to you of nature’s world,” I told, her. ‘They are inimical to the machine.”
“I must fight them,” she said.
“They are a reminiscence,” I said, “of a vanished reality. They whisper of old songs. The machine has not yet been able to eradicate them from your brain. Such feelings, in their genetic foundations, lie at the root of women, and of men. They antedate the taming of fire. They were ancient when the first stone knife was lifted to the sun.”
“I must fight them,” she wept.
“Fight yourself then,” I said, “for it is your deepest self of which they speak.”
“It is wrong to be true to oneself!” she said.
“Perhaps,” I said. “I do not know.”
“One must always pretend to be other than what one is,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
“I do not know,” she said.
“Gorean men,” I said, “you will learn are less tolerant of pretense than the men of Earth.”
“They would force me to be what I truly am, and in my heart long to be?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“I’m frightened,” she whispered. We did not speak for a time. “Why are there no true men on Earth?” she asked.
“I am sure there are many true men on Earth.” I said. “But it is much more difficult for them.”
“I do not think there are any men on Earth,” she said, angrily.
“I am sure they exist,” I said.
“What of the others?” she asked.
“Perhaps someday,” I said, “they will cease to fear their manhood.”
“Is there much hope for those of Earth?” she asked.
“Very little,” I said. “A reversal of the pathology of centuries would be required.” I smiled. “The wheels are heavy, and the momentum great,” I said.
“The machine will tear itself apart,” she said.
“I sense that, too,” I said. “How long can it continue to spread, to grow and devour? Stalemate will be achieved upon the ashes of civilizations.”
“It is horrible,” she said.
“Perhaps it will not occur,” I said.
“Perhaps the lies of civilization are preferable to the truths of barbarism,” she said.
“Perhaps,” I said. “It is hard to know.”
“Cannot there be a civilization that makes room for the realities of men and women?” she asked.
“A civilization that makes room for life?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“I do not know,” I said. “Perhaps.”
“You are kind to talk to me,” she said.
“Once we were both of Earth,” I said.
“How can you talk to me like this and yet keep me a slave?” she asked.
“I do not detect the difficulty,” I said.
“Oh,” she said.
“One of the pleasant things about owning a slave,” I said, “is the opportunity to converse with her, to listen to her, to hear her express herself, her feelings and ideas. One can learn much from a slave. Many slaves,, like yourself, are highly intelligent. They can express themselves articulately, clearly, trenchantly and lyrically. It is a great pleasure to talk with them.”
“I see,” she said.
“Then, when one wishes,” I said, “one puts them again on their knees.”
“You are cruel,” she said.
“Kiss me, Slave,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said, and kissed me, softly.
We were then silent for a time.
“Master,” she whispered.
“Yes,” I said.
“I begin to sense,” said she, “what it might be like to be a true slave.”
“You are an ignorant girl,” I said.
“I have learned some things,” she said.
“Very little,” I said.
“I have learned to obey,” she said, “and to call free men, ‘Master.’”
“What else have you learned?” I asked.
“Something which you have taught me,” she whispered.
“What is that?” I asked.
“I have learned to need the touch of a man,” she said.
“I will sleep now,” I said.
“Please do not sleep now,” she said. I felt her fingers tips at my shoulder.
“Touch me,” she begged. “Touch me—as a slave girl.”
“Do you beg it?” I asked.
“Yes, Master,” she whispered.
“Very well,” I said.
She looked up at me. “Are you going to make me a full slave?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “I am only going to satisfy your slave needs as they exist at your present level.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
Later she wept and squirmed in my arms lost in the sensations and ecstasies which she could at that time reach. Then she lay at my thigh. “Can there be more?” she asked. “Can there be more?”
“You have not yet begun to learn your slavery,” I told her.
I almost cried out as her teeth bit into my side and her fingernails tore at my thigh in her frustration. She seemed almost fastened on me like an animal. With my hand in her hair I pulled her head upward. She lay then with her head just below my chest. Her eyes were wide. Her small hands held me tightly. She was breathing heavily. “Master, Master,” she whispered.
“Be silent, Slave,” I said. “It is now time to rest.”
“Yes, Master,” she whispered.
13. Imnak Broaches To Me A Topic Of Some Importance; We Encounter Poalu
One of the problems in approaching tabuk on the tundra is the lack of cover.
I followed Imnak’s example, crawling on my belly, after him, the horn bow in my hand, an arrow loose at the string. I was very cold, and was soaked through. The tundra is cold, and much of it is boglike in nature.
Some eleven tabuk were grazing on the mosses some one hundred yards from us.
The horn bow, unfortunately, formed of pieces of split tabuk horn, bound with sinew, is not effective beyond some thirty yards, One must, thus, be almost upon the animal before loosing the shaft. Wood is scarce in the north and the peasant bow, or longbow, is not known there. More importantly, in the colder weather, the long bow would freeze and snap, unable to bear the stress of being drawn to its customary extent I had brought a longbow north with me but I wished to accustom myself to the horn bow, for the larger weapon, I knew, would be useless for most of the year in these latitudes. It is difficult to convey the nature of a world subject to great cold. A nail struck by a hammer can shiver into fragments. Urine can freeze before striking the ground. The squeal of a sleen may be heard for ten to twelve miles. A common conversation can be heard half a pasang away. A mountain which seems very close, given the sharpness of visibility in the clear air, may actually be forty pasangs in the distance. The cold air, touching the body of a sleen, forms a steam which can almost obscure the animal. A running tabuk can leave a trail of such steam drifting behind it. One’s breath can freeze in a beard, leaving it a mask of ice.
I cursed inwardly, as the tabuk trotted a few yards farther away grazing.
I had suggested to Imnak that we come hunting. I wished to spe
ak to him alone, without the girls being present. A hunt had seemed at the time a convenient way in which to accomplish that objective. Now I wished we had simply sent them off packing to gather moss.
Hot Bazi tea I wanted. This is an important trade item in the north. I now knew why. The southern sugars are also popular. I had originally supposed this was because of their sweetness, there being few sweet items, save some berries, in the north. I now began to suspect that the calories of the sugars also played their role in their popularity. The red hunters think little of eating half a pound of sugar at a sitting.
We were trying to move close to a large bull tabuk. He moved away from us again.
I resisted the desire to rise to my feet and run screaming at the animal, bow drawn.
I followed Imnak. He almost seemed a part of the tundra itself. When the bull tabuk would turn, lifting its head, ears high, we would stop, remaining immobile.
We inched closer. We had been on our bellies for more than an Ahn trying to approach the animals.
Imnak gestured that I should crawl beside him. I did so.
“Are you cold?” he whispered.
“Oh, no,” I said.
“That is strange,” he said. “I am very cold.”
“I am glad to hear that,” I said. “I am very cold, too.”
“It is hard not to be cold,” he said, “when one is soaked with icy water crawling on the tundra.”
“That is it,” I said.
“You do not seem in a good mood,” he said. “Was Arlene not pleasant in the sleeping bag?”
“She was very nice,” I said. “How was Thimble?”
“She squeaks a lot,” he said.
“Some girls are noisier than others,” I said.
“It is true,” he said.
“Perhaps you are not in a good mood because you are cold,” suggested Imnak.
“I wager that is it,” I said. “Why are you in a good mood,” I asked, “if you are cold?”
“It is bad enough to be cold,” he said, “without being in a bad mood, too.”
“I see,” I said. For some reason, ridiculous as it was, I felt cheered up.
“I wanted to come hunting with you,” said Imnak, “because I have something serious to discuss with you.”
“That is strange,” I said, “I wanted to discuss something with you.”
“My business is serious,” he said.
“So, too, is mine,” I said.
“Men of the south must be approached so cautiously,” said Imnak. “They are so touchy and strange. Else I would have mentioned my business to you long ago.”
“Oh,” I said. It had been for much the same reason that I had delayed broaching to Ininak the nature of my mission in the north.
“My business,” said Imnak, “concerns Poalu, the daughter of Kadluk.”
“Your business is more serious than mine,” I said. “Mine pertains only to the saving of the world.” I well remembered Poalu, the coppery spitfire whose kicked leather ball I had unwisely permitted to strike me.
“I do not understand,” said Imnak.
“It does not matter,” I said. “What of Poalu?”
“I love her,” said Imnak.
“That is unfortunate,” I said.
“Do you love her, too?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “I thought that it was unfortunate for you.”
“Oh,” he said. Then he said, “That is not unlikely, but it is difficult to help matters of that sort”
“True,” I said.
“And Poalu loves me, too,” he said.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, “once when I took feasting clothes to her father’s house she threw the urine pot at me.”
“That is a hopeful sign,” I said.
“Another time,” he said, cheerfully, “she beat me with a stick, calling me a good-for-nothing.”
“It is clear she is very interested in you,” I said.
“It is strange that so beautiful a girl has so few suitors,” he said.
“Yes, it is quite strange,” I admitted.
“Akko, who is my friend,” said Imnak, “says that to take such a woman would be to leap naked into a pit of starving snow sleen. Do you think so?”
“I think so,” I said. Actually I thought Akko’s appraisal of the potentialities of the situation was overly hopeful, it being colored by his native good humor and optimism, vices endemic among red hunters.
“But I am shy,” he said.
“I find that hard to believe,” I said. “You seem to me a bold fellow.”
“Not with women,” he said.
“You are certainly fierce enough with Thimble and Thistle,” I said. “They live in terror of displeasing you in the least.”
“They are not women,” he said.
“Oh?’ I asked.
“Oh, they are women of a sort,” he said, “but they are not of the People. They are nothing, only pretty, white-skinned slave beasts. They do not count.”
“That is true,” I said. They did not count. They were only slaves.
“Poalu is different,” he said.
“That is for certain,” I granted him.
“I will have Poalu!” he said, suddenly. He climbed to his feet. “Yes!” he said. “I will have Poalul”
The tabuk trotted away.
“The tabuk have gone,” I said.
“But I am shy,” he said. “You must help me.”
“The tabuk have gone.” I said.
“You must help me,” he said.
“Very well,” I said. ‘The tabuk have gone,” I added.
“I knew I could count on you,” he said.
“The tabuk have gone,” I said.
“Yes, I know,” he said.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked.
“I am too shy to do it,” he said.
“You are too shy to do what?” I asked.
“I am too shy to carry her off,” he said.
“You want me to carry her off?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said. “Do not worry. No one will mind.”
“What about Poalu?” I asked.
He frowned. “Well, I do not know about Poalu,” he admitted. “Sometimes she is moody.”
“Perhaps you should carry her off yourself,” I suggested.
“I am too shy to do this,” he said, miserably.
“I suppose it might be done,” I mused, “under the cover of darkness.”
“But then you could not well see what you are doing,” said Imnak. “Besides it will not be dark for several weeks.”
“I know,” I said. “We could wait.”
“No, no, no, no, no,” said Imnak.
“You want her carried off in full daylight?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said. “That is the time for carrying girls off.”
“I did not know that,” I said. “I am new in the north.” I looked at him. “Do you not occasionally run into problems.” I asked, “like being speared in the back by her brothers?”
“Poalu has no brothers,” said Imnak.
“That is lucky,” I said. “What of her father? He is inept and weak, I trust.”
“He is a great hunter, Kadluk,” said Imnak. “He can throw a harpoon into the eye of a sea sleen from a tossing kayak.”
“What if Kadluk docs not approve of my carrying off his daughter?” I asked.
“Why should he disapprove?” asked Imnak.
“Oh, I do not know,” I said. “It was just a thought.”
“Do not fear,” said Imnak, reassuringly. “All the arrangements have been made.”
“Arrangements?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Kadluk, then, knows that I am to carry off his daughter?”
“Of course,” said Imnak. “Surely one would not wish to carry off Kadluk’s daughter without his permission.”
“No,” I said, “from what I have heard of Kadluk, I think no
t.”
“That would not be polite,” said Imnak.
“True,” I granted him. Also I did not want a harpoon in my head. The thought of the steely-eyed Kadluk drawing a bead on me with his harpoon was unnerving. I could not get the sea sleen out of my mind.
“Does Poalu know she is supposed to be carried off?” I asked.
“Of course,” said Imnak. “how else could she be ready on time?”
“I just was not thinking,” I said.
“That is all right,” said Imnak, generously.
“Well,” I said, “let us return to the tent. The tabuk are gone and I am soaked and freezing. I will well relish a hot cup of Bazi tea.”
“Ah, my friend,” said Imnak, sadly, “I am sorry there is no Bazi tea.”
“Recently,” I said, “there was a great deal of it.”
“True,” said Imnak, “but now there is not.”
“You used the tea to buy Poalu?” I asked.
Imnak looked at me, horrified. “I made a gift to Kadluk,” he said.
“Oh,” I said.
“Also,” said Imnak, “there is no sugar left, and few furs.”
“What of the gold pieces you took for trading?” I asked.
“I gave them to Kadluk, too,” said Imnak. “and most of the wood.”
“At least we have the tabuk slices from the kills we made earlier,” I said, glumly.
“Kadluk likes tabuk,” said Imnak.
“Oh,” I said.
We trudged back, wet and miserable, to the encampments of the People.
As luck would have it we encountered Poalu.
“Ah,” she said, “you have been hunting.”
“Yes,” said Imnak.
“I see that your shoulders are heavy with game,” she said.
“No,” said Imnak.
“I see,” she said. “You made many kills in the fields and have marked the meat. You will later send out your girls to cut steaks for all of us.”
Imnak hung his head.
“You surely do not mean to tell me that you have returned to the camp with no meat,” she said, disbelievingly.
“Yes,” said Imnak.
“I cannot believe that,” she said. “A great hunter like Imnak comes back without meat! It is just too hard to believe!”
Imnak looked down, shuffling.
“Can my father be wrong?” she asked.
Imnak looked up, puzzled.