by John Norman
William turned Flower's head to face him. His hand was still in her hair. Then he turned her about again, holding her face to the stone.
"How do you feel, William?" asked Gunther.
William released Flower, who rolled against his leg, her lips to his thigh. "I feel strong, and powerful," said William.
"Are you happy here?" asked Gunther.
"I have been more than happy here," said William. "I have been joyful."
"That is interesting, is it not?" asked Gunther.
"Perhaps," said William.
Flower had lifted her eyes timidly to those of William. "Look into the eyes of your pretty little blond sow," said Gunther. "She adores you."
William smiled.
"That pleases your vanity, does it not?" asked Gunther.
"It does not displease me," said William, grinning.
"The important point," said Gunther, "is to note that it does please you."
"Certain weaknesses, I suppose," said William, "are natural."
"That it is a weakness is a value judgment, automatically generated from your conditioning program," said Gunther. "All we know is that it is natural. What if feelings of power, of pleasure, of dominance, were not weaknesses, but strengths? The tiger's ability to tear flesh, to break a heifer's back with one blow, is not weakness." Gunther grinned. "One need not claim the natures of men are either weaknesses or strengths. One need only recognize them as realities, which, thwarted, produce miseries, diseases, deaths."
"Nothing natural can be evil," said William.
"But what of your desire to dominate, to own, a desirable female?"
"In a male," said William, "speaking as a physician, that is a natural disposition."
"Can it then be evil, or strange, or peculiar, or perverted, or timid, or a symptom of illness?"
"No," said William. "No more than breathing or the circulation of the blood within the musculature."
"But to say that it is not evil, is not to say that it is good?"
"No more than to say that breathing or the circulation of the blood is good. In themselves, they simply exist."
"True," said Gunther. "Here we speak not of goods and evils, but of realities. We are here, so to speak, beyond good and evil."
"But," said William, "surely, relative to a species, one might speak of good and evil."
"Perhaps," said Gunther. "But what is to be the criterion of such appraisals. Shall we say that that which is good creates misery, produces illnesses and shortens life?"
"I suppose we could," said William.
"But we need not do so," said Gunther. "We might, alternatively, say that is good which makes men strong, which makes them healthy, which prolongs life, which enhances their power and exalts them, which lifts them to vitality and kingship, which makes them great."
"Do you dare," asked William, "speak of alternative moralities?"
"I speak," said Gunther, "of a morality to which there is no alternative, save disease and misery."
"I do not understand," said William.
"Moralities, in their own times," said Gunther, "seem, in the optical illusion of the present, manifestations of eternal necessities. The moral revolutionary is as convinced of the justice of his position, its moral necessity, as is the defender of the threatened tradition of his. They join arms in the naivety of their dogmatisms. But in the trek of history these moralities, with their martyrs and their victims, appear as fashions, as transient expediencies, usually enlisted in the service of either defending an establishment or altering one, that a new establishment, that in which the moral revolutionaries will stand high, take its place."
"You speak as a cynic," said William.
"I think of myself as a realist," said Gunther. "But consider, some morality is a necessary condition for the existence of social orders, as essential as access to drinking water or a supply of food. Moralities, to some extent, are selected for, as are visual sensors and prehensile appendages. Groups the members of which cannot rely on one another, groups without conviction, discipline and courage, perish as groups, though their women are commonly spared to bear sons to the conquerors. Have you ever wondered why women, after some tears, yield themselves so readily to masters? It is because women desire, innately, to belong not to their equals but to their superiors, to the strongest, to the mighty, to the conquerors. Woman desires to submit; one cannot submit to an equal. The conqueror is not an equal; the woman is property to him; she submits; as a humiliated, submitted property she knows sensations that can never be experienced by her free sister, who, in her own frustrations, must be content to denounce her for her ecstasies. Women, too, wish to place their children in the future. The future belongs to the conquerors. Her own group lies already in the rubbish of the past; but the life stirring in her much-ravished body belongs to the tomorrow of the new conquerors; she, thus, chained at the heels of her new masters, turns gladly to the future."
"If evolution selects for moralities," said William, "that would tend to explain a considerable amount of the resemblance among moralities, similarities and continuities among them."
"Surely," said Gunther. "For example, a group would not be likely to survive which permitted broadcast intragroup perfidy, disloyalty or slaughter. It is no surprise that these tenets are not recommended by historically tested moralities. Groups which might have adopted such tenets, if any groups had had so little sense, presumably left their bones in the jungles of history."
"Yet," said William, "apparently diverse moralities have escaped the filters of history."
"Of course," said Gunther. "There are many ways to survive. The sponge does so in one way, the crab in another, the antelope in another, the tiger in another." He smiled. "That there is a morality is essential, not that there be a particular morality."
"Is there any way to adjudicate between moralities?" asked William.
"Assuredly," said Gunther. "Ruling classes have always managed this quite well. For them, the correct morality is the one which consolidates and enhances their own position and power."
"Do you mean to suggest that adjudication can be only by means of armament?"
"No," said Gunther. "One could draw straws or throw dice."
"Can there not be a more rational decision procedure?" asked William.
"Rationality," said Gunther, "is the instrument of the passions. Rationality, in itself, does not prescribe ends, only how they might be sought."
"Surely it is rational to wish to survive," said William.
"It is a fact that man wishes to survive. Rationality can help him attempt to do so. But man's desire to survive does not logically imply that he should survive. 'I wish to live' does not logically imply 'I should live'. Only the passions can give you that premise. No decision follows from logic alone. Logic is empty."
"The British empiricist, David Hume, once said as much," remarked William. "'According to reason alone I may as well prefer the destruction of the world to the pricking of my little finger.'"
"The passions, of course," said Gunther, "fortunately for us, are more clearly partisan. And I thought David Hume was a Scotsman."
"He was," said William.
"You referred to him as a British empiricist," said Gunther.
"We always so refer to him," said William.
"You are incurable imperialists at heart," said Gunther. "Next you will be after Mach and Goethe."
"We have already claimed Wittgenstein," laughed William.
Hamilton understood little of this. It was the talk of men. She was a woman. And only a slave. She knelt; her head was to the stone; she wore a collar of shells, and claws, and strands of leather.
"There must be, however," said William, "some intelligent way to adjudicate among competitive moralities."
"One may choose criteria," said Gunther, "and evaluate them in virtue of these criteria."
"But is there any way to adjudicate among criteria?" asked William.
"In virtue of other criteria," smiled Gunther.
"But ultimately?" asked William.
"No," said Gunther.
"Then there is no morality?" asked William.
"No," said Gunther. "There must be a morality. It is a necessary condition of social order."
"But there is no ultimate, rational vindication of a morality, and there can always be, at least logically, competitive moralities?"
"Yes," said Gunther. "You see, William, a choice must be made. There must be a commitment. There must be a decision. You must choose your morality. And, if you are wise, you will choose, or pretend to choose, the morality of your time and place, or an approximation to it."
"If one were wise," said William, "one would not have looked into these issues."
"The earth shakes beneath your feet?" asked Gunther.
"Yes," said William.
"I shall tell you what my criteria are," said Gunther, "though they are only one set among a possibly infinite number of alternative sets of criteria. I ask two questions of a morality. First, is it natural, truly natural, compatible with and answering to the full needs of human animals, an animal genetically coded for the hunt, and, second, does it produce excitement, meaning, greatness, the swiftness of the blood, the brightest and fiercest fires of the glands and the intellect?"
"Your morality," said William, "is dangerous; it is not one of pretense and leveling; it is a recipe for human greatness, an incitement to triumphs."
"No other will lead to the stars," said Gunther.
"What do you think of this, Hamilton?" asked William.
She trembled, her head down. A slave fears to enter into the conversation of free men. "Perhaps men are not meant for the stars," whispered Hamilton.
Gunther seized her hair, jerked her forward and turned her body, exposing it to William. "Here is the enemy," he said. "The female. If she can, she will defeat you; if she can she will reduce and destroy your dreams; when the mountains call it is she who will remind you of pressing duties; it is she who will keep you in the field with your hoe; should you stand on the beach, and be seen looking to sea, it is she who will recall you to your hearth; security and comfort to her exceed adventure, the chance of touching grandeur; she is ignorant of adventure, the meaning of man; her ears cannot hear the cry of a man's heart!"
Hamilton twisted. Gunther's hand was cruel in her hair. "Here, William," said Gunther, "is the fair enemy. Behold her, your beautiful foe. Should she conquer, the adventure is done, grandeur lost, man fallen, not risen, the arrow of promise broken, the ships left rotting on the beach."
"Please, Gunther," wept Hamilton.
"And Herjellsen told her to turn their eyes to the stars!" scoffed William.
"Herjellsen was insane," said Gunther.
"But she need not conquer," said William.
Gunther's hand tightened in her hair, and Hamilton winced. "No, my dear," said Gunther, "you will not conquer. You will be ruthlessly dominated. You will not keep us, and others, from the stars. We will take you to them, following us, carrying our burdens. No, my dear, you will come with us to the stars, if necessary in chains."
"Yes, Gunther," wept Hamilton.
He threw her back, and she wept. Flower, lying on her stomach, William's hand on her neck, was frightened.
"Kneel as you were before," said Gunther. Hamilton did so, head to the stone.
Gunther regarded her.
"It is natural, and wise," said Gunther, "for a man to control such desirable creatures. They are by nature his enemy, he by nature their master. Freed they are petty and dangerous; enslaved they are delicious and useful."
Flower whimpered. William silenced her, by tightening his fingers on the back of her neck.
"You see, William," said Gunther, "you need not be ashamed of your desire to dominate a woman. It is an expression of your manhood. She who tells you otherwise lies. Regard the hunters. Listen to the song of your blood. Furthermore, if you do not dominate her, she will own and rule you, inch by inch, until, like a bled, drugged, tethered lion, you lie at her mercy, helpless. One or the other must be master. The right by nature is yours. Will you take it or will you ask the advice of the slave?"
"But what of her?" asked William. "What of the woman?"
"What of her?" asked Gunther.
"I see," said William.
Hamilton trembled.
"Slave," said Gunther.
"Yes, Master," said Hamilton.
"Are you the enemy of your precious hunter?"
"No," said Hamilton. "I am his slave. I love him!"
"But he can buy and sell you as he pleases," said Gunther.
"Of course," said Hamilton.
"And yet you love him?" asked Gunther.
"Yes," said Hamilton.
"How do you feel about your slavery?" asked Gunther.
Hamilton's shoulders shook. She dared not raise her head. For a long time she did not answer. Then she spoke softly. "It is indescribably thrilling," she said.
"Do you love your slavery?" asked Gunther.
"Please, Gunther," she wept.
"Do you love your slavery?" asked Gunther.
"Yes," she whispered.
"Slut," said Gunther. Then he turned to William. "You see, William," said he, "in the depth of the brain of the female, as old as the genes selected for in the time of the hunters, lies a desire to submit, to belong. These are complementary natures, formed in man's dawn by laws more harsh and terrible than we can conjecture, laws that formed the flank of the antelope, the teeth of the tiger. Just as it is your nature to hold, it is hers to be held; just as it is your nature to own, it is hers to be owned; just as it is yours to be master so it is hers to be slave."
Gunther regarded Hamilton again. "Do you love slavery?" he asked.
"Yes!" she cried.
"Serve me, Slave," he said.
"Yes, Master," she whispered.
Hamilton heard Flower cry out as William drew her to him. Then she felt her own shoulder blades forced back against the stone of the floor of the cave. Her left shoulder lay in warm ashes. She thought of Tree. Then helplessly, a slave, she began, unable to help herself, to respond to Gunther's touch. She knew he would force her to yield fully to him.
21
"I will cut meat first," said Knife.
He stared across the roast carcass of deer, hot and glistening. The group fell silent. Even William and Gunther, who knew little of the language of the men, sensed the sudden stillness. Hamilton, kneeling behind Gunther, held her breath.
It had come.
Spear did not seem surprised. He had expected this for more than a year.
"I will cut meat first," said Spear. Hamilton watched them, crouching across from one another, over the meat.
Stone puzzled as to why Spear, in the last years, had not killed Knife. There were none in the group who did not know that Knife wished to be first. Tree thought he knew why Spear had not done this thing. Had Tree been Spear, he, too, would not have wanted to do this thing. The two men, Knife and Spear, stared at one another over the carcass of the deer. Short Leg, behind Spear, wondered why Spear did not strike. The two men, in many ways, seemed not unlike. There was a heaviness about the jaw of each, like rock, the same narrow eyes. Yet there seemed in Spear a heaviness, a weightiness, that was not in the younger man, Knife. Spear's eyes, too, were quicker. Tree knew that he himself would not have wished to fight Spear. He knew that Spear, the leader, would have had little compunction in killing him. But with Knife, it was different. Knife had walked before Spear once in the last month, entering the camp first; he had said once, in the men's hut, that Spear was old, that he could not hunt as well as Knife; then, ten days ago, he had taken meat from one of Spear's women and given it to Flower. But Spear had not killed him for these things. Tree had little doubt that Spear would have killed any other in the group who had done these things. But he did not kill Knife. He did not seem to notice.
"No," said Knife.
Seeming to pay Knife no attention, Spear thrust the flint blade
into the cooked meat.
With a cry Knife, his own flint blade in his fist, leaped across the meat.
With one arm Spear struck him to the side and stood up. The women screamed. William and Gunther leaped to their feet. The men remained sitting, watching. Knife rolled twice and seized up his flint ax. Spear, standing by the fire, over the meat, did not move. His eyes, strange for Spear, who had often killed wit equanimity, seemed agonized. "Kill him," said Stone to Spear. Spear did not move.
Many times, subtly, then brazenly, had Knife challenged Spear, and sought to undermine his authority. He had interpreted Spear's patience, his unwillingness to take action, as weakness.
There were few in the group who understood Spear's unwillingness to slay Knife. Tree thought he understood, and perhaps Arrow Maker knew, and Old Woman.
Tree wondered if Spear were too old to be first. Perhaps, after all, that was why he had not killed Knife. Perhaps Spear was, after all, afraid of Knife.
Knife raised the ax. Spear stood there, like rock.
"I am first," said Knife.
"No," said Spear.
"Take your ax," said Knife.
"I do not want to fight you," said Spear.
"I am first," said Knife.
"No," said Spear.
Brenda screamed as the ax struck down. It hit Spear on the upper left shoulder. Spear's body shook with the impact but he remained standing. Almost immediately the shoulder was covered with blood. "That is not how one kills with an ax," said Spear.