Plunder of Gor

by Norman, John;

  But I must elude these restraints, with the single link between the cuffs, my hands held so closely together.

  But how?

  Yes, I thought. I must call the police. I must prepare myself to endure their skepticism, their scarcely suppressed mockery. They would have tools, or access to tools. They might even have keys which might unclasp the impediments which so snugly enclosed my wrists! No, I thought, I could not endure the embarrassment. Surely such an appeal would be a recourse of last resort!

  Better, I thought, perhaps I might open these locks, or one of them, myself. I rose, and hurried to my vanity, and flung open a drawer, and rummaged about. There were straight pins and safety pins, a small nail file, hairpins, bobby pins. An hour later I was sick with frustration. Perhaps a second person might have managed something but my hands were so closely pinioned that I could scarcely angle a pin into a lock, let alone address one directly, and the nail file was too short, as I could hold it, to do more than rest on the metal, and my fingers were too weak to exert more than a modicum of pressure on the steel.

  I looked at the phone.

  Perhaps a locksmith could be relied upon for discretion, though I doubted it. A locksmith might or might not possess a suitable key or keys for opening the cuff locks, but he might have, at least, tools, a file or hacksaw, which might eventually free me from the restraints. But how could I receive a locksmith, clad as I was, armed with no excuse that might not border on the inane or transparently meretricious? Too, might he not suspect my motivations? Might he not even fear a fraud, a scandal or extortion, of some sort, a girl who might suddenly struggle and scream, this outburst followed promptly by the arrival of male colleagues, seemingly outraged, threatening, and righteous?

  Again I looked on the phone.

  It seemed far away.

  I felt weak, so weak.

  I sank to my knees. I feared I might faint.

  I fought to retain consciousness.

  Surely I must contact someone.

  But who?

  It would be difficult to make the call, but it could be done. I could lay the receiver to the side, brace the phone, and press the numbers, carefully, with my right hand.

  But I was miserable. I wore only the long, blue, sheer, silken nightgown. It would be almost impossible to dress. I could not even draw on a bathrobe or coat. Perhaps I could draw something up about me? Perhaps I could adjust a sheet or blanket about me, and clutch it in place?

  I would manage.

  Something must be done.

  Then I realized what might be easily, and sensibly, done, something which would be less embarrassing, something unlikely to have negative repercussions. I must call someone I knew, whom I could trust, someone intelligent and reliable, someone who, I was sure, would listen to me sympathetically and do her best to help me. Such a person might obtain tools, expeditiously enough, innocently enough, arousing no suspicions, at a hardware store. I had few, if any, friends, for I am particular in the choosing of friends, and who, after all, would be worthy of being my friend, but I had several acquaintances. I knew several of the girls who worked in the same building that I did. Indeed, I frequently lunched with some of them. One was quiet, plain Paula, short, and sweetly bodied, simply and conservatively dressed, who seemed to live much within herself, shy, serious Paula, who listened well, so patiently, Paula, who refrained from participating in our gossip, often so frivolous and cruel, Paula, who, of all things, read books. I, and, I am sure, several of the others, rather pitied Paula. She did not carry herself with elegance or style. Despite the prescriptions and expectations of the day, she seemed unconcerned with wit and verve, with projecting a culturally recommended image. Did she not know how to do so? Surely she must wish to do so. Why, then, did she not do so or, at least, strive to do so? Too, she was clearly uninformed of many things of obvious importance. She seemed unaware of which journalists and politicians, which motion-picture and television personalities, and such, were to be approved, and, as important, those which were to be disapproved. We were not sure, at all, in many areas, that she had the right views, opinions, and attitudes. She seemed to make up her own mind about things, naturally with dismal results. Worst perhaps, as I have hinted, she seemed deplorably uninformed of fashion. I did not think she knew one designer or house from another. Such ignorance was inconceivable. I do not think she was really stupid, but what can one expect of someone who reads books? Still I was sure I could trust Paula, certainly more than the others. I sensed this about her. She seemed different from the others, somehow deeper, or more sound, or more aware, than the others. I was sure I could count on her to be compassionate and understanding. I could make use of her. She would listen carefully, strive to be of any assistance possible, and could be depended upon to keep a secret. So I would call her, and, when she arrived, which she would, I was sure, acquaint her with my surprising, untoward predicament, and send her forth to obtain what tools might be appropriate to free my wrists.

  How easily then might things proceed!

  I looked down at the handcuffs, so large, thick, heavy, and plain. How clumsy, simple, and ugly they were. How disproportionate they seemed to my wrists. How unlike they would be from the light, lovely restraints, so attractive, and perhaps even more secure, designed with the enhancement of beauty in mind, in which I would later, frequently, find myself helplessly emplaced.

  I must call Paula.

  I was so distraught I feared I might stumble, were I to stand.

  I crawled toward the telephone on the night stand near the bed. It was an awkward business, my wrists pinioned before me. But I could move, a bit at a time, reaching forth, again and again. Then I was at the phone. I reached up and placed it on the floor, before me.

  Next I must find Paula’s number.

  This would be easy.

  In the drawer to the night stand was a small notebook containing my personal numbers. It contained, amongst others, the numbers of my frequent luncheon companions. Once, early in our luncheons, held in one restaurant or another, but usually in the restaurant on the fourth floor of the building, we had exchanged numbers. We had supposed this might prove a convenience for our small group, if it might prove desirable to contact one another, as if we would ever be interested in doing so. Certainly, hitherto I had never used any of these numbers. But Paula’s number, I recalled, would be amongst them.

  It was only necessary, now, to call her. I was sure she would be accommodating. It was her way. Surely, too, she, poor, plain Paula, should be flattered to receive a call from me, for I was smart and chic, and I stood near the pinnacle of our small hierarchy. If she were otherwise engaged, or had other plans, she must change them. That must be clear. Yet I should tell her nothing. My tone would be pleasant and social, and betray no inkling of my distress. The matter should be as if no more than if I were thinking of her, and felt like chatting, which chat could then lead naturally to an invitation, and a proposed afternoon’s outing. We could meet at my apartment, perhaps for coffee, first. I might then, she having arrived, reveal my discomfiture to her, and explain, as I could, what I needed. If necessary, over the phone, though I trusted it would not be necessary, I might give her some sense of my earnestness.

  I reached to the drawer of the night stand.

  At that moment I cried out, startled, for the phone, placed before me on the carpet, rang.

  I lifted the receiver. It was Paula!

  “I hope I am not disturbing you,” she said.

  “No,” I said, “not at all.”

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Of course. Why do you ask?”

  “Something strange has happened,” she said.

  “What?” I said.

  “You sound different,” she said.

  “How so?” I asked.

  “Upset,” she said.

  “No, no,” I said. “I’m
fine.”

  “Good,” she said.

  “It is nice of you to call,” I said, struggling to speak calmly.

  “I don’t mean to bother you,” she said. “But I thought I should call. Something strange has happened. A messenger delivered an envelope to me, only moments ago, and inside the envelope was a smaller envelope, with a note, that the smaller envelope was to be delivered to you. Do you know anything about this?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Do you want me to open the envelope?” she asked.

  “Is it a letter?” I asked.

  “I do not think so,” she said. “It seems to contain something, a small, solid object.”

  “Hold it up to the light,” I said.

  “The envelope is opaque,” she said.

  “What does it feel like?” I asked.

  “I am not sure,” she said.

  “A key?” I said.

  “I am not sure,” she said.

  “I lost a key,” I said.

  “It might be a key,” she said.

  “—to the lock on my suitcase,” I said.

  “It’s not a flat key,” she said.

  “Please open the envelope,” I said.

  A minute or two later, Paula spoke again. “It is a key,” she said. “I do not think it is a suitcase key.”

  “Bring it to my apartment, please, and hurry!” I begged.

  “Are you all right?” Paula asked, again.

  “Yes, yes!” I said. “Please hurry.” I gave her my address.

  “Why should someone give it to me, if it is yours?” asked Paula.

  “Just bring it!” I pleaded.

  “You are not all right,” said Paula. “Something is wrong.”

  “Bring it,” I said. “I will tell you all I know. I must speak to someone. I am afraid. I do not know what is going on!”

  “Tell me, tell me, please,” said Paula.

  “You must tell no one,” I said.

  “You are afraid,” said Paula.

  “Hurry,” I said. “I understand little of this, but I will tell you what I can.”

  “Should I call a doctor, an ambulance?” asked Paula, frightened.

  “No, just hurry!” I said.

  Chapter Two

  “I fear,” said Paula, “it is not all nonsense.”

  “It must be!” I demanded.

  “Those are not nonsense,” said Paula, pointing to the opened handcuffs lying on the kitchen counter.

  We were sitting about the kitchen table.

  “You believe me?” I asked, plaintively.

  “Many would not,” said Paula, “but I do.”

  “But surely you do not believe all this about another world, another planet, one secretly in our own system, shielded by the sun, concealed by gravitational adjustments, an Antichthon, a Counter-Earth?”

  “It is hard to know what to believe,” said Paula. “But the claims of a Counter-Earth have been familiar for millennia. There are difficult-to-explain signals, and many sightings, perhaps of ships harboring in unknown ports, not those of Terra, not those of Earth.”

  “Such things are mythical,” I said.

  “Perhaps,” said Paula. “But who knows from what seeds myths might first have sprung? Perhaps the smoke of legend hints at the fire of distant, forgotten fact. Data is real. It may be diversely understood.”

  I had recounted to Paula, who had almost immediately freed me of the homely devices in which I was so helpless, the incident in the office, and the talk of slaves, of “pot girls,” of “kettle-and-mat girls,” and such. I had not, of course, recounted to Paula that I had been so characterized by the surly, uncouth ruffian I had encountered in the office. She had listened intently, even breathlessly, her eyes shining. “It may be so,” she had whispered. “How lovely, how meaningful, how glorious!” she whispered. “How fearful, how frightful, how horrifying!” I had exclaimed. “No, no,” she had whispered. I had then recounted to her the incident on the beach, the rude conversation, the photographing, it done without my permission, I unwilling to be photographed, the speculation as to measurements, the use of the word ‘kajira’. “Are you sure of the word?” she inquired, eagerly. “Yes,” I said, “they mistook me for someone else. I told them my name was not ‘Kajira’ but ‘Phyllis’.”

  “Oh, dear Phyllis,” she said, “how I envy you! You may be amongst the kajirae and, as yet, know nothing of it.”

  “I told them my name was ‘Phyllis’,” I said.

  “Why do you think you were put in handcuffs?” she asked.

  “I do not know,” I said.

  “Perhaps to accustom you to helplessness,” she said.

  “I do not understand how the apartment could have been entered,” I said. “The doors and windows were locked.”

  “There are devices,” said Paula. “I have read of them.”

  “I sometimes have the sense that I am being watched,” I said.

  “Gorean slavers,” said Paula, “often scout ‘slave fruit’, before it is picked.”

  “If there were such,” I said, “doubtless.”

  “They choose carefully,” she said. “They select for intelligence, beauty, and passion.”

  “I am highly intelligent,” I said, “and obviously extremely beautiful. But I do not care for men.”

  “Slave fires,” she said, “may be lit in the coldest of bellies, turning them helplessly needful, beggingly needful.”

  I feared this might be true.

  Had I not dreamed of such need, of such helplessness? Could I be turned into such a needful, helpless thing?

  Surely not!

  Yet had I not longed for this?

  “How helpless then,” she said, “would a woman be!”

  “Do not speak so,” I begged.

  “What could she be then,” she said, “but a man’s slave, the slave of men.”

  “I would not permit it,” I said. “And who could respond to the men we know?”

  “Your wishes in the matter need not be considered,” she said. “And all men may not be such as those with whom we are disappointingly familiar. I am sure, dear Phyllis, your libido, rendered helpless, dominated and mastered, will respond overwhelmingly to the lust of masters.”

  “I understand little, if anything, of this,” I said.

  “I think they are considering you, Phyllis,” she said, “for a Gorean ­collar.”

  “Do not be absurd,” I said, uneasily.

  “You might be fetching,” she said, “slave clad, if clad, collared, and owned.”

  “I am a free woman,” I said, angrily.

  “I suspect so,” said Paula, “but who knows what the future might hold.”

  “What do you know of these things?” I asked.

  “I read, I think, I wonder,” said Paula. “I am familiar with the Gorean world, as I suspect you are not.”

  “I have heard of it,” I said, “a little.”

  “I have lived in the books,” said Paula. “They have spoken to me. I have found myself barefoot in those green fields, I have glimpsed far horizons from the bow of a swift galley, knelt trembling before a master.”

  “In your imagination!” I said.

  “Yes, alas, only so,” she said.

  “I did not know you were like this,” I said.

  “I have often wondered,” she said, “if there is a Counter-Earth, traversing its orbit, plying its silent way about our star, a world with its own gods and beasts, its own seasons and tides, its own strifes and wars.”

  “Absurd,” I said.

  “If there was such a world,” she said, “might it not hint its presence in a hundred ways, content even to be perceived as fiction?”

  “Absurd!” I said, angrily.

  “Strange beasts, unwill
ing to be seen, might prowl in surprising precincts,” she said. “Reality might wear many concealments.”

  “If Gor is real,” I said, “let it show itself, openly!”

  “It, or its custodians, may not care to do so,” she said. “What would be the value or purpose of such a disclosure? How would it benefit either world? Would it not shatter comfortable visions, disrupt cultures, shake civilizations, alarm and unsettle populations, produce social, economic, and intellectual chaos? No, it is better for Gor to conceal itself, to the extent it can; it is better for it to maintain its privacy, its reticence. It is better for all that way.”

  I looked away, angrily.

  “Besides,” she said, “perhaps it is not such a well-kept secret. I am sure, if it exists, that hundreds, perhaps thousands, on this world know of it, even have dealings with it.”

  “It does not exist,” I said.

  “Perhaps not,” she said. “But you have had your experiences.”

  “There must be an alternative explanation for them,” I said, desperately.

  “Perhaps,” she said, “but I am not sure of that. Indeed, I hope that your experiences are precisely what they seem to be. On this world I feel I am a stranger. For years, since I was a girl, I have dreamed of a richer, more honest, more beautiful, more natural world, and of strong, owning men, who would own me and treat me as the woman I am!”

  “Do not speak so!” I cried, dismayed. “Do not dare to speak so!”

  “Forgive me,” she said.

  “I am afraid,” I said.

  “Perhaps there are surveillance devices, even in your apartment,” said Paula, looking about, “hidden cameras, secretly installed recording devices.”

  “Impossible,” I said.

  Paula sprang suddenly to her feet, wildly, hopefully.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “I want to look!” she said.

  She began where we were, in the kitchen, and then went to the living room, and then to the bedroom. She was concerned, thorough. She opened drawers, moved furniture, looked about lamps, looked behind chests.

  I followed her, dismayed.