by John Norman
“No!” she said.
“I might sell for as much, or more than you!” I said.
These remarks, and those which had followed, recounted earlier, were not unprecedented in exchanges between native Gorean slaves and imports, such as I, merchandise brought from Earth, particularly when they are unfamiliar to one another. I had, at this time, been better than three months and four passage hands on your world. You might note that I was not without my collar vanity. I had literally suggested that I might bring as much off the block as she, though she was Gorean. To be sure, this would depend on the bidders. It had not taken me long to realize that I, and others like me, were commonly despised by Gorean women, both free and slave. The men, on the other hand, I soon discovered, though commonly regarding us as inferior and worthless, were not immune to our charms. Certainly they bid nicely for us, and were not reluctant to put us in their collars. We needed the men and hoped to be purchased by them, for they would protect us from the women. We needed only serve them with eager and abject perfection, in all the diverse ways of the female slave. Something more was involved here, of course, than the simple animosity of women, particular and generalized, for rivals, or the usual suspicion of that which is other than oneself, or different. We imports brought high prices. This was doubtless, in part, a result of a different and exotic cast of merchandise, but, too, I think there was little doubt that the prices paid for us were not unrelated to the quality of the goods sold. When a city falls, or a caravan is taken, one will usually add to one’s chain what is at hand. On the other hand, sometimes a woman is stripped and dismissed, whipped from a camp, or the smoking wagons. To her humiliation and rage, she has been rejected. She is insufficiently attractive to be a slave. She would not sell, or might sell for no more than a pot girl. Contrariwise, the girls taken from Earth are apparently selected with great care, for beauty, intelligence, and, I suspect, somehow, though I am unclear how it is assessed, for latent, and eventually uncontrollable, passion. I frankly see no reason to believe that the women of Earth, in general, are either better looking or not, when compared with their Gorean sisters, nor, of course, that they are better or worse than we. I would think them much the same. Clearly we are all female, and human. On the other hand, the Goreans have an expression, “slave beautiful,” and that clearly means beautiful enough to be a slave. Accordingly, the women in collars, Goreans or not, tend to be females of a sort which is of interest to men. And, as you might recall, if you would forgive me, the imports from Earth are not acquired randomly, say, in virtue of the fortunes of war or raiding. They are selected with great care, apparently by men, or women, who are professionals in such matters. I have often wondered about Mrs. Rawlinson, whom I suspect is not unacquainted with my fate, and perhaps that of others. I wonder if she is amused, to think of us as we might now be. At different times it had seemed her voice was different, younger, and, at times, it seemed her posture and carriage was more that of a younger woman. I had come to suspect that she had been disguised, and somehow placed in the sorority for some purpose. I recalled she had once identified herself as “a free woman.” I had been puzzled by that at the time, but now it seemed somehow meaningful. She had said this shortly before she had had us kneel before her. If Mrs. Rawlinson was Gorean, or in league with Goreans, she had certainly been well placed to examine and assess a number of supercilious, vain, intelligent, highly cultured, beautiful young women, women conveniently gathered together, women nicely located and accessible, self-selected women, beauties all, of a sort which, once collared, might be of interest to men. I wondered about Eve, and Jane, and the others. Too, I wondered about beautiful, arrogant Nora, who might now find herself on the other end of a switch. I have spoken of collar pride. I soon learned collar pride. I learned that I was “slave beautiful,” and that the female slave is the most desirable and exciting of human females. What woman would be immune to such flattery, the flattery of chains, the tunic, the collar, the whip? What woman, in her vanity, would be insensible of the compliment paid to her, the compliment of thongs and bracelets? How could she be unaware of the tribute and honor paid to her, that she should be cast amongst the least and most worthless of animals, the most desirable of women, the female slave? So I came to be proud of my beauty, and its meaning. The collar may be viewed as a simple contrivance, a device prescribed by Merchant Law, identifying a slave and, if the collar is engraved, often her master. Free women may view it as a badge of inferiority and degradation, and perhaps appropriately, from the social point of view. But the collar, too, as I have suggested, may be seen as a badge of quality, a token that the woman has been found desirable enough, and beautiful enough, of sufficient interest to men, to be put in a collar. It is no wonder the free women, encumbered in their robes, uneasy within them, perhaps, for all I know, seething with need, suspecting the joys of the collar, hate us so.
We are as natural and real a part of your world as the unpolluted air you breathe. You think nothing of our presence. It is there, as that of your other domestic animals. You find us on your streets, and in your markets, shopping; you note us waiting for our masters, our necks or ankles chained to street rings; surely you have seen us on holidays, promenaded on our leashes? Are we not everywhere, hurrying about, intent on our errands? We are in your homes, and kitchens, and fields. Do we not serve in the paga taverns, sometimes nude and belled? Do we not, sedately tunicked, as serving slaves, assist free women with their complex ornaments, their perfumes, robes, and veils? Do we not gather gossip for them, and carry messages for them in their petty intrigues and assignations; do we not accompany their palanquins? Will you not find us in military camps, and stables? Do we not serve well in the baths? Is it not a great pleasure of your visitors, foreign ambassadors, and such, to see us in your towns and cities, doubtless comparing us to those in theirs? Do we not fit in well with your colorful architecture, your broad boulevards, the lovely statues and fountains, and, surely, with your extensive, shaded public gardens, with their secluded, winding paths? Surely your slaves are one of the delights, one of the pleasures and joys, of your world. It is easy to see why you would not give the least thought to letting us out of our collars. You want us in them, and we will be kept in them. Indeed, who but a fool would free a slave girl?
Deny this, if you wish, but I have discovered, on your world, that such as I are not only accepted, as your other animals, but are, in a way, prized. Surely you are aware of the jokes, the songs. Certainly we are muchly sought for? Is it not for us that citadels are stormed and caravans raided, that we may be coffled and led naked to your markets? Surely you cannot deny our importance, negligible though we may be? Are we not somehow special amongst your animals, though we commonly sell for less than a sleen, and dozens of times less than a tarn? I think so. And I do not think you would wish to do without us. No. Are we not well worked, and are we not beautiful? And you find many uses for us, to which we are put.
Sometimes I marvel at your world.
Here, as not on my former world, the slavery of such as I is not questioned. Its utility, value, naturalness, and appropriateness is accepted, and understood. In a natural order, a natural order refined and enhanced with the rituals, customs, and institutions of civilization, would there not be such as we? Is it not the natural right of a natural master, that he should have a slave, or slaves? And is it not the natural right of the natural, needful slave, that she should kneel to her master? What begins in the caves, with fastenings formed from the sinews of beasts, may flourish in the boulevards, where delicate, graceful bracelets may confine the small wrists of women behind their backs.
We are subject to your whips, and wear your chains.
Surely that is obvious.
But is our lot so miserable?
Men and women are different, very different.
Surely you know that.
Here women such as I find ourselves a very real part of a very real world.
Here we know who we are, and how we must be.
Here we have a role and an identity, to be sure one inescapable and imposed upon us, whether we will have it so or not, for we are only animals, only slaves. But consider us, if you will, and our natures, though one need not consider a slave. Do you think slaves do not have natures, even though their natures may be scarcely worth noticing, and despicable?
We do have our natures.
Do you think all gratification, or fulfillment, is on the side of the master? It is not. Why are we commonly so radiant, so content? Have you not wondered how that could be? Many of us, once embonded, once brought to the feet of a man, find ourselves. Enslaved, we learn we are of the slave sex. We then desire, with all our heart, to be slaves, worthy slaves of our masters. Can you, who are free, understand that? I suspect your free women can. Perhaps they awaken, sweating and screaming, in the night.
Your world is a natural world, on which exist dominance and submission, and I have learned that I am not dominant. To be sure, I knew this even on my world, a world in which such things are clearly recognized, in all their obviousness, but denied. They are not denied here, as I learned, on my knees, looking up, into the eyes of masters.
Some are slaves, and some masters.
Why should the slave not be a slave, and the master a master?
How long we waited for our masters! How we need our masters! How precious are our masters, and how we, trembling, hasten to serve them, to please them, and as a slave!
I, for one, am content. I belong in my collar. Keep me in it.
And yet, too, I am only a slave, and sometimes tremble in terror. We cannot choose our masters. We may be bought and sold, exchanged and bestowed, wagered and stolen. We may be ignored, despised, and beaten. Who knows to whose whips we must press our lips obediently?
I was taken in the parlor of the house.
I was summoned downstairs by a man’s voice. I descended the stairs, frightened. But surely these were workers, summoned by Mrs. Rawlinson. But where was she? I shook my head. It was in the late afternoon, in the fall. I remember how the light came through the windows. Somehow, unaccountably, I had fallen asleep after lunch. Where was Mrs. Rawlinson? Where were my sorority sisters? The house, a large house, seemed empty.
Then I was suddenly very afraid, for I was now sure it was empty. I could not run past the men, and one of them was behind me. Another blocked the stairs.
“Who are you?” I asked, pleasantly enough. “What are you doing here? May I help you?”
Three of the men arranged chairs before me, the backs of the chairs facing me. They sat on the chairs, their arms on the backs, regarding me.
I stepped back a pace or two.
Where were my sisters? Where was Mrs. Rawlinson?
On one side of the room, a lamp had been overturned. Here and there, oddly, some lengths of ribbon lay on the carpet, red ribbon, white ribbon.
“What do you want?” I asked. “Doubtless Mrs. Rawlinson, she is the house mother, summoned you, but for what purpose I do not know. I think the house is in order. It is in order, as far as I know. She is not here now. She will doubtless be back later. May I help you? You could come back later.”
“Remove your clothing, completely,” said a man, he in the center chair.
I looked at him, disbelievingly.
“Must a command be repeated?” he asked.
I looked about, wildly.
There was something familiar about this question. It seemed I had heard something like this before, or read something like this, at one time or another.
I put my hand before my mouth.
“No one will hear you,” said a fellow.
I looked at the fellow in the center chair, he whom I took to be their leader.
“Now,” he said.
I remembered then where I had come upon that question. It had occurred in one or more of the books I had read, those compromising books which Mrs. Rawlinson had confiscated.
It was a Gorean question.
And I knew the sort of person, a female person, to whom such a question was likely to be addressed. Such persons were expected to comply with commands instantly and unquestioningly. Failure to do so, I suspected, was unwise.
I reached to the top button on my blouse.
“Who are you?” I asked.
In a few moments I stood naked before them.
“Stand straighter, and turn about, slowly, and then face us, again,” said their leader.
“What do you think?” asked the leader, of one of his confederates.
“Forty, perhaps sixty,” said the fellow.
I understood nothing of this.
“Back toward us,” said the leader, “your wrists crossed behind your back.”
I did so, and, shortly, with two or three encirclements of cord, snugly knotted, my wrists were tied behind my back.
I remembered the words, ‘forty, perhaps sixty,’ and gasped. This must stand for forty, or sixty, thousand dollars. I suspected then that I was to be taken to the Middle East, and would be destined for some rich man’s harem.
I struggled, futilely.
The leader came about, and stood before me. He held a generous length of ribbon, silken ribbon, in his hand, some feet in length. He wound this twice about my throat, and then knotted it, closely, under my chin. He jerked the knot tight. I felt the pull against the back of my neck. The ribbon was white.
“You are white-silk,” he said.
In my reading I recalled the significance of white-silk, but how could they know that I had not been “opened for the pleasure of men,” that I was a virgin? Then I remembered my strange dream, of several days ago, after the party. If it had been no dream, I supposed such a determination might have been easily made at that time, perhaps while I slept.
Then I stiffened, for one of the fellows was crouching beside me, on the left. I felt a metal anklet snapped about my ankle.
I had been ankleted.
“I know what you have in mind,” I said, “but you will never get me to the Middle East! You will never be able to sell me in a secret market!”
“You are not going to the Middle East,” said their leader. “And there will be nothing secret about the market in which you will be sold.”
“You are going to sell me?” I said. “Truly?”
“Your lineaments are not without interest,” said a fellow.
“That was clear from the film,” said another.
“Film?” I said.
“Taken at the party,” said a fellow.
“You look quite well in a camisk,” said a man.
“You know that word?” I said.
The fellow laughed.
“To be sure,” said another, “it was a rather generous camisk.”
I had been mortified, for I had been half naked. And I was dismayed to learn that some record of my humiliation, of my punishment, and, I supposed, of that of Eve and Jane, too, had apparently been made. I suspected Mrs. Rawlinson would not have been unaware of the filming. Perhaps she had arranged it, for a record of the party, which might later have been of interest to the guests. But how could these men have known of this, how could they have managed to see the film? Had it been stolen? Had it been given to them? Had it been sold to them?
“It may be a long time,” said another, “before you are again permitted a garment as concealing as a camisk.”
“You will never get me to the Middle East!” I said.
“You are not going to the Middle East,” said the leader. “You are going to Gor.”
“There is no such place!” I said. “There is no such place!”
I struggled.
I was aware of the metal on my left ankle, snugly enclosing it. I was aware of the ribbon twice encircling my throat, knotted there, a ribbon of white silk.
I was nude, and my hands were tied behind my back.
I was helpless.
“There is no such place!” I said. “There is no such place!”
I was then, from behind, gagged.
Two men then
placed me on the rug, gently, and one crossed my ankles and another tied them together. I then lay on the rug, gagged, and bound, hand and foot.
“Put her in the van,” said the leader.
I was lifted and carried through the backdoor of the house, where a van was waiting. I was placed in the van, on the metal floor. The floor had some broad grooves. Such a feature, I supposed, was in the interests of cargo, affording a run-off for possible spillages, a higher, drier surface to protect against dampness, perhaps a less frictionated surface to facilitate the loading or unloading of boxes, crates, and such. It would not, of course, be a pleasant surface to lie on, as I would soon learn. One man climbed into the back of the van with me, and the doors were closed. Shortly thereafter the van left the driveway.
We had driven for perhaps two hours when I began to whimper. My body was sore, particularly given the recent roughness of the road, my jarring and jostling, and the hardness of the floor. In places on my body there were temporary marks, from the grooved flooring.
The man said nothing, but he removed his jacket, folded it, and placed it under my head and shoulders.
I looked at him, tears in my eyes, gratefully.
Then I lay back.
Had he been waiting for me to whimper, I wondered. Had he been waiting for me to beg?
I knew I had begged.
I did not know if this had pleased him or not.
But I had begged.
It was an hour later, and night must have fallen. The man snapped on the dome light in the rear of the van.
I lay before him.
He turned away, and, from a box to his left, he drew forth a thermos, and a small sack. I watched him, as he unwrapped a sandwich, and began to eat.
After a bit, he looked at me.
“Are you hungry?” he said.
I struggled to sit up. I nodded, piteously. I was cold, thirsty, famished, and bound.
“We are in the country,” he said. “It would do you no good to scream.”
I nodded.
“On your knees,” he said. “Approach me.”
I managed to kneel, and make my way to him.