by John Norman
"Not even one slave?" she asked.
"No," I said.
"Are you typical of those of your world?" she asked.
"I think so," I said.
"If that is true," she said, regarding me narrowly, "how is that you know so well how to plunge a woman into terror?"
"If I have inadvertently frightened you," I said, "I am truly sorry. Such was not my intention."
"I am naked and collared, and at your mercy," she said. "Do you truly expect me to believe that you have nothing in store for me?"
"I will not abuse you," I said. "You are safe with me. Have no fear."
"You torture me so," she cried. "Why do you not just do what you are going to do and have done with it? Was I truly so cruel to you that you have seen fit to subject me to these agonies?"
I did not know how to reassure her.
"Is there some cruel caprice you intend to practice upon me," she asked, "some humiliating and degrading performance you will exact from me for your pleasure?"
"Do not be afraid," I said.
"Torturer," she wept. "Torturer!"
"Do not be afraid," I said.
She put her head in her hands, weeping. "How cruel and insidious are the men of your world," she wept. "How simple and bluff are the exactions of the men of Gor in comparison. Why could you not, simply, have made me serve you, and then raped and beaten me if you wished?"
"I have no intention of doing you harm," I said.
She, sobbing, crawled to the bench where I had left the whip. She took it from the bench in her teeth and, carrying it in her teeth, crawled to me. She lifted the whip in her teeth to me. I took it from between her small white teeth. "Whip me," she begged.
I threw the whip aside. "No," I said.
She, shuddering, lay at my feet. She did not know what would be done with her.
I did not speak to her but went to the dark blanket which lay to one side on the straw. I spread the blanket, which was heavy, and fashioned from the wool of the bounding hurt, on the straw. I gestured to the blanket. "Lie on the blanket," I told her, kindly.
She crept to the blanket and lay upon it, on her back. Her body was very beautiful on the dark blanket. She touched her collar, lightly, with her finger tips. She was a slave. She looked at me. "Does it begin now?" she asked.
I stood over her, and looked down at her small, trembling body, open to whatever I might choose to inflict upon it.
I crouched beside her, and her eyes, terrified, met mine. "Please be kind to Lola, Master," she whispered. "She is only your poor slave."
Gently I took the half of the blanket on which she was not lying and drew it over her, covering her. "It is late now," I said. "You must be tired. Go to sleep."
She looked at me, frightened, disbelievingly. "Are you not going to own me?" she asked.
"Of course not," I said. "Rest now, pretty Lola." Then I realized that I, a man of Earth, should not have called her 'pretty Lola'. That she was pretty, decidedly so, and helplessly a slave, must be ignored; such things must not be recognized. They might interfere with the artificial constructions of neuteristic personhood, constructions in terms of which my conditioning required me to view her. How foolish it now seems to me that I then refused to see a beauty as a beauty, and a slave as a slave.
"Are you not going to share the blanket?" she asked.
"No," I said.
"But I am branded, and wear a collar," she said.
"Rest," I said. "Go to sleep, Lola."
I went to the far wall of the cell, that opposite the bars. I sat back against the wall.
"Go to sleep," I said to the girl, gently.
She looked at me, the blanket pulled about her neck. "Am I not to be tied, or chained?" she asked.
"No," I said.
She lay there, quietly.
"You are safe," I told her. "Go to sleep."
"Yes, Master," she said. "Master," she said.
"Yes," I said.
"I am a slave," she said.
"Yes," I said.
"Are you not going to treat me as a slave?" she asked.
"Of course not," I said. "I am a man of Earth."
Did she truly think that I, a man of Earth, would treat her as a slave, merely because she was a slave?
She was silent.
"Go to sleep," I told her.
"Yes, Master," she said.
I leaned back against the wall, sitting in the straw. The girl lay very quietly. We did not speak for a long time. Then, after perhaps an Ahn, I heard her moan, and saw her twist under the blanket.
"Master," I heard her beg. "Master."
I went to her side.
In the half light, she thrust the dark blanket down about her thighs. She half sat, half lay, on the lower portion of the blanket. She looked at me. She tried to put her small hands out, to clasp me piteously behind the neck. But I caught her wrists, and held her hands from me. "Master," she begged. "Please, Master." Her body, small and curved, was beautiful in the half light. Her breasts were marvelous. I noted the sweet turn of her body where the curve of her belly yielded to the flare of her hips.
"What is wrong with you?" I asked. Her small strength was no match for mine.
"Please have me, Master," she begged. "Please take me, and as a slave!"
I looked at her small body, and at the collar of steel on her throat.
"No," I said.
She stopped struggling, and I released her wrists. I rose to my feet and stood regarding her. She knelt now, trembling, on the blanket.
"I am a man of Earth," I told her.
"Yes, Master," she said, her head down.
I was angry, and frightened. My heart was pounding.
"You have nothing to fear from me," I said.
"Yes, Master," she said.
Surely she must know that she had nothing to fear from one such as I who would treat her with dignity and respect.
Why, then, was I terrified of her, she only a slave? I think it was because I feared she might release in me things which I feared to understand, because I feared she might release in me something proud and savage, something which would be a stranger to apologies and pretenses, something long-forgotten and mighty, something which had been bred in caves and the hunt, something which might be called a man.
I looked upon the girl, the kneeling slave. For an instant I felt a surgency of power.
Then I recalled that I must not be a man, for manhood was prohibited and forbidden; it was something to be belittled and ridiculed. One must not be a man. One must rather be a person. Lions must be snared, and castrated and bled. There is no place for them among the flowers. Let lions be taught it is their function to draw the carts of sheep. Let them then be rewarded with bleats of approval.
But, for an instant, looking upon the girl, I had felt stirring within me something dark and mighty, uncompromising and powerful, something which told me that such beauties as now knelt before me were the full and rightful properties of men.
Then I thrust such thoughts from my mind.
"I do not understand you," I said, angrily.
She kept her head down.
"I have treated you with kindness and courtesy," I said. "Yet you persist in behaving like a slave."
"I am a slave, Master," she said.
"I do not know what you want," I said. "Should I tie you to the bars, that the urts may feed upon you?"
"Please do not do that, Master," she said.
"That is a joke," I said, horrified that she might have taken me seriously.
"I thought it might be," she said, softly.
"Speaking of jokes," I said, "what a splendid jest have we two tonight played upon our jailers."
"Master?" she asked.
"They put you in with me that I might punish you, and yet I have not done so. I have treated you with gentleness and courtesy, with kindness and respect."
"Yes, Master," she said, "it is a splendid joke."
"Apparently you are having difficulty sleeping," I
said. "I, too, am restless. If you like, we may have a conversation."
She put her head down, silent.
"Would you like me to tell you of the women on my world," I asked, "who are fine and free?"
"Are they happy?" she asked.
"No," I said. "But neither are the men," I added hastily.
"Surely some men and women on your world must be happy," she said.
"Some, I suppose," I said. "I shall hope so." There did not seem much point to me to tell her in detail of the broadcast misery on my world, its pettiness and frustration. If one judges a civilization by the joy and satisfaction of its populations the major civilizations of Earth were surely failures. It is interesting to note the high regard in which certain civilizations are held which, from the human point of view, from the point of view of human happiness, would appear to be obvious catastrophes.
"You are safe with me," I told her. "I shall not demean you by treating you like a woman."
"Why is it demeaning to be treated as a woman?" she asked.
"I do not know," I said. "But it is supposed to be demeaning to treat women like women."
"Oh," she said.
"They are to be treated like men, the same," I said. "It is insulting not to treat them like men."
"Who has told you this?" she asked.
"Men," I said, "some men, and women who are much like men."
"I see," she said.
"Thus it must be true," I said.
"I see," she said.
"Yes," I said.
"I am a woman," she said.
"What you want does not matter," I told her.
"I see," she said.
I was silent.
"It would seem to me very insulting to treat a woman as though she were a man," she said.
"No," I said.
"Oh," she said. She looked at me. "But are not men and women obviously different?" she asked.
"Statistically, of course," I said, "there are vast and obvious differences between them, both psychological and physical, but some men can be found who are very feminine and some women can be found who are extremely masculine. Thus, the existence of such feminine men and such masculine women proves that men and women are really the same."
"I do not understand," she said.
"I do not really understand either," I admitted.
"If a man can be found who is like a woman and a woman can be found who is like a man does this not suggest, rather, that men and women are really different?"
I was silent.
"If an urt could be found which was like a sleen," she said, "and a sleen could be found which was like an urt, would this show that urts and sleen were the same?"
"Of course not," I said. "That would be preposterous."
"What is the difference?" she asked.
"I do not know," I said. "There must be one."
"Oh," she said. "And," she said, "would not the feminine man and the masculine woman, by their comparative rarity, tend not to cancel out the obvious differences between men and women but rather, in their relative uniqueness, tend to point up the contrasts and differences even more vividly?"
I began to grow irritated. "The contrasts, over time," I said, "will grow less. Education now, on my world, is oriented toward the masculinization of women and the feminization of men. Women must become men and men must try to be like women. That is the key to happiness."
"But men and women are different," she said. She looked sick.
"They must behave as if they were the same," I said.
"But what of their true natures?" she asked.
I shrugged. "Their true natures are unimportant," I said. "Let the heads be shaped by boards. Let the feet be bound with tight cloths."
"But will there not come a time of screaming," she asked, "a time of rage, of lifting of the knife?"
I shrugged. "I do not know," I said. "Let us hope not." I did know that frustration tended to produce aggression and destructiveness. It did not seem unlikely that the frustrations of my world, particularly those of men, might precipitate the madness and irrationality of thermonuclear war. Aggression, displaced, would presumably be ventilated against an external enemy. But the trigger would have been pulled. It would be unfortunate if the last recourse left to men to prove to themselves that they were men was the carnage of contemporary, technological conflict. Yet I knew men who hungered for this madness, that the walls of their prisons might be destroyed, even though they themselves might die screaming in the flames.
But perhaps they might reclaim their surrendered manhood before they themselves, and their world, became the helpless victims of its thwarted furies.
Manhood cannot be forever denied. The beast will walk at our side, or it will destroy us.
"Am I to understand," she asked, "that the men of your world do not take their women in hand, and throw them to their feet?"
"Of course not!" I said. "Our women are treated with total honor, and dignity and respect," I said. "They are treated as our equals."
"Poor men, poor women," she said.
"I do not understand," I said.
"You would make a love slave your equal?" she asked.
"Of course," I said.
"You cheat her then of her opportunity to be overwhelmed, and to be forced to serve and love. You preclude her then from the fulfillment of her deepest nature."
I said nothing.
"If you will not be a man," she asked, "how can she be a woman?"
"Do you think that a woman is a slave?" I asked, scornfully.
"I have been in the arms of strong men," she said. "Yes."
I was stunned.
"You are wrong!" I cried. "You are wrong!" I was afraid, terribly, then, for if what she said was true then there might be within me a master. But if a woman should kneel before me and beg a collar would I not be terrified to enclose her lovely neck in its inflexible grasp? Would I not be afraid to own her, to assume the mighty responsibility of the mastery? Did I have the power, the strength, the courage, to be a master? Did I fear I would be unable to control and tame, and make mine, such a sinuous, beautiful animal? No, I surely would have, reddening and frightened, hurried her to her feet, trying to embarrass and shame her for having displayed her needs. I would have to encourage her to be a man. If she, too, were a man, then I could, with a clear conscience, leave the woman in her unsatisfied.
"And you are a fool," she said.
It irritated me that she had called me this, but I reminded myself that I was a man of Earth, and women might annoy or insult me as they pleased, with complete impunity. If they were not permitted to do this, how could they respect us?
"I am not surprised," she said, "that women are the equals of such men as you. It seems to me, Jason, that you are quite possibly the equal of a woman."
I did not speak.
"You are despicable," she said.
"It should please you," I said, "if you are the equals of men."
"Women dream not of equals," she said, "but of masters."
I sat back against the wall, angrily.
"It is degrading to wear a collar in this cell," she said. Then she lay down on the blanket, bitterly, and turned her back to me.
She did not bother covering her lovely body. Each insolent, luscious curve of her collared slave body was displayed to me, contemptuously, taunting me. It was the insult of a slave girl to an ineffectual slave she did not fear. My fists clenched. A wave of anger swept me. I considered leaping to her, hurling her upon her back, whipping her face back and forth with the palm and then back of my hand, and then, mercilessly, raping her, reminding her that she was only a slave, and a wench that had been given to me for the night. But I did not do this. I controlled myself.
I sat back against the wall, angry. I had tried to relate to her. I looked to the bench, where lay the slave whip. I considered putting it to her beauty, until she begged to serve. Lola would understand the kicks of my feet, the blows of the whip. Those are arguments which any woman can
follow. Then I forced such thoughts from my mind. I had failed to relate well to her, in spite of being solicitous and charming, courteous and attentive, in spite of treating her with honor, and with dignity and respect. I treated her as my equal and I was, in return, subjected to ill treatment and scorn. I understood almost nothing of what had occurred. I had joked with her; I had treated her with homely camaraderie; I had, almost invariably, treated her as a person.
"Are you going to whip me?" she asked.
"I certainly am not," I said.
"I did not think so." she said. Then, with a twist of her body, she rolled onto her back, and stared up at the ceiling. I saw the collar on her throat.
I sat against the wall, and troubled, thought.
Lola did not understand a gentleman, I decided. She was accustomed only to the brutes of Gor. I was too good for her.
"You do not seem grateful to me," I said, angrily.
"Why should I be grateful to you?" she asked.
"You were put in with me to be punished," I said. "I did not punish you."
"How clever were the masters," she said, bitterly. "I must have displeased them grievously."
"I do not understand," I said.
"I have been most cruelly punished," she said.
"I do not understand," I said. "I have not punished you."
Suddenly, surprising me, she rolled onto her stomach and, with her small fists, struck down at the blanket spread over the straw. She began to sob, hysterically. I could not understand her.
"What is wrong?" I asked her.
She leaped from the blanket and, piteously, choking and sobbing, fled to the bars. She pressed her lovely body against them and extended her arms and hands between them, to the silent, empty corridor. "Masters!" she cried. "Masters! Let me out! Let me out! Please let me out!" Then she shook the heavy bars with her tiny, lovely hands. "Let me out!" she begged. "Please let me out, Masters!" Then, subsiding, sobbing, she slipped to her knees at the bars, holding them with her small hands. "Let me out, Masters!" she wept. "Please, my Masters, let me out!" But no one answered her cries. She knelt at the bars, her head down, sobbing. "Let me out," she whispered. "Please let me out, Masters."
"I do not understand you," I said.
She sobbed, at the bars.
"I do not understand," I said. "I have not punished you."
"Do you not know what my punishment was?" she sobbed.