by John Norman
"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."
&n
bsp; 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 linked 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.
"No," I said.
"It was to have been put in with you," she said. She put down her head, sobbing.
Angrily I went back to where I had sat against the wall. Again I sat down, in the straw.
She remained at the bars, sobbing. Then, later, near them, she fell asleep.
I leaned against the wall, angry. I did not sleep.
Chapter 8 - I AM SHAMED;I WILL LEAVE THE HOUSE OF ANDRONICUS
"Get in," said Prodicus.
Gron, bare chested, stood beside him, resting the point of a great, long, curved sword on the tiles at his feet.
"Wait," said the Lady Gina.
I knelt, head down, before the square iron box, the exterior of which was enameled white, one side of which, its door, on hinges, lay opened on the tiles. I tensed. On two sides of the box, in red paint, was a Kef, in block printing. Kef, of course, is the initial letter not only of the Gorean expression 'Kajira', the most common Gorean expression for a female slave, but also 'Kajirus', the most common Gorean expression for a male slave. The block printing indicated that the box was suitable for a male slave. This could also, of course, have been determined from its size which, though small, was larger than would have been that in which women would be placed. Such boxes, for women, were marked also with red on white, but the letter, of course, would be the cursive Kef, which is also used as a common slave brand for imbonded females.
"Last night, Jason," said the Lady Gina, "we threw you a slave girl." She shook loose the blades of her slave whip. I kept my head down. "I was curious to see what you would do with her. I had wondered about you. I had thought there might be a bit of manhood in you." She suddenly lashed downward with the whip and I winced. "I see there was not," she said. She struck me again. The blades, in their stroke, burned cruelly on my back. I could not help tears forming in my eyes. Yet I think the tears were from frustration and misery, and from my shame, that I knew, in my heart, that I well deserved my beating, rather than from the mere pain of the harsh strokes.
"May I speak, my Mistress?" I begged.
"Yes," she said.
"I am a man of Earth," I said. "We prove our manhood by denying it. He who behaves least like a man shows himself thus to be most a man."
"Do you believe that?" asked the Lady Gina.
"No, Mistress," I said, miserably. I did not really believe it. I had only been taught to say it.
"Perhaps," she said, "those who pride themselves on the denial of their manhood deceive themselves. Perhaps it is thus they protect themselves from understanding that they have, in effect, no manhood to deny."
I kept my head down. I knew that males differed much, one from the other. Some were perhaps, for most practical purposes, without manhood. It would surely be easiest for them to pretend to expertise in its denial. Some males, I supposed, incredibly enough, did not feel strong urges and powerful appetites. There was nothing in their own experiences perhaps, which prepared them to understand drives, and desires and rages which might terrify them. There was simply nothing in their own experience, perhaps, thus, which prepared them to understand the desires and rages of natures deeper and mightier than theirs. These things would be to them simply colors they could not see, sounds they could not hear, worlds which must remain to them forever beyond their ken. But perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps there lies somewhere in all men a trace of the rover and hunter; perhaps no man is so weak or lost as to have forgotten completely the feel of the grasped, bloody bone in his paw, or what it was on a windy night to throw back his head and howl at a moon.
"How can one know," asked the Lady Gina, "if one has a manhood to deny, if one has never expressed it?"
"I do not know, Mistress," I said.
"Let those who have expressed their manhood," she said, "decide then whether or not they will ever again choose to deny it."
I did not speak.
I did not know what it would be, truly, to be a man. I feared manhood. Suppose that I became a man. How then, once having dared to taste meat and blood, and victory, could I again surrender so preciously recollected a birthright? I knew that men must not be men. I kept my head down.
"Slave," sneered the Lady Gina.
I knelt naked, the steel collar of the house of Andronicus on my neck, before the small, opened slave box. On its top it had two sets of rings, each set placed along an edge of the top, through which long carrying poles might be thrust. To one side, behind Gron and to the back, stood four carrying slaves, large, brawny, collared men, two of whom held the poles, like spears, butt down, on the tiles.
"Look up, Jason, Slave," said the Lady Gina. "Look about you
."
I looked up, and at the Lady Gina, and the men in the room.
"How are you regarded, Handsome Slave?" asked the Lady Gina.
"With contempt, Mistress," I said.
"Yes," she said.
It was true. All in the room looked upon me with contempt, even the slaves, I, a kneeling man of Earth.
"Put down your head, Slave," she said.
"Yes, Mistress," I said. I lowered my head.
"How fit you are to be a slave," she said, scornfully.
"Yes, Mistress," I said. I did not know why she should be so angry with me. Somehow she seemed to feel that I had disappointed her.
What did she want of one who was only a slave?
Suddenly, crying out with rage, she began to strike at me with the whip. I knelt, naked, miserable, under the blows.
She struck me, again and again.
Then, after a time, she wearied. She hooked the whip again on her belt. She pulled up my head by the hair.
"Is there a man in you, Jason?" she asked.
I did not speak.
She smiled.
"Get into the slave box," she said.
I hesitated.
"Do you obey?" she asked.
"Yes, Mistress," I said.
"Then obey," she said.
"Yes, Mistress," I said.
I crawled into the tiny box, on my knees. It was barely large enough to contain me. The metal door, behind me, was lifted and flung shut. I heard bolts thrust in place. I pressed against the sides of the iron container. On both the right and left, about level with my eyes, the sides of the container were perforated with fifteen small holes, arranged in three horizontal rows of five openings apiece. Each opening was about a half of an inch in diameter. I heard the two long poles being thrust through the sets of rings on the roof of the box.
"Deliver him to the market of Tima," I heard the Lady Gina say.
"It will be done, Lady Gina," said Prodicus.
I felt the box being lifted into the air, suspended by the rings and poles.
I put my head down, and wept. I was a man of Earth. I was a slave.
Chapter 9 - I AM GOODS BOUND FOR THE MARKET OF TIMA
"Smell a slave girl, Master!" taunted the slave. The slave box in which I was being transported to the market of Tima had been placed on the stones near a trough at which the carrying slaves, now chained, were, being watered. We were at the edge of what appeared to be a square in a city. I drew back from the perforations in the iron wall of my container as the brown rep-cloth, a thin, single layer of cloth, covering the sweetly rounded, lower belly of a female slave, thrust suddenly against the perforations. She rubbed herself insolently, closely, across the perforations. I could smell her indeed, dirt and sweat, and the hot, moist female of her.