by John Norman
She rose to her feet and ran to the side of the room, where there was a small store of moss, tinder for lighting the lamp. She snatched two keys from the moss.
I clenched my fists in the manacles.
She fled back to me, wildly, and thrust one of the keys into the shackle on my right ankle. She opened it. She then, with the same key, opened the shackle on my left ankle and the manacles on my wrists.
We listened. We heard nothing in the corridor. I rubbed my wrists.
I felt her jam another key into the lock on the back of my collar. She twisted the key, freeing the single-action double bolt.
"You would not get far in a collar," she said, whispering, smiling.
"No, I would not," I said, smiling.
I jerked the collar from my throat.
She took the collar and, carefully, noiselessly, put it to the side, where it might not be seen from the threshold. I looked at the collar, lying on the stones. It was of sturdy steel. I would not have been able to remove it. It had well marked me as a slave.
"I am naked," I said. "Where is the clothing?"
She went to the side of the room and picked up a bag, fastened with a drawstring, the knot on the string sealed with a wax plate, the plate bearing the imprint of a stamp. "The guards said," she said, "that this is clothing. They did not know I overheard them. Doubtless it is true."
I looked at her.
"I did not dare to break the seal," she said. "I did not know until moments ago whether you would be willing to attempt escape or not."
"What is this seal?" I asked, indicating the wax plate with its stamp.
"That is the seal of the House of Andronicus," she said.
"When did this come to this house?" I asked, frightened.
"The day before you arrived," she said. "Do you think perhaps it is not clothing?"
I broke the seal, breaking it away from the knot. I undid the knot. I tore open the bag, thrusting back the loop of the drawstring.
My heart sank.
"Is it not clothing?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"It is clothing," I said.
"What is wrong?" she asked. "Even if they are slave garments they might serve to get you into the streets."
"Look," I said.
"Oh," she wept, miserably. "I had no way of knowing."
I lifted clothing from the bag, dismally. This was, of all things, my old clothing, the clothing I had worn on Earth the night on which Miss Beverly Henderson, a lovely quarry of Gorean slavers, had been abducted and I, unwittingly, had become implicated in her fate.
I held my old jacket clutched in my hand, angrily. I had not known what had happened to my clothing. I had awakened naked, chained, in a dungeon cell in the House of Andronicus. My clothing, unknown to me, even my jacket, and, as I saw, my coat, too, had apparently been transmitted to Gor with me, though for what purpose I could not imagine.
"How cruel they are," she said.
"I do not understand," I said.
"This was sent here, doubtless," she said, "that it might, for the instruction and amusement of buyers, be used in your sale."
"That is doubtless it," I said. I looked at her, miserably.
"The seal is broken on the bag," she said. "What can we do now?"
"We have no choice but to continue," I said.
"It is too dangerous," she said.
"We have no choice," I said. "Before, when I awakened, when I asked you what time it was, you told me, that it was early in the evening."
"Yes," she said.
"That was some time ago," I said. "Do you think that it might be dark by now?"
"Yes," she said, trembling.
"Perhaps, in the darkness," I said, "I might be briefly unnoticed, at least long enough to obtain more suitable, less conspicuous garments."
"It is all my fault," she said, miserably.
"Do not be afraid," I said to her, reassuring her. I took her by the shoulders and looked down into her uplifted eyes.
"I shall try to be brave, Jason," she said.
I lowered my head, gently, to kiss her, but she turned her head away, looking down. "Please, don't, Jason," she said. "Though I wear a collar do not forget that I am a woman of Earth."
"I'm sorry," I said. "Do not fear. I will not take advantage of you." I chastised myself. How forward I had been. I scarcely knew her. Too, I was naked, and she wore only the scandalous Ta-Teera, and her collar.
"Thank you, Jason," she whispered.
"Men have been cruel to you, haven't they?" I asked, gently.
"I am a slave girl," she shrugged.
I could well imagine the torments and ecstasies with which the Earth beauty would have been afflicted by the brutes of Gor.
"It was my intention," I said, "to kiss you only with the gentleness, and tenderness, of a man of Earth." It had not been my intention to subject her mouth, her throat and breasts, her belly, the interior of her thighs, to the cruel, commanding, raping kisses of the Gorean master.
"How wonderful you are, Jason," she said. "If only the men of Gor were more like you."
"Please let me kiss you," I said. She was so lovely.
She turned her head away. "No," she said. "I wear a collar."
"I do not understand," I said.
"I am a woman of Earth," she said. "I would be ashamed to be kissed while my throat is locked in the collar of bondage.
"Of course," I said. "I am sorry."
"Dress now, Jason," she said. "There is little time."
"I do not understand," I said.
"The guards may make their rounds soon," she said.
"I see," I said. I removed my clothing from the bag. I began to draw on my undergarments.
"There is another reason, too, why I did not let you kiss me," she said.
"What is that?" I asked.
"I scarcely dare to speak of it," she said.
"Tell me," I said.
"You do not know what a collar does to a woman," she said. "When a woman wears a collar she does not dare to let a man kiss her."
"Why?" I asked.
"She fears she might turn into a slave girl in his arms," she said, softly.
"I see," I said.
"I want you to respect me," she said.
I nodded. One might exult in a spasmodic slave, subjecting her to the conquest of the helpless bond girl, but, it was true, how could one, in such a situation, respect her? One would surely be enjoying her too much to respect her.
"Where are you from?" I asked.
"I do not understand," she said.
"You are from Earth," I said. "I would be curious to know from what land."
There is no Gorean expression for 'country' in the precise sense of a nation. Men of Earth think of cities as being within countries. Men of Gor tend to think of cities and the lands controlled by them. The crucial political entity for Goreans tends to be the city or village, the place where people and power are.
There can be, of course, leagues among cities and tangential territories. Men of Earth tend to think of territory in a manner that might be considered circumferential, whereas Goreans tend to think of it as a more radial sort of thing. Consider a circle with a point at its center. The man of Earth might conceive of the territory as bounded by the circumference; the man of Gor would be more likely to think of the territory as a function of the sweep of the radius which emanates from the central point.
Geometrically, of course, these two conceptions are equivalent. Psychologically, however, they are not. The man of Earth looks to the periphery; the man of Gor looks to the center. The man of Earth thinks of territory as static, regardless of the waxing and wanings of the power that maintains it; the Gorean tends to think of territory as more dynamic, a realistic consequence of the geopolitical realities of power centers.
Perhaps it would be better to say that the Gorean tends to think more in terms of sphere of influence than he does in terms of imaginary lines on maps which may not reflect current historical realities. Certain consequences of
these attitudes may be beneficial. For example, the average Goran is not likely to feel that his honor, which he values highly, is somehow necessarily connected with the integrity of a specific, exactly drawn border. Such borders generally do not exist on Gor, though, to be sure, certain things are commonly understood, for example, that the influence of, say, the city of Ar, has not traditionally extended north of the Vosk River.
Another consequence of the Gorean's tendency to think of territory in terms more analogous to an area warmed or an area illuminated than an area laid out by surveyors once and for all time is that his territoriality tends to increase with nearness to his city or village. One result of this attitude is that most wars, most armed altercations, tend to be very local. They tend to involve, usually, only a few cities and their associated villages and territories, rather than gigantic political entities such as nations. One result of this is that the number of people affected by warfare on Gor usually tends, statistically, to be quite limited.
Also, it might be noted that most Gorean warfare is carried out largely by relatively small groups of professional soldiers, seldom more than a few thousand in the field at a given time, trained men, who have their own caste. Total warfare, with its arming of millions of men, and its broadcast slaughter of hundreds of populations, is Gorean neither in concept nor in practice. Goreans, often castigated for their cruelty, would find such monstrosities unthinkable. Cruelty on Gor, though it exists, is usually purposeful, as in attempting to bring, through discipline and privation, a young man to manhood, or in teaching a female that she is a slave.
I think the explanation for the Gorean political arrangements and attitudes in the institution of the Home Stone. It is the Home Stone which, for the Gorean, marks the center. I think it is because of their Home Stones that the Gorean tends to think of territory as something from the inside out, so to speak, rather than from the outside in. Consider again the analogy of the circle. For the Gorean the Home Stone would mark the point of the circle's center. It is the Home Stone which, so to speak, determines the circle. There can be a point without a circle; but there can be no circle without its central point. But let me not try to speak of Home Stones. If you have a Home Stone, I need not speak. If you do not have a Home Stone, how could you understand what I might say?
"I am from a place called England," said the girl.
I was startled that she had said 'I am from a place called England' rather than something like 'I am from England'. Her construction was Gorean in nature. Yet, of course, she did speak in Gorean.
I had now drawn on my trousers and shirt. I buckled my belt.
"I speak English," I said, in English. "I am from America. I can speak with you in English. Marvelous!"
She looked down. "I am only a slave," she said, in Gorean. "Let us speak in Gorean. I fear to speak but in the language of the masters."
I went to her and lightly touched her face.
"Do not be afraid," I said. "There is no one here but me. Speak English to me." I had spoken in English.
She looked up, shyly. "It is a very long time since I have spoken in that tongue," she said. She had spoken in English.
"I believe you," I laughed. "I would have thought you would have said something like 'It's been a long time since I have spoken English.'"
She smiled. "You see how long it has been?" she asked.
I smiled. "Your Gorean is flawless," I said.
"Is my English really so poor, Jason?" she asked.
"No," I said. "It is quite good. It is precise. But I cannot place the accent."
"There are many accents in England," she said.
"True," I smiled, "but the accent does not even sound like an English one."
"Alas," she smiled. "I fear I have been too long on Gor."
I sat down and began to draw on my shoes and stockings. "That is it," I said. "There is a Gorean flavor to the accent."
She put down her head. "I have not been permitted for years to speak my native language," she said. "We girls," she said, her voice soft, the fingers of her right hand touching the narrow, close-fitting metal loop at her throat, "must learn the language of our masters."
"Of course," I said. I stood up. "I am ready," I said. "Show me the exit."
"Please," she said. "Will you not put on this garment?" She held up the necktie which I had left on the floor.
"I scarcely think I need a necktie," I smiled.
"It has been so long since I have seen a man of Earth in such a garment," she said, "Please."
"Very well," I said.
She came close to me and lifted the tie.
I looked down into her eyes. I lifted up the collar of my shirt. "Would you like to tie it?" I asked. I did not think I would mind having her arms intimately about my neck, even if but briefly, or having her so close to me, performing this simple, homely task.
"I do not know how to tie it, Jason," she said.
"Very well," I said. I took the tie, and, in a moment, had tied it. I then turned down and smoothed the collar of my shirt. I adjusted the tie as well as I could, not having a mirror.
"How handsome you look," she said.
This pleased me.
"Your thigh," I said, suddenly. "It is not marked." Her left thigh did not bear the brand. I must have noticed this before but, somehow, it had not registered with me. The Ta-Teera, as it had been torn, did not conceal the branding area on her leg.
"No," she said. "No," she then said, angrily, "I am not branded on the right thigh either." I had, almost without thinking, moved in such a way as to ascertain this. Most girls wear their brands on the left thigh, where they may be conveniently caressed by a right-handed master. Some girls, on the other hand, are right-thigh branded. Some, too, though very few, are branded on the lower left abdomen.
"Are you disappointed?" she asked.
"No," I said. "No!"
"Do you want Darlene branded?" she asked.
"No," I said, "of course not!" I was surprised that she had spoken of herself as she did, using her name. This is not uncommon, of course, among Gorean female slaves. I reminded myself that she was a female slave, and had doubtless been long on Gor, doubtless well accommodating herself to the harsh realities of her collar. How marvelous, I thought, that some beautiful women are slaves. How I then, for an instant, envied the brutes of Gor, who could own such a woman as stood before me.
"Would you prefer to have me branded, Jason?" she asked, angrily.
"No," I cried. "Of course not!" But what man would not prefer to have a beautiful woman branded? I realized she had not referred to herself, this time, by her own name. It was almost as if she had caught herself.
She looked at me, angrily.
"I was only surprised," I said, chagrined, embarrassed, "that you were not branded. The female slaves I have seen hitherto on Gor have been branded."
"Well, I am not," she said.
"I can see that," I said.
"Do you speak to me as a Gorean brute?" she asked. She, with her small hands, tried to pull together the rent fabric at her thighs.
"No," I said, quickly. "I did not mean to hurt your feelings. I am very sorry."
"Perhaps I am marked on the lower left abdomen." she said. "That is sometimes done. Would you care to look?"
"No," I said. "Of course not!"
Angrily she tore open the Ta-Teera at her lower left abdomen. She held the cloth apart. "Is there a mark there?" she asked.
"No," I said. "No!"
I wanted to take her by the arm and thrust my right hand through that rent in the garment, and, half lifting her, forcing her back to the wall, holding her against it, make her cry out piteously to be had, after which to put her to its foot and rape her as a slave.
"Please forgive me," I said. "I am very sorry!"
She looked at me.
"Please forgive me," I said. "I am very, very sorry."
"I forgive you," she said. "I should not have become angry." She looked up at me. "Can you forgive me, Jason?"
"There is nothing to forgive," I said.
"It is only that I am so sensitive," she said, "that my beauty, if I am beautiful, is so blatantly exposed to the vision of masters."
"I understand," I said. "And you are, indeed, beautiful."
"Thank you, Jason," she said. "You are very kind."
"You are beautiful," I said, " quite beautiful."
"I suppose that it is not hard to tell that, if it is true," she said, "when one is clad as a Gorean slave girl."
"No," I smiled. "It is not."
"What brutes they are, to clothe us for their pleasure," she said.
"At least," I pointed out, "you have been permitted clothing."
"Yes," she smiled. It was true that often, in slave pens, and in the houses of slavers, women were kept nude, save for their collars. This effects a saving in the laundering of slave tunics. Too, it is sometimes thought to have a useful disciplinary effect on the girls. They learn that even a rag is not something they can take for granted, but must, so to speak, be earned. Too, it might be mentioned, some masters commonly keep their girls nude in their own compartments. Most, however, permit the girl some garment, usually a brief, sleeveless, one-piece slave tunic. This helps the master to control himself, should he wish to do so. Too, it is enjoyable, at a snap of his fingers, to have the girl remove it, or, indeed, if he wishes, to tear if from her at his whim.
"In the Ta-Teera though," she said bitterly, "it is sometimes like being more naked than naked."
"I understand," I said, softly. It presented her as a displayed slave.
She was silent.
"Yet doubtless," I said, "it affords your modesty more comfort than might a mere collar."
"Yes," she smiled, "a bit more than might a collar alone."
How I then again envied the Gorean brutes who might order such a woman, at so little as a snap of their fingers, to strip to her collar.
"I was not branded," she said, "because the masters thought a brand would mar my beauty."
"I understand," I said. Actually, however, though I was not prepared to argue, I found this quite surprising. From what I had seen, a brand made a woman at least a hundred times more beautiful and exciting. The brand's marvelousness, of course, is not simply a function of its aesthetic enhancement of the woman's beauty, adding beauty to her beauty, raising her almost geometrically to a new dimension of loveliness, but was doubtless as much or more a function of its meaning; it marked the loveliness into which it was burned as that of the most desirable of women, a female slave.