Norman, John - Gor 19 - Kajira of Gor.txt

Norman, John - Gor 19 - Kajira of Gor.txt Page 1

by Kajira of Gor [lit]

  19 Kajira of GorKajira of Gor

  John Norman

  Chronicles of Counter-Earth Volume 19

  1 The Studio

  “Do you not see it?” asked the man.

  “Yes,” said the fellow with him.

  “It is incredible,” said another.

  “The resemblance is truly striking,” said the second man.

  “Please turn your profile towards us, and lift your chin, Miss Collins,” said

  the first man.

  I complied.

  I was in a photographer’s studio.

  “A little higher, Miss Collins,” said the first man.

  I lifted my chin higher.

  “You may change in here,” had said the man earlier, indicating a small dressing

  room off the studio. I had been handed a pair of clogs, a white silk blouse and

  a pair of black shorts.

  “No brassiere or panties,” he had said.

  I had looked at him.

  “We want no lines from them,” he said.

  “Of course,” I had said.

  The shorts were quite short, and, even without the panties, at least a size too

  small. The blouse, too, even without the brassiere, was tight.

  “Please tie up the blouse, in front,” he said. “We want some midriff.”

  I had complied.

  “Higher,” he had suggested.

  I had complied.

  I had then been, to my puzzlement, photographed several times, from the neck up,

  front view and profile, against a type of chart, on which appeared various

  graduated lines, presumably some type of calibrating or measuring device. The

  lines, as nearly as I could determine, however, correlated neither with inches

  nor centimeters.

  “Now, please, step into the sand box,” he had said.

  I had then stepped onto the sand, in the wide, flat box, with the beach scene

  projected onto the large screen behind me. Then, for several minutes, the

  photographer moving about me, swiftly and professionally, sometimes almost

  intimately close, and giving me commands, the camera clicking, I had been posed

  in an incredible variety of positions. Men, I had thought, must enjoy putting a

  woman thus through her paces. Some of the shots were almost naughty. I think,

  too, given the absence of a brassiere and panties, and the skimpiness and

  tightness of the shorts, and the tightness of the blouse, doubtlessly calculated

  features of my apparel, there would be little doubt in the minds of the

  observers as to the lineaments of my figure. I did not object, however. In fact

  I rather enjoyed this. I think I am rather pretty.

  I was now standing in the sand, my left side facing the men, my chin lifted. The

  lights were hot. To my left were the lights, the tangles of cord, the men. To my

  right, in contrast, there seemed the lovely, deserted beach.

  “She is pretty,” said one of the men.

  “She is pretty enough to be a Kajira,” said one of the men.

  “She will be,” laughed another.

  I did not understand what they were talking about.

  “Do not see such a woman merely in terms of such predictable and luscious

  commonalities,” said the first man.

  “You see clearly her potential for us, do you not?”

  “Of course,” said the second man.

  I did not understand them.

  “Turn on the fan,” said the first man.

  I then felt a cool breeze, blown by the large fan in front of me. In the heat of

  the lights this was welcome.

  “This coin, or medal, or whatever it is, is very puzzling,” had said the gentle,

  bespectacled man, holding it by the edges with white, cotton gloves, and then

  placing it down on the soft felt between us. He was an authenticator, to whom I

  had been referred by a professional numismatist. His task was not to appraise

  coins but to render an informed opinion on such matters as their type and

  origin, where this might be obscure, their grading, in cases where a

  collaborative opinion might be desired, and their genuineness.

  “Is it genuine?” I asked.

  “Who sold you this piece,” asked the man, “a private party? What did you pay for

  it?”

  “It was given to me,” I said, “by a private party.”

  “That is extremely interesting,” said the man.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “It rules out an obvious hypothesis,” said the man. “Yet such a thing would be

  foolish.”

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  “Puzzling,” he mused, looking down at the coin on the felt between us,

  “puzzling.”

  I regarded him.

  “This object,” lie said, “has not been struck from machine-engraved dies.

  Similarly, it is obviously not the result of contemporary minting techniques and

  technology. It is not the product, for example, of a high-speed, automated coin

  press.”

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  “It has been struck by hand,” he said. “Do you see how the design is slightly

  off center?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “That is a feature almost invariably present in ancient coins,” he said. “The

  planchet is warmed, to soften the metal. It is then placed between the dies and

  the die cap is then struck, literally, with a hammer, impressing the design of

  the obverse and reverse simultaneously into the planchet.”

  “Then it is an ancient coin?” I asked.

  “That seems unlikely,” he said. “Yet the techniques used in striking this coin

  have not been used, as far as I know, for centuries.”

  “What sort of coin is it?” I asked.

  “Too,” he said, “note how it is not precision milled. It is not made for

  stacking, or for storage in rolls.”

  I looked at him. It did not seem to me he was being too clear with me. He seemed

  independently fascinated with the object.

  “Such coins were too precious perhaps,” he said. “A roll of them might be almost

  inconceivable, particularly in the sense of having many such rolls.”

  “What sort of coin is it?” I asked.

  “You see, however,” he asked, “how the depth of the planchet allows a relief and

  contrast of the design with the background to an extent impossible in a flat,

  milled coin?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “What a superb latitude that gives the artist,” he said. “It frees him from the

  limitations of a crude compromise with the counting house, from the contemporary

  concessions which must be made to economic functionalism. Even then, in so small

  and common an object, and in so unlikely an object, he can create a work of

  art.”

  “Can you iden
tify the coin?” I asked.

  “This, in its depth and beauty, reminds me of ancient coins,” he said. “They

  are, in my opinion, the most beautiful and interesting of all coins.”

  “Is it an ancient coin?” I asked.

  “I do not think so,” he said.

  “What sort of coin is it, then?” I asked.

  “Look here,” be said. “Do you see how this part of the object, at the edge,

  seems flatter, or straight, different from the rest of the object’s

  circumference?”

  “Yes,” I said. To be sure, one had to took closely to see it.

  “This object has been clipped, or shaved,” he said. “A part of the metal has

  been cut or trimmed away. ‘In this fashion, if that is not noted, or the object

  is not weighed, it might be accepted for, say, a certain face value, the

  individual- responsible for this meanwhile pocketing the clipped or shaved

  metal.

  If this is done over a period of time, with many coins, of course, the

  individual could accumulate, in metal value, a value equivalent perhaps to one

  or more of the original objects.”

  “Metal value?” I asked.

  “In modem coinage,” be said, “we often lose track of such things. Yet, if one

  thinks about it, at least in the case of many coins, a coin is a way in which a

  government or ruler certifies that a given amount of precious metal is involved

  in a transaction. It saves weighing and testing each coin. The coin, in a sense,

  is an object whose worth or weight, in standardized quantities, is certified

  upon it, and guaranteed, so to speak, by an issuing authority. Commerce as we

  know it would be impossible, of course, without such, objects, and notes, and

  credit and such.”

  “Then the object is a coin?” I said.

  “I do not know if it is a coin or not,” said the man.

  “What else could it be?” I asked.

  “It could be many things,” he said. “It might be a token or a medal. It might be

  an emblem of membership in an organization or a device whereby a given personage

  might be recognized by another. It might be a piece of art intended to be

  mounted in jewelry. It might even be a piece in some game.”

  “Can you identify it?” I asked.

  “No,” he said.

  The object was about an inch and a half in diameter and about three eighths of

  an inch in thickness. It was yellowish, and, to me, surprisingly heavy for its

  size.

  “What about the letter on one side?” I asked.

  “It may not be a letter,” be said. “It may be only a design.” It seemed a

  single, strong, well-defined character. “If it is a letter,” he said, “it is not

  from an alphabet with which I am familiar.”

  “There is an eagle on the other side,” I said, helpfully.

  “Is there?” he asked. He turned the coin on the felt, touching it carefully with

  the cotton gloves.

  I looked at the bird more closely.

  “It is not an eagle,” be said. “It has a crest.”

  “What sort of bird is it?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Perhaps it is a bird from some mythology,” be said, “perhaps a

  mere artist’s whimsy.”

  I looked at the fierce head on the surface of the yellowish object.

  It frightened me.

  “It does not appear to be a whimsy,” I said.

  “No,” be smiled. “It doesn’t, does it?”

  “Have you ever seen anything like this before?” I asked.

  “No,” He said, “aside, of course, from its obvious resemblance to ancient

  coins.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “I was afraid,” he said, “when you brought it in, that you were the victim of an

  expensive and cruel hoax. I had thought perhaps you had paid a great deal of

  money for this, before having its authenticity ascertained. On the other hand,

  it was given to you. You were thus not being defrauded in that manner. As you

  perhaps know coins can be forged, just as, say, paintings and other works of art

  can be forged. Fortunately these forgeries are usually detectable, particularly

  under magnification, for example, from casting marks or filing marks from seam

  joinings, and so on. To be sure, sometimes it is very difficult to tell if a

  given coin is genuine or not. It is thus useful for the circumspect collector to

  deal with established and reputable dealers. Similarly the authentication of a

  coin can often proceed with more confidence if some evidence is in band

  pertaining to its history, and its former owners, so to speak. One must always

  be a bit suspicious of the putatively rare and valuable coin which seems to

  appear inexplicably, with no certifiable background, on the market, particularly

  if it lacks the backing of an established house.”

  “Do you think this object is genuine?” I asked.

  “There are two major reasons for believing it is genuine,” he said, “whatever it

  might be. First, it shows absolutely no signs of untypical. production, such as

  being cast rather than struck, of being the result of obverse-reverse

  composition, or of having been altered or tampered with in any way. Secondly, if

  it were a forgery, what would it be a forgery of? Consider the analogy of

  counterfeiting. The counterfeiter presumably wishes to deceive people. Its end

  would not be well served by producing a twenty-five dollar bill, which was

  purple and of no familiar design. There would be no point in it. It would defeat

  his own purposes.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “Thus,” said the man, “it seems reasonable to assume that this object, whatever

  it is, is genuine.”

  “Do you think it is a coin?” I asked.

  “It gives every evidence of being a coin,” he said. “It looks like a coin. Its

  simplicity and design do not suggest that it is commemorative in nature. It has

  been produced in a manner in which coins were often produced, at least long ago

  and in the classical world. It has been clipped or shaved, something that

  normally occurs only with coins which pass through many hands. It even has bag

  marks.”

  “What are those?” I asked.

  “This object, whatever it is,” said the man, “can clearly be graded according to

  established standards recognized in numismatics. It is not even a borderline

  case. You would not require an expert for its grading. Any qualified numismatist

  could grade it. If this were a modern, milled coin, it would be rated Extremely

  Fine. It shows no particular, obvious signs of wear but its surface is less

  perfect than would be required to qualify it as being Uncirculated or as being

  in Mint State. If this were an ancient coin, it would also qualify as being

  Extremely Fine, but here the grading standards are different. Again there are

  almost no signs of wear and the detail, accordingly, is precise and sharp. It

  shows good centering and the planchet, on the whole, is
almost perfectly formed.

  Some minor imperfections, such as small nicks, are acceptable in this category

  for ancient coins.”

  “But what are bag marks?” I asked.

  “You may not be able to detect them with the naked eye.” he said. “Use this.”

  From a drawer in the desk he produced a boxlike, mounted magnifying glass. This

  he placed over the coin, and snapped on the desk lamp.

  “Do you see the tiny nicks?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said, after a moment.

  “Those are bag marks,” he said. “They are the result, usually, of the coin, or

  object, being kept with several others, loose, in, say, a bag or box.”

  “There might, then,” I asked, looking up from the magnifying device, “be a large

  number of other objects like this somewhere?” That I found a very interesting

  thought.

  “Surely,” said the man. “On the other hand, such marks could obviously have

  other causes, as well.”

  “Then all the evidence suggests that this is a coin?” I said.

  “The most crucial piece of evidence,” he said, “however, suggests that it cannot

  be a coin.”

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “That it fits into no known type or denomination of coin.”

  “I see,” i said.

  “As far as I know,” he said, “no city, kingdom, nation or civilization on Earth

  ever produced such a coin.”

  “Then it is not a coin,” I said.

  “That seems clear,” be said. “No,” he said. “Do not pay me.”

  I replaced his fee in my purse.

  “The object is fascinating,” he said. “Simply to consider it, in its beauty and

  mystery, is more than payment enough.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “I am sorry that I could not be more helpful,” be said.

  “Wait!” be called after me. I had turned to the door. “Do not forget this,” he

  said, picking up the small, round, heavy object on the felt.

  I turned back to face him. I was angry. I had thought that the object might have

  had some value.

  “It is only sonic sort of hoax,” I said, bitterly.

  “Perhaps,” he said, smiling, “but, if I were you, I would take it along with

  me.”

 

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