by John Norman
“Certainly not,” said Targo.
The man and his son ascended to the surface of the shelf.
“This one is young,” said Targo. “Yet I think that it is not impossible that one might find her of interest. Certainly she is well curved and pretty. Might she not make a lovely gift for your strapping lad?”
Ellen shrank back, but this did not seem to be much noticed by the father and his son, whose minds were on other things.
“We are not interested in buying her,” said the father.
“Oh,” said Targo. He turned away.
Ellen was pleased at this confirmation that they were not interested in buying her. To be sure, they could. Targo, she was sure, was ready to let her go at the drop of a copper tarsk. Then she would belong, literally belong, to the father, or to the boy, however it was decided, presumably to the boy.
She shuddered.
She certainly did not want to belong to a teen-aged boy. Her practical age now, in terms of biology, physiology and such, was, say, eighteen, and that might have been the actual chronological age of the lad. Yet what an incredible difference there is in maturity and sexual readiness between an eighteen-year-old girl, already beautifully developed and perfectly suitable for the collar and slave bracelets, and an eighteen-year-old boy!
“Speak, in Gorean,” said the father to Ellen. “Say anything, just talk.”
So Ellen began to speak, for a little time. “I do not know what I am supposed to say,” she said. “You wish me to speak, and so I will do so. It is my conjecture you wish to ascertain something in my speech. It is doubtless different from yours. Is it acceptable, Masters, that I speak as I am speaking?” And thus, in this way, she continued, until the father indicated, by putting his finger up, in a cautionary manner, that she should desist.
“Do you hear the accent?” the father asked his son. “You see it is different?”
“There are many different accents, father,” said the boy, “even in Gorean.”
“And there are many barbarian accents,” said his father. “And this is one of them. It is not Gorean. It is not like the speech of the hated Cosians, for example.”
“Is accent so important, father?”
“No,” said his father, “particularly as some of these barbarians eventually become so fluent in Gorean, so skilled, that you could not detect, from their speech alone, that they were not native to our world.”
Ellen hoped that she could become such a barbarian.
She felt her upper left arm seized.
“Here,” said the father. “Such small scars tend to mark barbarians.”
That, of course, was a vaccination mark.
“Is it a brand?” asked the boy.
“I suppose so,” said the father. “Perhaps it is a temporary brand, put on them for shipping purposes, before they have the kef, the dina, a city mark, or such, put on them.”
“This one has the kef,” said the boy, looking.
“Most do,” said the father.
“I think that it is likely that it is one of their own world’s slave brands,” said the boy, “that they were slaves on their own world, and then they were purchased and shipped here.”
“I do not know,” said the father. “Perhaps.”
“Open your mouth,” said the father. “Widely.”
“See,” said the father, “those tiny bits of metal in the teeth. Not all barbarians have them, but many do.”
“What is their purpose?” asked the boy.
“I do not know,” said the father. “Perhaps, it, too, is a slave marking device. Perhaps it serves for purposes of identification.”
“I think,” said Targo, who had lingered about, and had now wandered back, hopefully, “that it is rather connected with a puberty ceremony, a primitive rite, like the facial scarring of the Wagon Peoples.”
“That is interesting,” said the father. “Perhaps it is both.”
“Perhaps,” granted Targo, generously, abandoning logic as socially inexpedient. After all, why should he risk alienating a possible customer.
It was interesting, thought Ellen, that no one thought of asking her about these matters.
To be sure, many Goreans do not believe that slaves are to be trusted. They think that female slaves, in particular, are sly, petty creatures against whose ingratiating, clever wiles the master must be on guard. Accordingly female slaves are to be supervised with care and subjected to the most rigorous discipline. In any event, the penalties for a slave’s lying are severe.
“Lastly,” said the father, “they are ignorant. What is the month following the month of Hesius?”
“I do not know, Master,” said Ellen. She had not been familiarized with the Gorean calendar. To be sure, chronologies, and such, can differ from city to city. The Merchants, interestingly, keep their own calendar, for purposes of contracts, delivery dates, letters of credit, and such. Many cities in the northern hemisphere use the chronology of Ar, along with their own. I understand that cities in the southern hemisphere may similarly supplement their own chronologies, but with the calendar of Turia, which, as I understand it, is the largest city in the southern hemisphere.
“Anyone would know that,” said the boy.
“Well, this little she-urt does not,” said his father. “But the point is that it is almost certain that there will be simple things that we will know that one of these barbarians will not. Thus, interrogation can also be used as a means for identifying the barbarian.”
“I see,” said the boy. “Thank you, father.”
“So do not let yourself be fooled in the market,” said the father. “Do not let an unscrupulous merchant palm a barbarian off on you.”
“No, father.”
“That would be unthinkable,” said Targo, righteously.
“Thank you for the use of your slave, sir,” said the father.
“Not at all,” said Targo. “And perhaps now, now that you are more familiar with her, you would like to think about buying this lovely bauble for your son. She is a pretty bit of fluff. Perhaps she would make a nice starter slave for him. She is a bargain. I can give you an excellent buy on her.”
“She is a barbarian,” said the father.
He and his son then descended from the shelf and went into the crowd.
This little business was not Ellen’s fault, or she supposed not, but Targo seemed miffed by it.
“You should have worked on both the father and the son,” said Targo. “It is not unusual for fathers to buy gifts for their sons which they themselves like, or think they would like. Thus, you should have lured the father, subtly, of course, as in theory he is interested in you for his son. Secondly, you should have squirmed a little for the lad, you know, pathetically, needfully, pleadingly, putting yourself before him, proffering your indisputable slave delights hopefully, when the father is looking away. That lad must be eighteen or nineteen years old, surely old enough to find your curves of interest, surely old enough to respond to them, suitably presented. Surely he was old enough for you, a pretty little slave, to stir up his blood.”
“Forgive me, Master,” said Ellen.
“You spend more time asking for forgiveness than you do in obeying,” said Targo.
“Forgive me, Master,” said Ellen. She then wished she had not said that. Surely a simple ‘Yes, Master’ would have been more judicious.
“Barzak!” called Targo.
“Do not have me whipped, Master!” she begged.
“You will spend the afternoon on your back,” he said, “chained between rings.”
“Master!” she pleaded.
“Barzak!” called Targo, again.
“Oh!” cried Ellen, moments later, as her ankles were seized by an impatient Barzak, jerked about and held closely together at her own ring. An ankle ring was snapped about her left ankle, beneath the shackle there, and a second ring, on a short chain, some six inches in length, was slipped through the holding ring and snapped shut about her right ankle. She, sitti
ng on the cement, regarded her small ankles, chained to the ring, with dismay. Then Barzak took her arms and forced them up and back, over her head and then pulled her down to her back. Her wrists then, held together with one hand by Barzak, were pulled to the ring which had been to her left as she had faced the front of the platform, the same ring to which the new girl, Jill, was chained by the ankle. While Barzak held her small wrists together with his left hand, he snapped a wrist ring about her right wrist with his right hand. She was then, a moment later, the second wrist ring passed through the holding ring and closed about her left wrist, secured to the holding ring. She was then supine between two holding rings. She could twist to her stomach, or side, but the tensions being as they were, it was most comfortable, and most natural, for her to remain on her back.
Barzak, beside her, on his knees, looked down upon her with irritation. “You are a bother,” he said, and, without much thinking about it, touched her.
She cried out with disbelief.
He looked down at her.
“No!” she cried. “No!”
He then again, this time more curiously, touched her.
There was a rattle of chain.
She tried to pull back. She regarded him with horror. “Please do not, Master!” she cried.
“Oh!” she cried.
“You are a bother, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Yes, Master!” she said. “Forgive me, Master! No, please, do not, Master! Oh! Oh!”
“But you do not have to be a bother, do you?” he asked.
“No, Master!”
“And you will make an effort to be less of a bother, won’t you?” he asked.
“Yes, Master! Yes, Master! Please, do not, Master! No! No! Do not, please, Master! Oh! Oh!”
“You may have possibilities,” he mused.
He then rose to his feet, and left the shelf.
She looked after him, in misery and dismay.
Her knees could be drawn up a little and her elbows could be bent. Her predicament was not cruel, but Barzak’s arrangement, doubtless by intent, did not allow her a great deal of latitude. As in most chaining arrangements there is a point to the way in which they are done. In the present arrangement, as she would later come to understand, later in the afternoon, she was allowed enough latitude to squirm and writhe, but not enough to defend herself.
In this arrangement, on her back, on the shelf, above the ground level, the slave’s figure is beautifully displayed.
As she lay supine, chained, on the shelf, her knees up a little, her arms back and over her head, almost as though alone, she fought with her own thoughts and feelings. What had happened? What were the strange feelings she had experienced? She was disturbed. Were they slave feelings she had felt? Is that what they could have been? Surely not! But what else could they have been? She certainly did not love Barzak. Could any man, the brutal, massive, callous monsters, have done that to her? What had become of her, and her pride and dignity? Surely she could not become one of those worthless women who could not help themselves, who were sexually needful. It was one thing to kneel at the feet of one whom one loved, and quite another to kneel before any man, moaning in need and begging his caresses. Surely she could not be reduced to that, not she! She recalled some of the girls in the house, in various kennels, in cages, in the bins, whimpering and moaning. How they had cried out in gratitude and joy when a guard had taken pity on them. How terrible to be such, she thought, how terrible to be so sexually alive, to be so vital, to be so needful.
She looked up and saw Targo standing over her.
“Master?” she asked.
“Barzak informs me that you may not be the cold little thing we thought,” said Targo.
“I do not understand, Master.”
“— that you may be awakening,” he said.
“I do not understand, Master.”
“Perhaps our little ice ball is going to melt,” he said.
“Master?”
She felt the side of his sandal against her left side, at the waist, moving there, along her waist, not to kick her, but to caress her in a way, to let her feel a man’s foot, to let her feel herself at his feet.
“Master?” she said.
And then he put his foot gently on her body, not pressing with any weight, and moved it a bit, to let her have the feeling of a man’s foot on her body, to let her feel herself, a female, beneath the foot of a man.
She tried to withdraw in her chains but could not, of course, do so. “Master,” she said, “please, no! Oh! Oh!”
“You are not only going to awaken,” he said. “You are going to be a juicy, tasty, steaming little pudding.”
“No, Master!” she said.
“You are going to be, in time, as helpless as a she-urt in heat,” he said.
“No, Master!” she said. “No, no, Master!” But he had then turned about and left the surface of the shelf. “No, no, no,” she wept to herself. She struggled with the chains that bound her. “No, no, no,” she wept.
Several times, later in the afternoon, men came to the surface of the shelf to inspect one or another of the items of merchandise there displayed. Zara was sold, but only Zara on that second day. Too, on the second day, no new jewels were added to the slaver’s necklace, as had been Jill that morning. Twice men had inspected and, at Targo’s invitation, handled Ellen. She, in keeping with her lingering Earth values, and fearing to become merely another slave girl on the world of Gor, had attempted to remain as cold and inert as possible, trying to distract herself with irrelevant thoughts, trying not to feel, trying not to respond. She managed well enough with the first fellow.
“So what is wrong with you?” had asked Targo when the prospective buyer had left the shelf.
“Nothing, Master,” Ellen had assured him. “Please do not have me whipped, Master!” she said.
When Targo left, she smiled to herself.
But still, even as she was congratulating herself on her success in achieving a pretense of inertness, on giving no outward sign of responsiveness, it was hard to forget the feel of the fellow’s strong hands on her small, soft body. She feared that if something had been a little different, if he had touched her a little differently or a little longer, or had looked at her in a certain way, or if he had taken her head in his hands and literally forced her to look directly into his eyes, seeing him as a male and master, she might have suddenly, willingly or unwillingly, betrayed a muchly feared aspect of herself, that of an eager, vulnerable, begging, aroused slave girl. Surely she must hide this self from the world! But it was hard to forget his hands. It was fortunate, she thought, that things had not been slightly different.
She cursed herself for being so different from a man.
Not long after, a possible buyer had examined Jill. He had knelt her in first position, except for having her hands clasped behind the back of her neck. Whereas Ellen could see little of what went on, she could certainly hear the movements of Jill’s ankle chain and her sudden, almost inadvertent gasps. Then she was clearly squirming on her knees.
Ellen moved in her own chains.
The possible buyer had then examined Lydia, whom he treated in much the same manner as he had Jill. He had her, too, squirming. Then, after a few minutes, he had left the shelf.
Ellen recalled that Jill had not wished to be touched that morning by a barbarian, in the matter of applying the soothing lotions to protect the slaves from the sun on the shelf.
“You are certainly a slave,” said Ellen to Jill.
“After this,” snapped Jill, “when I am being examined, you are not to lift your little loins to my buyer.”
“What!” cried Ellen, startled.
“You heard me, barbarian she-urt,” said Jill.
“I never did that!” exclaimed Ellen. “That is absurd! I would never do that! Never! Never!”
“We saw you,” said Cichek.
“Yes,” said Emris.
“It’s true,” said Lydia.
“
No!” said Ellen.
“Perhaps you are not aware of what your own body is doing,” said Lydia.
“No!” said Ellen. “Aii!” cried Ellen, for Jill, who was chained to the same ring to which Ellen’s wrists were chained had seized her by the hair, with two hands, tightly, cruelly.
“I’m going to pull every hair out of your head,” hissed Jill. “We will see then how pretty you are to the buyers!”
“Please, no, Mistress!” cried Ellen.
“Do not hurt her,” called Lydia. “The master will not be pleased.”
“Aii!” cried Ellen.
“Beg for mercy!” called Lydia.
“Mercy, Mistress!” cried Ellen.
“Ah!” said Jill. “Does Ellen, a meaningless barbarian slave, beg a Gorean woman for mercy.”
“Yes, yes!” wept Ellen.
“Do so,” said Jill.
“I beg for mercy, Mistress!”
“Properly,” said Jill.
“Aii!” cried Ellen. “Please stop!”
“Properly,” said Jill.
“I, Ellen, a meaningless barbarian slave, beg a Gorean woman for mercy! Please, Mistress! Please do not hurt me! Aii! Please, Mistress! Ellen begs Mistress! Aii! Ellen, a meaningless barbarian slave, begs Mistress, a Gorean woman, for mercy! Aii! Aii! Please stop, please stop! Please, mercy, Mistress! Mistress! Mistress!”
Jill then, with one last twist, thrusting Ellen’s head to the side, released her hair.
Ellen tried to move further away but, chained as she was, she remained perforce within the ambit of Jill’s wrath.
Ellen wept, helplessly, fiercely.
Jill turned away, angrily.
The other slaves on the shelf ceased then to attend to Jill and Ellen. Emris called out “Buy me, Master!” to a handsome fellow in the crowd but he continued on his way.
The second possible buyer who seemed to show some interest in Ellen, the first being he with whom she had with some success kept herself seemingly inert, did not come to the shelf until late in the afternoon.
An incident occurred something like an Ahn before that, and, say, some twenty Ehn, or so, after her unpleasant encounter with Jill at the ring.
We mention it for its intrinsic interest, but also because it, in its way, assisted an Earth woman in attaining a somewhat richer understanding of the world on which she now found herself slave.