Explorers of Gor coc-13

by John Norman

  “Of course,” I said.

  “You moved quickly,” said Shaba. “By the time I had brought the blond slave here and returned to the cove of Schendi, you had already made your departure.”

  “I see,” I said. I was pleased that I had made the haste I had.

  “But now,” said Shaba, “we are all friends.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “When will you deliver the notes?” he asked.

  “And the false ring,” pressed Msaliti.

  “Tomorrow evening,” I said.

  “You choose to move under the cover of darkness?” asked Shaba.

  “I think it might be wise,” I said.

  “Very well,” said Shaba. “Tomorrow evening, at the nineteenth Ahn, meet us in this place. Bring the notes and the false ring. I will have the true ring ready then for exchange.

  “I shall be here,” I promised.

  “Our business then,” said the dark-haired girl, flushing with pleasure, “will at last be well consummated.”

  “Let us have a drink,” said Shaba, “to celebrate this long-awaited rendezvous.” Then he smiled at me. “You do not fear to drink with us, I trust,” he said.

  I smiled. “Of course not,” I said. “Do you have the paga of Ar, of the brewery of Temus?”

  “Woe,” smiled Shaba. “We have here only Schendi paga, but I think it is quite good. It is, of course, a matter of taste.”

  “Very well,” I said.

  “You will find it is better without sajel and gieron in it,” he said.

  “That is reassuring,” I said.

  “The symptoms induced by the paga tendered to you at the Golden Kailiauk,” he said, “should have disappeared by the following morning.”

  “They had,” I said.

  “My dear,” asked Shaba, of the dark-haired girl, “would you bring us paga?”

  She stiffened.

  “Fetch paga, Woman,” said Msaliti. “You are least among us.”

  “Why am I least among your’ she asked.

  “Forgive us, my dear,” said Shaba.

  “I will bring the paga,” she said.

  In a few moments she returned with a bottle of Schendi paga and four cups. She filled these cups.

  “Forgive me,” I said to Shaba, taking the cup which she had placed before him.

  He smiled and extended his hands. “Of course,” he said.

  Then the four of us lifted our cups, touching them, one to another.

  “To victory,” said Shaba.

  “To victory.” we said, and drank. I had little compunction about drinking this toast. Each of us may not have had in mind the same victory, of course.

  “I have not been introduced to this lovely agent,” I said, regarding the dark-haired girl.

  “Forgive me,” said Shaba. “It was careless of me. I did not wish to be rude.” He looked at me. “You are going by the name of Tarl of Teletus, I believe,” he said, “if my inquiries in Schendi have served me properly.”

  “That is correct,” I said. “That name will do. It will serve to cover my true identity.”

  “Many agents use code names,” said Shaba.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Tarl of Teletus,” said he, “may I introduce Lady E. Ellis? Lady E. Ellis, Tarl of Teletus.”

  We inclined our heads to one another.

  “Is ‘E’ an initial or a name?” I asked her.

  “Any initial;” she said, “It stands for Evelyn. But I do not like that name. It is too feminine. Call me ‘E.’”

  “I will call you Evelyn,” I said.

  “You may do as you wish, of course,” she said.

  “I see that you know how to treat a woman,” said Shaba. “You impose your will upon her.”

  “Is Evelyn Ellis your real name?” I asked, smiling.

  “Yes,” she said, “it is. Why do you smile?”

  “It is nothing,” I said.

  Msaliti and Shaba, too, smiled. It amused me to see that the girl thought she had a name.

  “I must admire the perception of Kur recruiters,” I said. “You are obviously highly intelligent and very beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “She has been well trained,” said Msaliti.

  “I have been not only well trained,” she said, “but thoroughly and intensively trained, even brilliantly trained. Nothing has been left to chance. The smallest details have been attended to. In order to play my role more effectively here I have even permitted my body to be branded.”

  “I recall,” I said. I had seen her in the Golden Kailiauk, of course, in pleasure silk.

  She looked at me, angrily.

  “My awe at the cleverness and thoroughness of the practices and techniques of Kur espionage knows few limits,” I said, “and I must admit that my admiration for the products of their schooling, as in the present case, exceeds almost all bounds.”

  She flushed with pleasure, flattered and mollified.

  I threw down the last of my paga.

  “I would like to see further evidence of your skills,” I said. “I am out of paga,” I said.

  She reached to the bottle, to refill the cup.

  “No,” I said.

  She looked at me.

  “Did they not teach you how to serve paga as a paga slave?” I asked.

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Show me,” I said.

  “Very well,” she said. She drew back, taking the bottle and cup. In most taverns no bottle is brought to the table but the paga is brought to the table, by the paga slave, a cup at a time, the cups normally being filled from a vat behind the counter. She filled the cup there, before me, and left it behind. She returned the bottle then to the table, and went beck again for the cup.

  She lifted it in both hands.

  “Put it down,” I said.

  She did so, looking at me puzzled.

  “You are garbed strangely for a paga slave,” I said, indicating the clogs, the black slacks and the black, buttoned top.

  “Do you wish me to put on pleasure silk?” she asked, icily.

  “No,” I said.

  She tossed her head.

  “In many Gorean taverns,” I said, “the paga slaves serve naked.”

  “Yes,” she said, slowly, “they do.”

  “Did they not teach you how to do that?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “I would see evidence of your skills,” I said.

  “Very well,” she said, angrily, in her vanity, taunted.

  She slipped from the clogs, and was barefoot. She slipped from the black slacks, and removed the black, buttoned top. She slipped from the panties and, in a moment, had discarded her brassiere. She was furious, but yet I could see, too, as doubtless could the others, that she was sexually charged. She was naked, before clothed men. This can be sexually stimulating to a woman. It is hard for her, in such circumstances, not to see them as her masters and herself, before them, as an exposed slave. Similarly she knew that, in a moment, she would be, naked, on her knees, serving them. For reasons that have to do with nature these things can be erotically momentous to a woman. The relation of master and slave, of course, in a psychophysical organism, of a high order of intelligence, such as the human being, is a beautiful and profound expression of the fundamental and central truth of animal nature, that of order and structure, and dominance and submission. It is merely the articulated, legalized expression, to be expected in rational organisms, of the biological context in which human sexuality developed, a context which can be betrayed but can never, because of the ingrained nature of genetic dispositions, be fully forgotten or, in the long run, successfully denied. In denying it we deny our own nature. In betraying it we betray no one but ourselves. The master will never be happy until be is a master. The slave will never be happy until she is a slave. It is what we are.

  I looked upon the girl. She bit her lip. I saw that she was lovely.

  “Wait,” said Msa
liti, “one more item is needed to complete the effect.”

  “Of course,” said Shaba

  He left the room and, in a moment, returned with the collar. “Oh!” she said, as he, from behind, snapped it about her throat. I noted that he slipped the key into his pouch. I did not think it would be soon removed from the girl.

  Msaliti joined us at the table.

  The girl stood, loftily, before us. “Do I meet with the approval of Masters?” she asked.

  “Serve us paga, Slave,” said Msaliti.

  She stiffened. Then she smiled. “Yes, Master,” she said.

  I, too, smiled. I saw that she thought she was playing a role. Did she not know that she had been truly branded and that, in the touch of the iron, as it marked her, she had been made truly a slave? I sensed now that her slavery, latent until now, was soon to be specifically activated. Indeed, it had now been activated, but she did not know it. She thought herself a free woman, serving as a slave. She did not know that she was truly a slave, who, amusingly, still thought herself free. It was a rich joke on the proud girl, one fitting to be played on an insolent slave.

  “Paga, Master?” she asked, kneeling before me, the metal cup held before her, in her two hands.

  “Yes,” I said.

  She proffered the cup to me. She knelt back on her heels, her knees wide, and extended her arms to me, the cup in her hands.

  “Did you not neglect to kiss it?’ I asked her.

  She drew back the cup and, pressing her lips to it, kissed it.

  “Is that how a slave kisses the cup of a master?” I asked.

  She again turned her head to the side and pressed her lips softly, lingeringly, against it. Then she kissed it. I saw a tremor course through her body. I think, then, for the first time, she had begun to understand what it might be truly, to kiss the cup of a master. Then again, kneeling back on her heels, her knees wide, extending her arms to me, the cup in her hands, she proffered me the drink.

  “Your head should be down, between your arms,” I said. She put her head down. Again I saw a small movement in her body, a tremor, subtle. She had put her head down before a man. Another consequence of this position is that the girl’s eyes, in the specific act of her serving, do not meet those of the master. They are lowered before his, as one who submits.

  This is also reminiscent, in an experienced girl, of her training. Often, in training, a girl is not permitted to look into the eyes of the trainer, unless he should specifically extend this permission. Indeed, in some cities, the girl in training may not raise her eyes above the trainer’s belt, unless, again, specifically accorded this permission.

  “Speak,” I said to her.

  “Your paga, Master,” she said.

  But I did not take the paga. “Do you know other phrases?” I asked. There were many, actually, and they tended to vary from tavern to tavern, and from city to city. There was, really, no standardization in such matters.

  She trembled, head down, proffering me the paga.

  “Your girl brings you drink, Master,” she said.

  “Any others?” I asked.

  “Here is your drink, Master,” she said. “I beg to serve you further in any way I may.”

  “Another,” I said.

  “Do not forget I come with the price of the cup,” she said. “Use me as you will, Master.”

  “Another,” I said sharply.

  “For your pleasure,” she said, “I bring you paga and a slave.”

  “Personalized phrase,” I said.

  “E.,” she said.

  “Evelyn,” I corrected her.

  “Evelyn tenders drink humbly to Master,” she said. “Evelyn hopes Master will later find her suitable to give him pleasure.”

  “Another,” I said.

  “I am Evelyn,” she said. “I serve you, naked and collared. Take me later to the alcove. I beg to be taught my slavery.”

  I then took the paga. “You may now serve others,” I said to her.

  “You made her serve well,” said Shaba.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  The girl trembled, and then regained her composure. Then, in turn, as a naked paga slave, she served Msaliti and Shaba. I observed her technique. I thought she could probably survive in a paga tavern, under real conditions, not those artificial conditions under which she had served in the tavern of Pembe, the Golden Kailiauk, though doubtless she would be often beaten in the beginning.

  When the girl had finished serving Shaba she straightenedup and came about the table, to where her cup rested on the low wood.

  She reached for it, but Msaliti moved it out of her reach. She looked at him, puzzled.

  “Does a paga slave drink at the table of masters?” he asked.

  She laughed. “Of course not,” she said.

  “You could be whipped for that,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said, “that is true.” She smiled. She then went to where her clothing had been discarded, on the floor. She bent to pick it up, to reclothe herself.

  “Do not dress,” said Msaliti.

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “Kneel there,” said Msaliti, indicating a place about a yard from the table.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “There,” he said.

  She knelt there, puzzled. It was about where a paga slave might kneel, close enough to be ready to serve at the merest signal, far enough away to be unobtrusive.

  “You see,” she said to me, “I have been well trained.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You were not given permission to speak,” said Msaliti to the girl.

  She looked at him, puzzled.

  “You could be whipped also for that,” he said.

  “Of course,” she laughed. Then she looked over to the blond-haired barbarian. The blond-haired girl, miserable, still blindfolded, knelt by the wall. Her slender ankles were shackled. Her hands were tied behind her back. A rope, looped through her collar, tied her to a slave ring behind her, about a yard off the floor. “Do you want her whipped again?” asked the dark-haired girl.

  “No,” said Msaliti.

  “I thought you said the whip was to be used again tonight,” she said.

  “I did,” said Msaliti.

  “Are you going to beat her?” she asked.

  “No,” he said.

  “I do not understand,” she said.

  Msaliti looked at her. “It is nearly time, my dear,” he said, “for you to be returned to the tavern of Pembe.”

  “No!” she said. “You said that tonight was my last night of feigned service there.”

  “It was,” said he. “But this is also the first night of your true service there.”

  “I do not understand,” she said.

  She got up, angrily, and went toward the small anteroom. But the two askaris blocked her way. She turned about, facing us. “I would like to get the key,” she said, angrily, “to remove this—this collar!” she indicated the collar.

  “I have the key here,” said Msaliti, lifting it, he having taken it a moment ago from his pouch.

  “Oh,” she said. Then she walked toward us.

  “Do not approach more closely without permission,” said Msaliti.

  She stopped, about five feet from the table.

  “Kneel,” he said.

  “I do not understand,” she said.

  “Kneel,” he said. I noted that he had repeated a command. Masters do not care to repeat commands.

  She knelt. “I do not understand,” she said.

  I did not think she was unintelligent. It was only that her Earth mind was not quick to grasp that she might, almost unbelievably, almost incomprehensibly to her, be placed in certain categories.

  “Give me the key,” she said.

  “Whose collar do you wear?” he asked.

  “That of Pembe, of course,” she said.

  “What do you wish to do with it?” he asked.

  “Remove it, of course,” she said.


  “But it is Pembe’s collar,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Thus,” said he, “if or when it is removed is surely a determination to be made not by you but by Pembe.”

  “What are you saying!” she cried.

  “Are all women on your former world as dull as you?” he asked.

  “‘What do you mean my ‘former world’?” she asked.

  “Precisely what I said,” said he, “that world which was formerly yours. Surely you must now know that your world is Gor, that it is the Gorean world, and only the Gorean world, which is now yours.”

  “No!” she cried.

  “You are a Gorean slave girl,” he said.

  “No! No!” she cried. She leaped to her feet .and ran toward the door, but the two askaris seized her and flung her again to her knees, before us.

  “You’re joking!” she begged.

  “No,” said Msaliti.

  “Take it off!” she cried, yanking at the collar, suddenly. “Take it off! Take it off!”

  “No,” said Msaliti.

  She looked at him. The steel collar remained inflexibly fastened on her throat.

  Msaliti, in the speech known to the askaris, spoke briefly. They seized the girl by the arms and dragged her to the side of the room. They put her on her knees, facing the wall. They braceleted her wrists about one of the four slave rings in the wall, the one farthest from the blond-haired barbarian and closest to the door. It was, like the others, about a yard from the floor. Msaliti, standing, leaving the table, shook loose the blades of the slave whip.

  “I am not a slave!” she cried, looking at him over her right shoulder.

  “You were a slave,” said Msaliti, “the instant you were branded, only you did not know it.”

  “No! No!” she cried. Then she cried, “I served you well!”

  “Yes,” said Msaliti, “but you are now no longer needed.”

  “I served you well,” she wept.

  “It is fitting that a slave well serves her masters,” said Msaliti.

  “I am your colleague!” she said.

  “Never were you anything but our slave, you little white fool,” said Msaliti.

  “What if our superiors find out!” she cried.

  Msaliti laughed. “I act in accord with their instructions,” he said. “Surely you do not think women such as yourself were brought to Gor with any object in mind other than to ultimately wear the collar.”