Captive of Gor (21 page)

turning his hand, spreading his first and index fingers, pointing downwards.

I fled to him and knelt before him, my knees in the dirt, in the position of the

pleasure slave, my head down, trembling.

“It is interesting,” he mused, “the effect of slavery on a woman.”

“Yes, Master,” I whispered.

“Excellent,” he said.

“The proud, arrogant, rich Miss Brinton,” he remarked, speaking in English.

“No, Master,” I whispered, in English.

“Are you not Miss Brinton?” he asked.

“Yes,” I whispered, “I am Elinor Brinton.”

“What is she?” he asked.

“Only a Gorean slave,” I said.

“I never thought to have you at my feet,” he said.

“No, Master,” I whispered.

“It is not unpleasant,” he said.

“No, Master,” I whispered.

He went to a side of the room and picked up a small bench, which he brought

forward and set before me. He then sat on this bench and, for some time,

regarded me. I did not move.

Then he rose from the bench and went again to the side of the room, where there

was a pile of cut logs. He took one and put it on the fire at the side of the

room, in a shallow, rimmed stone hearth. There was a shower of sparks. Smoke

found its way upward through a rudely fitted stone venting.

I was tense, frightened. I did not move. He returned and sat again before me.

Then he said, “Stand.”

Immediately I leaped to my feet.

(pg. 144) “Turn,” he said.

I did so.

To my surprise, he unbound my wrists. My hands were numb. I could scarcely move

my fingers.

He sat on the bench, and I stood before him. I rubbed my wrists and moved my

fingers, trying to restore their circulation.

He did not speak to me.

I stood before him for a long time.

“Step back,” he said.

Terrified, because it brought me nearer the beast, I did so, trembling.

“Attack!” he shouted in Gorean to the beast.

It howled and lunged for me, jaws snapping, great black, furred arms gasping.

I screamed hysterically and found myself in the corner of the room, screaming,

wedged in the corner, on my knees, my hands in front of me, scratching at the

boards with my fingernail, weeping, screaming and weeping.

“Do not be afraid,” he said.

I screamed and screamed.

“Do not be afraid,” he repeated.

“What do you want with me!” I cried. “What do you want with me!” I shuddered,

and shook with tears, and fear. “What do you want with me?” I begged. “What do

you want with me?”

“Miss Brinton,” he said, kindly.

I tried to breathe.

“Goreans are barbarians,” he said. “They have compromised your modesty.” His

voice was solicitous, apologetic, concerned, kindly.

Numbly I turned to face him.

He stood near the bench. In his arms he held a red-silk full-length, belted

lounging robe, with a high, throat-inclosing figured, brocade collar.

“Please,” he invited.

I approached him numbly, and turned. He held the robe for me, as might have an

escort. He helped me slip it on.

(pg. 145) “It’s mine,” I whispered. I remembered the robe.

“It was yours,” he said.

I looked at him. What he said was true. I could own nothing. It was rather I,

who was owned.

I belted the robe.

“You are lovely,” he commented.

I fastened the high, figured, brocade collar about my throat.

I regarded him, once again my own woman.

“Yes,” he said, “you are very lovely, Miss Brinton.”

I watched him as he went again to the side of the room, and brought forward a

small table, and another small bench. He gestured that I should join him at the

table. He seated me.

I sat at the table, and watched him as he threw another log on the fire. Again

there was a shower of sparks, and the smoke climbing upward toward the venting.

The beast now lay curled in its place, on straw. Its eyes were closed, but it

did not seem to be asleep. It would move occasionally, or yawn or change its

position.

“Cigarette?” asked the man.

I looked at him. “Yes,” I whispered.

He produced two cigarettes from a flat, golden case. They were my brand. With a

small match, he lit my cigarette for me, and then his. He threw the match into

the fire.

I fumbled with the cigarette. My hand shook.

“Are you nervous?” he asked.

“Return me to Earth!” I whispered.

“Are you not puzzled as to why you were brought to this world?” he asked.

“Please!” I begged.

He regarded me.

“I will pay you anything,” I whispered.

“Money?” he asked.

“Yes!” I said. “Yes!”

“Money is unimportant,” he said.

I looked anguished.

“Smoke your cigarette,” he said.

(pg. 146) I drew on the cigarette.

“Were you startled the morning you awakened and found yourself branded?” he

inquired.

“Yes,” I whispered. My hand inadvertently touched the mark on my thigh, under my

robe.

“Perhaps you are curious as to how it was done?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“The device,” said he, “is not much larger than this.” He indicated the small,

flat box of cigarettes. “A handle, containing the heating element, is fixed into

the back of the marking surface. It switches on and off, much like a common

flashlight.” He smiled at me. “It generates a flesh-searing heat in five

seconds.”

“I felt nothing,” I said.

“You were fully anesthetized,” he said.

“Oh,” I said.

“I personally think a girl should be fully conscious when being branded,” he

said.

I looked down.

“The psychological impact is more satisfactory,” he said.

I could say nothing.

“Salve was applied to the wound. It healed quickly and cleanly. You went to bed

a free woman.” He looked at me, unpleasantly. “You awakened a Kajira.”

“The collar?” I asked.

“You were lying unconscious before the mirror,” he said. “We re-entered your

apartment by means of the terrace.” He smiled. “It is not hard to collar a

girl.”

I recalled the collar had been later removed at the location referred to as

point P, before the black ship had fled the earth, through the gray skies of

that August dawn.

The man who had removed the collar had said that doubtless I would have another.

I shoved the cigarette irritably down on the table, breaking it, grinding it

out.

I knew that I could be collared, when it pleased a man to do so.

“May I have another cigarette?” I asked.

(pg. 147) “Of course,” he said, and solicitously, as I bent forward, he lit me

another.

I drew on the fresh cigarette. “Do you often bring women to this world as

slave?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, “and sometimes men, too, if it should serve our purposes.”

“I see,” I said.

I was irritated.

I remembered the two men thrusting me into the narrow, transparent slave

capsule, in its rack, its lid being screwed shut. I remembered my pressing my

hands against its sides, the beginning of the flight from Earth, the sedating

gases.

I had indeed been brought to this world as a slave.

We smoked together for some time without speaking.

I remember awakening, lying in a Gorean field, some hundred yards or so from the

black wreckage of the slavers’ ship. I remembered, too, that on Earth, at the

location called point P, before I had boarded the ship, a heavy steel anklet,

doubtless an identification device of some sort, had been locked on my left

ankle. When I had awakened in the field, it had been gone.

I looked at him. “Why was I brought to this world?” I asked.

“We bring many women to this world,” he remarked, “because they are beautiful,

and it pleases us to make them slaves.”

I regarded him.

“Also, of course,” he said, “they are valuable. They may be distributed or sold,

as we please, to further our ends or increase our profits.”

“Was I brought to this world as such a girl?” I asked.

“It may interest you to know,” he said, “that you were marked for abduction at

the age of seventeen. In the intervening years we watched you carefully,

maturing into a spoiled, rich, highly intelligent, arrogant young woman, exactly

the sort that, under whip and collar, becomes a most exquisite slave.”

I drew on the cigarette, in fury.

(pg. 148) “So I was simply brought to Gor to be a female slave?” I asked.

“Let us say,” he remarked, carefully, “you have been bought to Gor as a female

slave, regardless.”

“Regardless?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“I do not understand,” I said.

“We lost you briefly,” he said. His eyes clouded. “The ship crashed,” he

explained.

“I see,” I said.

“After the crash,” he said, “we detected the approach of an enemy craft. We

abandoned our ship and scattered, fleeing with our cargo.”

“But,” said I,” was I not part of your–yourcargo?”

His eyes narrowed. I could tell he would choose his words carefully.

“We have enemies,” he said. “We did not wish you to fall into their hands. We

feared pursuit. We removed yours identification anklet and hid you in the grass,

some distance from the ship. Then with the other girls, we fled, intending to

rendezvous later, if possible, and return for you. There was, however, no

pursuit. The enemy apparently content only to destroy the ship. When we returned

there was little more than a crater. You, of course, were gone.

“How did you find me?” I asked.

“As an unprotected female on Gor, particularly a beautiful one, there was little

doubt that the first male you encountered would make you his slave.”

I looked down, irritated.

“I went to Laura,” he said, “it is the largest city in the area. I expected that

it would be there that you would be put up for sale.”

“And you would have bought me?” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “Simple.” He smiled. “But, unfortunately for us, your capture

was effected by slavers, and they wished to take you south for a better price.

Accordingly we used panther girls. Verna and her band, to acquire you.” He

smiled again. “It was, incidentally, must less expensive.”

I looked at him in irritation.

(pg. 149) “You cost only one hundred arrow points.”

I shook with anger.

“That bothers you, doesn’t it?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“It would bother only a natural slave girl,” he said.

I looked down, shaking with fury. I was not a slave. I was not a slave!

I sat there in the belted, red-silk lounging robe, with the high brocade collar

enclosing my throat. I drew again one the cigarette. I was not a slave!

“How did you know that I was in Targo’s compound?” I asked.

“Doubtless,” said he, “I would have investigated, and found you there, but,

earlier, I saw you in Laura. You were in coffle, throat-leashed, fetching

supplies, with other slaves.”

I looked down with irritation.

“You carry wine beautifully,” he commented.

“I am not a slave,” I told him.

“I see,” he said.

“I am free,” I told him.

“I see,” he said.

I remembered now that once, in Laura, I had seen a man, garbed in black. I had

thought that he might have been watching us. But I had not been sure. I now

realized that it had been he.

“And so,” I said, “you found me.”

“I confirmed your identity at the compound,” said he, “during the performance of

the mountebank, and, of course, surveyed the entire area and planned, in effect,

the raid of the panther girls.”

“It was your good fortune,” I told him, haughtily, “that I was not caged that

night.”

He smiled. “I had spoken with Targo and the guards,” he said, “and knew the

celebrations planned for the evening. Further, I had even spoken with the

guards, ostensibly jesting with them, as to their choices for the evening. I

knew even at which wagon you would serve.”

“You are thorough,” I said.

“One must be,” he said.

(pg. 150) “And so I am here,” I said. I lowered the cigarette. “What are you

going to do with me?” I asked.

“Perhaps feed you to the beast,” he said.

I stiffened. It was true that he could do that, if he wished.

I drew again on the cigarette. “What are you going to do with me?” I asked.

“In some respects,” said he, “it was your good fortune to fall in with a

slaver.”

“Oh?” I asked.

“Yes,” said he. “Doubtless you have not yet served fully as a slave girl.”

I looked at him with apprehension.

“You will doubtless find it an interesting experience,” he said, “to serve, not

as a free woman, but as a slave girl, fully, for a master who will exact his

full dues and more, from his property.”

“Please,” I said.

“Few Earthwomen,” he said, “have that exquisite pleasure.”

“Please,” I said. “Do not speak to me so.”

“Smoke your cigarette,” he said, kindly.

I drew on the cigarette.

“Have you never been curious,” he asked, “what it would be like, to be forced to

yield yourself, utterly, to a master?”

“I hate men,” I told him.

“Superb,” he said.

I looked at him with irritation.

“You might be interested to know,” he said, “that all indications are that you

will be a fantastic pleasure slave for a master.

“I hate men!” I cried.

“Excellent,” he commented.