Plunder of Gor (14 page)

“Surely not,” I said, “not simple, plain Paula!”

“She will be disposed of in Ar,” he said, “on a high block, at the Curulean, perhaps even from the Central Block. I would not be surprised if she went for five silver pieces, in a first sale. It will be a lucky sleen who gets his chain on her.”

“I do not understand,” I said.

“Surely you do not presume to compare yourself with her,” he said.

“Surely I am far more beautiful!” I said.

Kurik threw back his large head and laughed. “Naive pot girl,” he said.

I reddened, angrily. Surely anyone could tell I was far more beautiful than Paula. How could these lustful, powerful brutes of Gor not see that? Indeed, I was clearly the most attractive of our luncheon group, which met in the cafeteria in the building where we worked. To be sure, one or two of the girls might have thought themselves, mistakenly, my equal, or superior.

“What is she to you?” he asked.

“She was my friend,” I said. “I think she was the only true friend I ever had.”

“You were fortunate,” he said, “to have a friend. Such as you are likely to have few friends, and to deserve none.”

Tears came to my eyes. I had not treated Paula well, and had often expressed my contempt of her, veiled, of course, as well-meaning, constructive suggestions, or piquant witticisms. Yet, despite my treatment of her, which she must have understood, she had always been pleasant, patient, attentive, tolerant, accommodating, faithful, and kind. She was a reliable person, who would do much for another, asking nothing in return. I suppose, in a way, she was the only friend I had ever had.

“Forget her,” he said. “She will have a thousand masters and a hundred names. She will be lost in the markets. You will never see her again.”

Tears burst from my eyes.

“Wipe your face,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said, and drew my forearm across my eyes.

I think I had never felt more alone than I did then.

I looked up at my master.

“May I speak?” I asked.

One of the first things I had learned in the house of training was that a slave girl may not speak without permission. To be sure, with most masters, she has a standing permission to speak, a permission which may, of course, be bestowed or revoked, as the master may please.

“Yes,” he said.

“I am yours,” I said.

“Yes?” he said.

“Will you keep me?” I asked.

“For a time,” he said, “perhaps a few Ahn.”

I was still not clear on the length of an Ahn, a measure of time. There were several such, I had learned, in the Gorean day.

“Paula is beautiful?” I asked.

“Very much so,” he said.

“Does Master find this slave attractive?” I asked.

“Stand up,” he said, “and face me.” I was then standing before him. He then rose to his feet, and he towered over me.

“Have you been taught to remove your tunic gracefully before a man?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” I whispered.

“Do so,” he said.

I was then before him, inches from him, clad only in my collar.

“Oh!” I said.

I was thrust to the floor at his feet.

I looked up, frightened.

“Do you object to being handled so?” he asked.

I lay before him, at his feet, naked, my legs drawn up, my gaze averted. “Master will do with me as he pleases,” I said. “I am collared.”

“I think I will chain you,” he said.

“Master will do with me as he pleases,” I said. “I am collared.”

A shackle was snapped shut about my left ankle. I was then on a short chain, it fastened to a ring in the foot of his couch.

“You look well on a chain,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” I said.

“I am now going to have you,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

Chapter Nine

I could scarcely move in such a thing.

I was on my knees, bent down, clutching the bars, looking up through them. How tall, and large, seemed the robed figures of the men about, they not noticing me. How could I not be noticed, so close to them? Did they not know I was here? Had they no feeling for me? Would no one pity me? Would someone not bring me clothing? My neck and body were bare. My thigh was not. It wore the Kef.

What madness it seemed that I should be here, naked, marked, helpless, grasping bars, caged.

To be sure, my cage was only one of several on the wharf.

How helpless, pale, and pathetic seemed the occupants of those other devices! Could I appear similarly to them?

Surely not!

They were doubtless Gorean women, mere barbarians.

I was civilized, educated, sophisticated, informed.

I did not belong with barbarians!

I clutched the bars in frustration.

How had this come about?

I had not even known there was a world, Gor. And I had not known that the tall, sullen, complacent stranger who had entered the office late that summer afternoon was not a man of my world, but a Gorean. Had I known then what I knew now I would have immediately knelt in his presence, fearfully, and put my head to his feet. But I had treated him as a man of Earth, briefly and badly, treated him curtly, rudely, impatiently, contemptuously. Had he not come to the office too late, too near closing time? Had I not been interrupted, when preparing to leave the office early? To me he had been understood as no more than an annoyance, an inconvenience, delaying me, interfering with my intended early departure. What my employers did not know would not hurt them. It was summer. Did we not often leave early? It was not unusual. Though I had sensed he was different in some way, in some frightening way, I did not understand what might be transpiring. Surely I had no way of realizing he was not a man of Earth. I knew nothing of Gor, of Goreans. And he was not merely Gorean, but of the caste of Slavers! And I had dared to strike him! Now my hands might be cut off for such an act, if I were not to be disposed of altogether, doubtless in such a way as to apprise me of my error and constitute a warning to others. And now I was caged, on another world! How did I know that he had come to appraise me, to consider whether or not I might do, turned and exhibited, on a slave block? I gathered that, incredibly, despite my obvious beauty and desirability, which was generally recognized, and of which I had been frequently assured, could I not see the illustrations in the magazines and on the billboards, I was assessed as a mere pot girl, or kettle-and-mat girl. Indeed, I gathered that I was “borderline” in his view, if one could believe that, but, as my behavior had irritated him, had he not called me a “bitch,” he had decided, perhaps for his amusement, that I would be taken to Gor, there to be marked, and learn the whip, chain, and collar. I had not known he was not a man of Earth. I was a woman of Earth. I had not realized that my behavior might have consequences. It had never happened before. I had not understood that he was not to be treated as would be a typical male of Earth, with shortness, condescension, and contempt. One may treat a man of Earth as badly as one wishes, and with impunity. But, woe, he was not a man of Earth, and he saw me as a slave. It was then, I gathered, he pondering me, pondering me as a slave, that my behavior, and the annoyance it must have provoked, swayed his view. Thus, despite the fact that I had not behaved other than would have any other young woman of Earth in the circumstances, I am sure, I was, without my knowledge, added to a list in preparation, a slave list. I would be transmitted to Gor.

I grasped the bars.

I could not stand upright. I could not fully extend my body.

Many times last night Kurik, my master, had put me to his pleasure. What seasons, and climates, and thunders, and tides, he had wreaked in my frame! He had not used me again as he had the first time, but I was left in no doubt that I was a slave. The Gorean master does not request or petition but owns and takes. He handles his slave with assurance and authority, sometimes treating her as though she were in a bit and harness, and other times as though she were a vibrating, responding musical instrument from which he draws out tunes, tiny whimpers, soft moans, and cries, as he wishes. I had thought of myself on Earth as being inert and frigid, and my master's first rude, forcible depriving me of my virginity had done little to alter that conviction. On Earth my sense of sex had extended to little more than displaying my beauty and using it to obtain attention. It is pleasant to bask in the admiration of men, even men of Earth. Occasionally I would amuse myself by arousing desires I had no intention of satisfying. It is easy to do that. Aside from the psychological gratification attendant on such, and similar, behaviors, the garnering of free entertainments and dinners is negligible. Always I was in control. I was the mistress of any such relationship. But then I had found myself helpless in the arms of a Gorean master. In his arms I was meaningless. I did not count. I was no more than a pleasure beast with which he would unilaterally slake the flames of his lust. I was a slave. Even in his first abrupt penetration of me, his holding of me, and his plunging use of me, despite the discomfort and shock, I had had some dim, frightening sense of what might be done with me, what I might become. I had then, later, when he again addressed his attentions to me, fearing I might succumb, attempted to hold myself inert. I must try to refuse to feel. I must be cold! I heard tiny sounds escape me. I was helpless in his hands. He lifted me, and turned me about, to his convenience, as he wished. In the training house I had heard of slave fires. I must not let them burn within me! But what if I could not help it, I asked myself, in anguish. And, I asked myself, why should I try to help it, why should I try to resist? Was I not a slave? Why should I not feel as a slave, yield as a slave? I heard myself gasp, and moan. “Steady, slut,” he said. What if he should, as I feared he could, simply light those fires within me, fires that I could not control, and that I feared I would come to need, even to beg for? I could remember the cries of my instructresses at night, lifting their chained wrists to passing guards. “Do you wish to have your hands bound behind your back?” he asked. “No, Master,” I said. “Then hold your left wrist with your right hand, behind your back,” he said. “Yes, Master,” I said, seizing my left wrist in my right hand, behind my back. Then he began to caress me, carefully, gently. “Oh!” I said, softly, eagerly. “Steady,” he said. “Please, please,” I whispered. “Steady” he said, “steady.” “I cannot feel this,” I protested. “I am frigid, frigid!” “You are not frigid,” he said. “We do not bring frigid sluts to Gor. Men do not like them.” “I fear I am a slave,” I said. “You are a slave,” he said. “Are these slave fires?” I asked, frightened. “You are weeks, months, from slave fires,” he said. “It would doubtless be amusing to see you, when you are in their grasp.” “Oh, please, Master,” I cried. “Do not stop! Do not stop!” “I have no intention of stopping,” he said, “until I wish to do so.” “Ohhh!” I cried, and my arms clasped him. Later, when we were spent, he took me by the hair, and slapped me, thrice, sharply, across the face. “Master?” I said. “I did not give you permission to release your hands,” he said. “Forgive me, Master,” I said. We then lay beside one another, at the foot of the couch. I was still fastened to it, by the shackle on my left ankle. I turned to him, rising on my elbow. “I love you,” I whispered, “—Master.” He then rose, and, without speaking, dressed, and left the room. “Master?” I said, plaintively.

I shrank back in the cage, and the hem of the fellow's robes, as he passed, brushed the bars.

I was caged, or, I suppose, in a way, kenneled. The thought crossed my mind, “I was a bitch. Was it not appropriate for a bitch to be kenneled?” But then I recalled that I was less than a bitch, far less than a bitch. I was a slave.

“May I speak, Master?” I implored, as white and gold robes passed my cage. But I was given no notice. Not having been given permission to speak, I remained silent.

Is there no one here to rescue me, I wondered. No one to pity me? No one to save me, and return me to Earth?

But then I realized I was not such as to be saved. I was such as to be bought, sold, and owned.

One does not rescue slaves. One chains them. One keeps them at one's feet, where one wants them.

I had no money.

But I had my beauty, which had smoothed many a way on my own world, and opened many doors. Might it not be of use here? Could I not barter it, could I not accord its favors judiciously, purchasing rescue, and a prompt return to Earth? But then I realized my beauty was no longer a good with which I might bargain. It was no longer mine to bestow or withhold as I might choose. It was no longer mine. I was a slave. It belonged to whoever might own me. Were I thought to attempt to negotiate with, or sell, my favors, I might, if interest had been aroused, be simply purchased, and then, doubtless, put under the whip for my stupidity and impudence.

Kajirae are not bought to be freed; they are bought to be owned.

“No, no,” I thought.

My beauty had never failed me.

A fellow in a short, brown tunic, a sack upon his shoulder, made his way between the cages. “No,” I thought. “He does not look prosperous. I shall not appeal to him.” In those days I could not even read the caste colors of Gor, not that all members of a caste could be depended on to appear only in caste robes, which, in many cases, were most likely to appear on caste holidays and city holidays. The fellow in brown, I would later learn, would most likely have been of the Peasantry. The colors of the five high castes were white, yellow, blue, green, and red, for the Initiates, Builders, Scribes, Physicians, and Warriors, respectively. Sometimes the indications of caste were subtle, marked by a pair, or a trio, of short ribbons on the left sleeve, near the wrist. For example, the colors of the Slavers were blue and yellow, but these colors were often displayed, when the slaver was not hunting, merely on the left sleeve, rather than in a full regalia. The colors of the Merchants, which merchants frequently claim to be a high caste, were white and yellow, or white and gold. Some regard the Slavers as a subcaste of the Merchants and others identify it as an independent caste. The caste structure apparently lends a great deal of stability to Gorean society, as most Goreans respect their caste and recognize the nature of, and the value of, its role in society. In this way, self-esteem, pride, and high intelligence tends to be spread rather evenly throughout the population, rather than being drained, over generations, into a limited number of professions. Also, allegiance to a Home Stone, and frequent internecine warfare, tends to keep the Gorean population decentralized, so that ambition and intelligence does not, over time, gravitate toward particular cities, say, larger, wealthier population centers, to the detriment of other municipalities. Whereas caste change is not prohibited, and legal provisions exist for its effectuation, it is seldom sought. The typical Gorean cares for his caste, and takes great pride in it. It does not occur to him to relinquish it. Indeed, he may look down upon, or pity, other castes. He is unlikely to desert the caste that is his own. To some, that would doubtless, however mistakenly, be construed as a betrayal of sorts. To be sure, very different societal arrangements are possible. For example, one might have a large, undifferentiated, individually competitive population in which millions struggle for a trag­ically limited quantity of desiderata, which must, mathematically, be beyond the reach of the vast majority, for example, a limited number of favored professions, a limited number of favored locations, and so on. It is rather as if thousands were encouraged to run in a race that could, in the nature of things, have few winners. Thus most must fail, a situation likely to result in unhappiness, disgruntlement, frustration, resentment, and envy. To be sure, these negative emotions pave a smooth, convenient road to power for those willing to exploit them.

I looked about, holding the bars.

Two men, tunicked, clad in red, made their way amongst the cages. Each had a short blade slung at his left hip, suspended by a shoulder strap. Each was helmeted. I shook with fear. I was suddenly reminded of something I had seen long ago. It had been in a museum, on a vase. I had thought little of it. Two helmeted men, figures on the vase, were sharp and prominent, clearly delineated, red, on a black background. I now, in my memory, saw the image on the vase very differently than I had earlier. I saw it now for what it was, what it betokened, saw it as something real, something frightening. It is, of course, one thing to see images, or pictures, and quite another to see the thing pictured, and sense its reality, its purposiveness, what it would be to see the thing as it actually is. One might compare the picture of a beast, with the beast met, unexpectedly, alive, in the wild. The experiences are quite different. And so, suddenly shaken, I realized that the imagery I had casually noted long ago, in passing, and to which I had given little thought, was an image of an authentic reality, and that I had now, for the first time, experienced that reality, or something much like it. Each helmet, of leather and metal, crested with a mane of animal hair, with its y-shaped opening, muchly enclosed a face, a face that might, in a moment, I supposed, be fearsome, and menacing, that might, peering out, aware of risk and war, of danger, of the moment that might part life from death, scrutinize a field or foe.

“Master!” cried a girl in the second cage to my right, extending a hand through the bars. “Buy me!”

One of the young men in red turned, to regard the supplicant.

“Buy me!” she urged, again.

Neither the dealer, nor his men, were about. Perhaps that had encouraged the girl whose cry, otherwise, if noted, might have been construed as an importunity.

His hand moved to the wallet slung at his belt. As he held it, and lifted it, I heard, within it, the small sounds of jostled metal.