Captive of Gor (20 page)

to such women, to such despicable things, as these.

(pg. 135) At last the girls, one by one, rose from the grass, drew on again

their skins, and took up their weapons.

Then, Verna at their lead, they approached me.

I knelt by the post, very straight.

“It seemed to me,” I said, “that your bodies moved as might have those of slave

girls.”

My head leaped to the side, stinging, as Verna, with all her might, slapped me.

Then she looked at me. “We are women,” she said.

There were tears in my eyes. I tasted a bit of blood in my mouth, where my lip

had been struck against my teeth. But I did not cry out or whimper. I smiled.

Then I looked away.

“Let us kill her,” said one of the girls, she who held my leash before, who had

been he first to enter the circle of the dance.

“No,” said Verna.

Verna looked about at the other girls.

They were ready to depart.

“Bring the slave,” said Verna.

“I am free,” I told her.

Verna strode from the area wherein was found the circle of the dance.

The other girls followed her, with the exception of the blond girl, who had held

my leash. She untied my hands and then, behind my body, but not behind the post,

rebound them, cruelly. I did not complain. Then she untied the strap at my

ankles, freeing them, and drawing the strap about the post and through the two

rings, released me from the post. By the choke leash she pulled me to my feet. I

looked at her and smiled. She said nothing, but turned angrily away, and led me

from the post, following Verna and her band.

* * *

Verna suddenly lifted her hand.

“Sleen,” she whispered.

The girls looked about.

I was apprehensive. I wondered if it were the same animal which Verna, and one

of the other girls, had detected earlier. The girls, too, seemed apprehensive. I

hoped that it was not (pg. 136) the same animal. If it was, it had been

following us. There are, of course, many sleen in the forests.

The girls remained still for a long time, scarcely breathing.

“Is it still here?” asked one of the girls, the one who had been able to detect

the sleen earlier. Her nostrils were flared, testing the air.

“Yes,” said Verna. She gestured in a direction somewhat forward of the band and

to its oblique right. “It is there,”” she said. I could see nothing but the

darkness of the trees, and the shadows.

We continued to stand still for some time.

Then, after this time, Verna said, “It is gone.”

The girls looked at one another. I could tell the difference in their breathing.

I took a deep breath, and shuddered. I looked again into the darkness, the trees

and shadows, to the right. Then I felt the leather and metal choke collar again

slide shut on my throat and, choking, I followed hurriedly at my tether.

* * *

After the trek of perhaps an hour we came to a clearing in the forest. In the

clearing, there was a small hut, a stave house, with a single door and window.

Inside there was a light.

I was led to the door of this house.

“Kneel,” said Verna.

I did so.

I was apprehensive. I knew this must be the house of the man who had purchased

me.

But I could not be purchased, for I was Elinor Brinton, a free woman, of Earth.

No matter what bonds I might wear, no matter what transactions in which I might

figure, I could not be purchased, for I was free!

There was a leather bag, on two leather strings, which hung from a hook outside

the door.

There was no sound from within the house.

Verna removed the bag from its hook and knelt down on the ground, the other

girls around her. She shook the contents of the bag on the ground. It contained

steel arrow (pg. 137) points. She counted them in the light of the moons. There

were one hundred of them.

Verna gave six points to each of her girls. Ten she kept for herself. She, and

they, put the points into the pouches they wore at their belts.

I looked at her, shaking my head, not believing what I had seen. Could it be

that this, and this alone, was my price, that I had been purchased for only

this, the points for one hundred arrows? But I reminded myself that I could not

be purchased, for I was Elinor Brinton, for I was free!

“Rise, Slave,” said Verna.

I rose to my feet and she unsnapped from my throat the hated choke leash.

I looked at her. “I am free,” I told her.

“Let us kill her,” urged the blond girl, she who had held my leash.

“All right,” said Verna.

“No!” I cried. “No! Please!”

“Kill her,” said Verna.

Uncontrollably I feel to my knees before her. “Please don’t kill me!” I cried.

“Please! Please!” I trembled. I wept. I pressed my head to her feet. “Please!” I

begged. “Please!” Please! Please! Please!”

“What are you?” asked Verna.

“A slave,” I cried out. “A slave!”

“Do you beg for your life?” asked Verna.

“Yes,” I whimpered “Yes, yes!”

“Who begs for her life?” asked Verna.

“A slave begs her mistress for her life,” I wept.

“Is it only slaves who so beg for their lives?” asked Verna.

“Yes,” I cried out, “Yes!”

“Is it only slaves who so beg and grovel?” asked Verna.

“Yes!” I cried out. “Yes!”

“Then you are a slave,” said Verna.

“Yes!” I cried.

“You then acknowledge yourself a slave?” Verna inquired.

“Yes!” I cried. “Yes! I acknowledge myself a slave! I am a slave! I am a slave!”

(pg. 138) “Spare the slave,” said Verna.

I almost collapsed. Two of the girls lifted me to my feet. I could scarcely

stand.

I was shattered.

I then knew as I had not known before, that I was a slave. I was not free. I

knew then that the body of Elinor Brinton, even when she had been in college,

even when she had concerned herself with the trivia of term papers, even when

she had eaten in Parisian restaurants, when she had strolled the boulevards of

the continent, when in New York she had stepped from and into taxis, had been

the body of a slave girl. That body, attired in its evening gowns, its cocktail

dresses, its chic tweeds, might perhaps have been more appropriate clad in the

brief silk of a Gorean slave girl, fit only for the controlling touch of a

master. I wondered if men had realized that. If there had been Gorean men who

had looked upon me I had little doubt that they might, smiling, have seen me

thus. But I hated men!

I wondered what price my body would bring in a market.

I wondered what price I would bring.

I was shattered.

My eyes met those of Verna.

“Slave,” she sneered.

“Yes, Mistress,” I whispered, and looked down. I could not meet her eyes, those

of a free woman.

“Are you a docile slave?” she asked.

“Yes, Mistress,” I said, quickly, frightened, “I am a docile slave.”

“Docile slave,” she sneered.

“Yes,” I said, “yes, Mistress.”

The girls laughed.

Suddenly it seemed so foolish to me that it had seemed that I was free. I almost

choked with misery. It was only too obvious that I was not free. I knew then

that I might indeed figure in transactions, and knew that I would do so as mere

property. I could figure in commercial exchanges, for I was goods. I could

indeed be purchased, and bought and sold. In the moment of my misery my

vanities, my pretenses, (pg. 139) had been swept away. I knew then, as I had not

before, that I was a slave girl.

“Through that door,” said Verna, gesturing with her head, “is your master.”

I stood and faced the door, stripped, wrists lashed behind my back.

Suddenly, unaccountably, I turned and faced her. “A hundred arrow points,” I

pouted, “is not enough!” I was startled that I had said this, and more with how

I had said it. It was surely not Elinor Brinton who could have said this. It was

the remark of a slave girl. But it had been Elinor Brinton who had said it. With

horror I suddenly realized that she was a petty slave girl.

“It is all that you are worth to him,” said Verna.

I pulled futilely at the binding fiber on my wrists.

She regarded me, as might have a man. I stood in fury, scrutinized. “I myself,”

said Verna, “would not have paid as much.”

The girls laughed.

I shook with fury, a humiliated slave girl. My action seemed uncontrollable, and

I hated myself for it.

“The girl fancies,” said the blond girl, who had held my leash, “that she should

have fetched a higher price.”

“I am worth more!” I pouted.

“Be silent,” said Verna.

“Yes, Mistress,” I said, frightened, putting down my head.

A ripple of amusement passed through the girls.

I did not care. I was angry, and I was humiliated. I should have brought far

more.

I suddenly knew that I would be a clever slave. I was highly intelligent. I

could undoubtedly scheme and wheedle, and obtain my way. I could smile prettily,

and would, to obtain what I wished. I felt petty and sly, but justifiably,

proudly so. Was I not a slave? I knew that I could well employ the wiles of a

slave girl to make my life pleasant and easy.

But only a hundred arrow points! It was not enough!

The door to the hut swung open.

(pg. 140) Suddenly terrified I faced the opening.

I felt the point of Verna’s spear in my back.

“Enter, Slave Girl,” said Verna.

“Yes, Mistress,” I whispered.

I felt the point of Verna’s spear again against my back. It pressed forward. I

stumbled into the room, crying out with anguish.

The door shut behind me, two beams falling into place, barring it.

I looked about, and then I threw back my head and screamed in uncontrollable

horror.

10
   
What Transpired in the Hut

(pg. 141) The large-eyed, furred thing blinked at me.

“Do not be afraid,” said a voice.

The animal was fastened to a ring in the wall by a stout, spiked leather collar,

fastened to a heavy chain.

I stood with my back to the opposite wall of the hut, shrinking against it,

terrified. I felt the rough boards at my back. my head was lifted and back, eyes

wide. The back of my head pressed back against the boards. I felt the boards,

too, pressed against the fingertips of my bound hands. I could not breathe.

The beast looked at me, and yawned. I saw the two rows of white fangs. Then,

sleepily, it began to nibble at the fur of its right paw, grooming it.

I saw that the chain was short, that it would not reach even to the center of

the room.

“Do not be afraid,” again said the voice.

I took a breath, with difficulty.

Across the room, his back to me, bending over a shallow pan of water, with a

towel about his neck, was a small man. He turned to face me. His face was still

the painted clown’s face, but he had put aside his silly robes, the tufted hat.

He wore a common Gorean male house tunic, rough and brown, with leggings, such

as are sometimes worn by woodsmen, who work in brush.

“Good evening,” he said.

I shuddered. I did not move.

His voice seemed different now, no longer the voice of the comical mountebank.

Too, somehow the voice seemed (pg. 142) familiar to me, but I could not recall

if, or where, I had once heard it. I knew only that I was terribly frightened.

He turned again to the pan of water on the table and began to wash the paint

from his face.

I could not take my eyes from the beast.

It regarded me, sleepily, and returned to the grooming of its paw.

It seemed incredibly huge, even more so in the small hut then earlier outside of

Targo’s compound. It was like a glistening, somnolent, boulder of fur, alive,

hundreds of pounds in weight. The eyes were large, black, round, the snout wide,

two-nostriled and leathery. I shuddered at its mouth, and fangs, the upper two

protruding downwards at the sides of its jaws. Its lips were wet from the saliva

from its long, dark tongue, which, with its teeth, it was using to groom the fur

on its right paw. The strike of those jaws could, with one wrenching twist, have

torn away the shoulder of a man.

I trembled, terrified, my back pressed against the rough boards.

Elinor Brinton, trembled, terrified, naked and bound, her back pressed against

the rough boards, a cowering slave girl.

“Good evening, Miss Brinton,” said the man. He had spoken in English.

“You!” I cried.

“Hello, Cookie,” he said.

“You!’ I whispered. It was the smaller man, one of those who had originally

captured, and had bound me on my own bed in the penthouse. It was he who had

entered the syringe in my right side, in the back, between my waist and hip,

drugging me. It was he who had touched me intimately, who had been warned away

from me by the larger man. It was he who had taken my matches and cigarettes,

who had leaned over me, and had blown smoke, as I had lain nude before him,

bound and gagged, into my face.

His ferret eyes regarded me, looking me over.

“You’re a pretty little cookie,” he said.

I could not speak.

(pg. 143) “Kajira!” he snapped in Gorean. Every muscle in my body tensed.

He suddenly snapper his fingers and, in the swift double gesture of a Gorean

master, pointed to a place on the dirt floor before him, almost simultaneously