Kur of Gor (17 page)

"I will call you ‘Cecily,'” he said.

Cabot had seen more than one girl from England chained in a Gorean market whose name had been Cecily. It was a not unprecedented name for Gorean slave girls from that part of the Earth. So, too, I am told, are names such as Jane, as suggested, and others, Jean, Joan, Margaret, Helen, Elizabeth, Marjorie, Allison, Corinne, Constance, and such. Those may not have been their original names, of course. Masters name their girls as they please. To be sure, such names are also not unknown, as I am informed, in the colonies, or former colonies, of that place, too, one of the Englands. Perhaps in her present predicament, naked and chained, she reminded Cabot of one or more of the girls he had seen in the markets. Or perhaps he just thought it would be a name acceptable for her, at least temporarily.

"What if I do not choose to respond to that name,” she said.

"Then I will beat you,” he said.

"Beat me?"

"Yes."

"I am Virginia Cecily Jean Pym!” she said. “—Beat me?"

"Yes."

"You would not dare!"

"You are mistaken."

"You are, of course, larger and stronger than I."

"Yes."

"You would beat me?"

"Certainly."

"You may call me ‘Cecily,'” she said.

"It is what I
will
call you,” he said.

"Very well,” she said. She drew back, abashed, uncertain of her feelings.

She put her hands on the chain, and pulled it a little against the collar ring. She was well fastened in place.

She would be addressed as men pleased. This, thought Cabot, is a good lesson for her. She is not having her own way. She is unaccustomed to being under male discipline. To be sure, she had been positioned in the container, when he had been examining her for slave marks. And later, for a time. She is trying to understand her feelings, he thought. She is sexually aroused, and she does not clearly understand how it has come about. Women respond well to male domination. They are, after all, females. She would make an excellent slave, thought Cabot. And Cabot, of course, at that time, did not well understand that the female had not only the profound sexual needs and drives of a lovely, helpless, vulnerable slave, and remarkably so, but that she had been chosen for him, and for him in particular, with exactly such things in mind.

How helplessly she would find herself his!

Are the Priest-Kings not cruel?

"May I call you ‘Tarl'?” she inquired.

"For now,” he said.

It would be time enough later, to let her know what she had done on the Prison Moon, that she had bespoken herself slave, and in so doing had renounced her freedom, irrecoverably, that it had been an act which it was now wholly beyond her power to revoke, amend or qualify in any way. It would be time enough later to let her know that she was now property, merely unclaimed property.

He did not think the fellows she had known on Earth would have objected to this.

Would they not have liked to have her kneeling naked at their feet, collared, fearing the lash, if she were found in the least displeasing?

Tarl Cabot rose to his feet, and looked about himself.

"What do you see?” she asked.

Curiosity, he thought, is not becoming in a
kajira
. Yet they tend to be persistently, delightfully, sometimes annoyingly, incorrigibly, curious.

"More stalls,” he said. “A passageway, wooden, between them. This is, I think, a stable."

"A stable!"

"Surely, does it not seem so?"

"I, in a stable!"

"It would seem so,” he said.

He then turned about.

"Where are you going!” she called. She stood up, frantically, clumsily, and found herself partly bent over, for the length of the chain did not permit her to stand erect. She must have felt she looked absurd, for she quickly knelt, again.

She clutched her arms about herself.

So might a lovely tabuk doe be tethered in the straw, thought Cabot, though for such, lacking hands, a light strand on the neck might do.

To be sure, a much lighter chain would have held her. She was a female.

How lovely they are, he thought. They are so different from us. They are made by nature to be our slaves.

To be sure, they can be nuisances, until they are collared.

"Do not leave me!” she cried.

"Are you afraid?” he asked.

"Of course not!” she said.

"Then you are stupid,” he said.

"Are you afraid?” she asked.

"Yes,” he said.

"I am afraid,” she said.

"Good,” he said.

He turned about, again.

"Do not leave me alone!” she cried.

He moved toward the opening of the stall.

"Don't go!” she cried. “If you leave me I shall scream!” she said.

He turned back, toward her.

He had at his disposal no convenient means with which to bind her, hand and foot, and gag her.

He read her body.

Binding and gagging a woman, and leaving her alone, for an Ahn or so, can be instructive to her.

He had little doubt but what the former Miss Pym would find it so. She was clearly highly intelligent.

But he had no convenient means for such at his disposal.

He regarded her, closely.

She knelt before him, looking up at him.

Again he read her body, her slave body.

She does not know it, he thought, but she is ready, nearly ready, for the mastering.

"I would not scream,” he said. “You do not know who or what might hear."

"I am prepared to accept that risk,” she said.

"I am not,” he said.

"Do not leave me!” she said. “What are you going to do!” she cried, drawing back, alarmed, as he approached her.

He took a large handful of dry, bristling straw and placed it, crosswise, in her mouth. He then stood up, and looked down at her, she looking up at him, disbelievingly, her eyes wide, her mouth filled with the stallage. “Do not expel that,” he said, “until given permission. Do you understand?"

She nodded.

He then left the stall and began to make his way down the passageway between stalls, for there were several in the structure.

After a time he returned.

He knelt beside the brunette and drew the damp, partly crushed straw from her mouth. Then she put her head to the side, and, fingering within her mouth, and spitting, she ridded herself of the residue of the straw.

Then she looked at him reproachfully. “What you did to me!” she said.

"We had little but straw to work with,” he said. “I regret that."

"I am not prepared to accept your apology,” she said.

"I do not apologize, nor should I,” said he. “It is only that I regret that proper materials were not at hand. I think you would have looked quite nice, bound, hand and foot, and gagged, lying in the straw on your chain."

"What manner of man are you?” she asked, angrily.

"Gorean,” he said. “And you are a female."

"What did you learn?” she asked.

"I looked about,” he said. “There is no escape. There are bars. The stable is of wood, but it is within what seems to be a housing of iron or steel. I could see very little outside the stable."

"Are we—on Gor?” she asked.

"I do not think so,” he said.

"Are we to starve here?” she asked.

"I would not think so,” he said.

"What is to be done with us?"

"I do not know."

"Must you look at me so?"

"You have nice curves,” he said.

She looked away, angrily.

"Do you know what such curves are called, on Gor?"

"No,” she said.

"Slave curves,” he said.

"How vulgar, how horrid!” she exclaimed.

"Not at all,” he said. “You have a lovely body, lovely enough to be that of a slave.” He continued to scrutinize her. “Yes,” he said, “you have an excellent body, a slave body."

"Beast!” she exclaimed.

"You would probably bring a good price in a market."

"A market!"

"A slave market, of course."

"Never!” she cried. “Never!"

He saw that she was sexually stimulated, muchly aroused. Clearly, and not only in her dreams, she had often thought herself a slave, and had perhaps foolishly suffered and struggled against her body and its needs, her heart and its needs, against the primitive depth and helpless wholeness of her slave needs.

Doubtless often, in her dreams and otherwise, she had stood upon the slave block, in sawdust, in the light of torches and lamps, exhibited, and had been auctioned to the highest bidder. Doubtless, often, she had been led from the market, back-braceleted, and leashed, perhaps hooded, led as might be any other newly purchased animal, to her new home. Doubtless, too, she had often knelt before masters, or kissed their feet, in gratitude and love, in reverence or supplication. Perhaps she had sometimes been bound to an overhead whipping ring and had been switched, or lashed, for some miniscule fault or shortcoming. Perhaps, often, she had striven in chains, desperately, fearfully, to give her master inordinate pleasures.

"I wonder if you have had your slave wine, or some similar substance, something with the same consequences or effects,” he said.

"What is slave wine?” she asked.

"Never mind,” said he.

Slaves, as domestic animals, are normally bred only as the masters please.

"Are you a virgin?” he asked.

"That is my business!” she snapped.

"A determination might be made,” he said.

"Yes,” she said, angrily. “I am a virgin!"

Strange that she, a virgin, he thought, should be so soon on the verge of begging for sex. Already thought Cabot she feels the warmth of slave fires in her belly. He did not think it would take long before she became their piteous, begging prisoner.

Perhaps it is the chain, he thought, the chain, binding fiber, such things, which hasten such things, which bring a female so rapidly, so pathetically, so needfully, so openly and honestly, to her knees.

"What are we to do now?” she asked, uneasily.

"We shall continue with your lessons in Gorean,” he said.

She put down her head, her small hands on the chain dangling from her collar. “Very well,” she said.

"But,” said he, “we will try to do a thousand words a day."

"I think I cannot do so much,” she said.

"We will do the best we can,” he said.

"Why so many?"

"I do not know how much time we have,” he said.

"No,” she said. “This has to do with something you saw, something you saw outside the stable."

"Perhaps,” he said.

"What was it?” she asked.

"Doubtless in time you will learn,” he said.

"I want to live,” she said.

"We will do the best we can,” he said.

"
La kajira
!” she said.

"Excellent,” he said.

"You see,” she said. “I remembered!"

"Excellent,” he said.

"Those are my first words in Gorean!” she said.

"And appropriately so,” he said.

"Why?"

"It does not matter now,” he said.

"They mean I am a beautiful female!” she said.

"Something like that,” he said, “or usually."

"I did not forget them,” she said.

"Good,” he said.

Chapter, the Fourth:

THE INTERLOCUTOR

"What are you?” asked Cabot.

"The result of an experiment,” he said.

I think I have made clear the difficulties of replicating in a human tongue the phonemes of Kur, as we shall refer to the language of this particular habitat, one, actually, of several in the worlds, and, correspondingly, naturally, the difficulty of reproducing in Kur the phonemes of typical human languages. These difficulties index almost entirely to anatomical dissimilarities. To be sure, it is somewhat easier for a Kur to utter noises which, allowing for considerable distortions, or, shall we say, accent, better approximate human phonemes than the reverse. It is possible, of course, for a Kur to recognize certain sounds in, say, Gorean, and for a human to recognize certain sounds in Kur. I think I mentioned, for example, that the blonde pet from the container could recognize her name in Kur, certain commands, and such. It is one thing, naturally, to recognize a sound and another to replicate it. Consequently, most communication between humans and Kurii is accomplished by means of translators. This note is largely to remind any reader unfamiliar with Kur that in the interests of intelligibility we must either devise names for individual Kurii, or have recourse to descriptions, or such. It would be difficult or impossible to replicate the actual phonemes. The reader is familiar with this already in the case of Zarendargar. Accordingly, various Kurii will be herein referred to in terms hopefully intelligible to, or at least pronounceable by, readers unfamiliar with Kur. I think we have no practical alternative to this procedure, and, accordingly, we beg the reader's indulgence with respect to this liberty, accompanied as it must be by its concomitant distortions.

"You are not Kur,” said Cabot.

"I am Kur,” he said.

Cabot's interlocutor surely wore Kur harness, though he was not armed, not even with the small throwing ax, or night ax, commonly used in approaching isolated sentries, and such.

"No,” said Cabot.

This conversation was at the time being conducted by means of the interlocutor's translator, clipped to the harness. The device may then be carried or not, as one desires, and, when carried, does not impede movement. This particular model was disklike, and with a diameter of less than two hort. It would fit easily into the palm of even a human.

"Why do you say that?” inquired the interlocutor.

"I think,” said Cabot, “you could speak Gorean."

"I am not to blame for my defects,” he said.

You see the interlocutor's voice was somewhat other than that of the Kur, though surely Kurlike.

But that had been part of the experiment.

The first time the brunette had seen the interlocutor she had screamed and scrambled back, to the end of her chain, as close as she could to the rear wall of the stall.