Magicians of Gor (40 page)

He picked up what was left of it.

She looked up from my feet, frightened. “Surely you will keep me, or buy me!”

she said.

“No,” I said.

“But it is to you, or to one such as you that I must belong!” she wept.

I did not speak.

“It is for such as you that women such as I exist!” she wept.

I did not speak.

“Without one such as you,” she wept, “I cannot obtain my happiness, my

completion, my fulfillment!”

I remained silent.

“I am at your feet!” she wept, “branded, collared, legally enslaved! I am

helpless! Take pity on me! Surely you will not deny me the fulfillments of my

condition!”

“Kneel,” I said. “You will return to your master.”

She screamed in misery. “Woe!” she wept. “This is my punishment, more grievous

than the leather!”

“But he is kind, noble, liberated and enlightened,” I reminded her.

“Woe!” she wept. “Woe!”

“Be the most abject and loving of slaves,” I said. “Crawl at his feet. Weep for

his mercy. Beg to serve him in the most intimate modalities of the slave girl.”

“But he would lift me from my knees and chide me for my needs,” she said. “He

wants me to act like a man! I think he may want to relate a man, truly, but is

afraid to do so. So he wants me to pretend to be one, or be like one. I do not

know. I think he is afraid of a true woman, and what she is like. Perhaps he

fears he is not man enough to satisfy here in the full spectrum of her needs, in

her subtlety, depth and complexity. I do not know! Perhaps he is only weak,

perhaps he is one of only infrequently active and diminutive drives. Perhaps he

is emotionally shallow, unready to sound the depths of oceans, to measure the

heights of a hundred skies. Perhaps it is all very simple. Perhaps he only lacks

health, or virility, through no fault of his own. I do not know! Whatever it is,

please do not send me back to him!”

(pg. 233) “You will relate to him differently than you ever have before,” I

said. “Utterly differently. You will now be to him a true and perfect slave

girl. You will be docile, dutiful and hardworking. You will serve, and be eager

to serve, in all things. You will present yourself before him as a female slave,

and crawl to him, the whip in your teeth. Surely he will understand this. You

will petition to serve his pleasure, you will beg to squirm for him, and as the

insignificant and meaningless slut, a mere slave, you now are.”

She looked at me, clutching the remains of her tunic before her.

“I shall do as you say, Master,” she said.

“And you may discover he is not the weakling you think,” I said. “And you may

find he will take the whip from your teeth and perhaps stand over you and howl

with pleasure, sensing the joy of the mastery. You may even be struck with it,

as he takes control of you, for the first time. Yes, you may even be put under

the lash, that he punish you for what you have denied him before, and that he

confirm upon you, and you be instructed in, and fully, the new relationship in

which you stand to him.”

“But what if he is weak?” she begged.

“Continue to serve him, in the fullness of your slavery, begging him for the

least of his kisses, the most casual of his caresses.”

“Yes, Master,” she said, tears in her eyes.

“Even such small attentions, as you will discover, now that you have become

sensitized to your slavery, will be precious to you.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

I did not doubt but what she would soon be feeling the fullness of her needs,

now that they were in the process of being liberated. In the pens it is not

unusual for girls to bleed at the fingernails, from scratching at the walls of

their kennels, or to bruise their lovely bodies against the bars of their cages,

trying to reach out to a guard, it only to touch his sleeve. Sometimes a girl is

deprived of attention for two or three days before her sale, that she will show

well on the block, her body, and person, and aspect a helpless, piteous plea of

need.

“If he continues to be inert,” I said, “if he cannot be awakened or aroused, or

fears to be, or does not wish to be perhaps because of hostility toward you, or

toward women, generally, he will presumably grow uneasy with you in the house

and give you away, or sell you. Perhaps he will even (pg. 234) trade you for a

less needful woman, or one more in accord with his needs, whatever they might

be.”

“But what if he is stupid?” she asked.

“Beg him then to sell you, or give you away,” I said, “that you may, if only in

being sold off the block, come into the collar of another, one capable of

satisfying what you are, a slave.”

“But what if he will not sell me, or give me away?” she said. “What if he

insists on keeping me, as he is, and as I now am? What if he will keep me only

according to his own rules, and lights, and keep me from myself, denying me to

myself, frustrating my deepest and most profound need, as I am?’

“Then,” said I, angrily, “that is how it will be, for it is you who wear the

collar. He is the master. You are the slave.”

“Yes, Master,” she sobbed.

“But do not fear,” I said. “I am certain, sooner or later, you will come into

the possession of one who will not only accept your slavery, in its beauty, in

its tenderness and needfulness, in its honesty and truth, but will celebrate it

and relish it, and for whom you will be a treasure, an incredible and marvelous

treasure, to be sure, one to be kept under the closest of disciplines.”

“Yes, Master,” she said, smiling through her tears.

“Rise up now, slave girl,” I said, “and hurry to your master!”

“Yes, Master!” she said.

Clutching her tunic about her as best she could, she then rose up and hurried

from the place of the public boards.

“I think she will make an excellent slave,” said a man.

“Yes,” said another.

I myself, too, thought that that was true. It is a beautiful moment when a woman

come to learn, and love, what she is, when she comes to understand herself, and

has the courage to accept this understanding, when in joy the ice breaks in the

rivers, when the glaciers melt, the spring comes, when she loves and kneels.

“It is a good thing you did here,” said a man.

“For the girl?” I asked.

“She is only a slave,” he said. “I mean for the men here.”

“Oh,” I said.

“You had an opportunity here to strike a blow for Cos, to humiliate the men of

Ar, to further reduce and degrade them, to force them to submit even to the

insolence and arrogance of slaves, to further subdue and crush them, to remind

them of their sorry lot, their political and military weakness, of the loss of

their goods, their city and pride, to injure them, to strike yet (pg. 235)

another blow at their staggering manhood, yet you did not do so. Rather you

encouraged it, you permitted it to grow, if only a little. Word of this will be

in all the taverns by nightfall!”

“Cos will not be pleased,” warned a man.

“It is dangerous in these times to remind men of their past glories.”

“What if we should be tempted to reclaim them?” asked another.

“Surely you understand how dangerous is the thing you do?” said another.

“How is it that you are in the fee of Cos?” asked another, indicating the

armbands of Marcus and myself.

“Men may be in the fee of Cos,” I said.

“True,” said a fellow.

“Surely you are of Ar,” said a man.

“No,” I said. “I am of Port Kar.”

“It is a lair of pirates,” said a fellow, “a den of cutthroats.”

“There is now a Home Stone in Port Kar,” I said.

“That is more than there is in Ar,” said a man.

“If you are of Port Kar,” said a man, “I say ‘Glory to Port Kar!’”

“Glory to Port Kar!” whispered another.

“Your fellow is surely of Ar,” said another.

“No, his fellow is not,” said Marcus, angrily. “I am of Ar’s Station! Glory to

Ar’s Station!”

“The city of traitors?” asked a man.

Marcus’ hand flew to the hilt of his sword, but I placed my hand quickly over

his.

“Ar’s Station is no city of traitors!” said he. “Rather by those of Ar she was

betrayed!”

“Enough of this,” I said.

“If you are of Ar’s Station,” said the fellow who had spoken before, “I say,

‘Glory, too, to Ar’s Station!’”

Marcus relaxed. I removed my hand from his.

“Glory to Port Kar, and Ar’s Station!” said a man.

“Yes!” said another.

“Glory, too, to Ar,” I said.

“Yes!” whispered men, looking about themselves. “Glory to Ar!”

I heard the ripping down of a sheet from the public boards and saw a young

fellow casting it aside. Then, with a knife, he scratched a delka, deeply, into

the wood. He turned to face us and brandished the knife. “Glory to Ar!” he

cried.

“Gently, lad,” I said.

Who knew who might hear?

(pg. 236) Spies could be anywhere.

“I would cry out!” he said.

“The knife is no less a knife,” I said, “because it makes no sound.”

“Glory to Ar!” grumbled the lad, and sheathed the knife, and stalked away.

We regarded the delka.

“Glory to Ar!” whispered men. “Glory to Ar!”

I was pleased to see that not all the youth of Ar were in the keeping of Cos,

that in the hearts of some at least there yet burned the fire called patriotism.

Too, I recalled some would take the oath of citizenship only facing their Home

Stone, now in far-off Cos. Others, in the streets and alleys, I speculated,

could teach their elders courage.

“You spoke,” I said to a man, “of a veteran who was to have been taken in for

questioning, who drew forth a concealed weapon, who slew two Cosians, and

disappeared.”

“Yes,” said a man.

“Know you his name?” I asked.

“Plenius,” said a man.

I found that of interest, as I had known a Plenius in the delta. To be sure,

there are many fellows with that name.

I looked again to the defiant delka cut into the boards.

“I do not think I would care to be found in the presence of this delka,” I said,

“so prominent on the public boards, so freshly cut.”

“True,” said more than one man.

The crowd dissipated.

Marcus regarded the delka.

“I fear reprisals,” he said.

“Not yet,” I said. “That is contrary to the fundamentals policy of the

government. The whole pretense here is that Cos is a friend and ally, that she

and Ar, in spite of the earlier errors of Ar’s ways, so generously forgiven now,

are as sisters. This posture is incompatible with reprisals. It is one thing to

tax, expropriate and confiscate in the name of various rights and moral

principles, all interestingly tending to the best interests of particular

parties, and quite another to enact serious reprisals against a supposedly

allied cititzenry.”

“But sooner or later, surely, as you put it, Cos must unsheath her claws.”

“I fear so,” I said. “But by that time hopefully you will be free of the city

with the Home Stone of Ar’s Station.”

“And when will you begin to work on this portion of your plan?” he asked.

(pg. 237) “We have already been doing so,” I said.

“Ho!” I cried out, hailing a squad of Cosian regulars. “Here! Here!”

They hurried across the avenue to the boards.

“Behold!” I said.

“Another cursed delka!” snapped the officer.

“And on the boards,” I said.

“Have you been here long?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“Did you see who did this?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“The cowards are fled,” he said, looking about.

“They are all urts,” said the subaltern.

“It is only a delka,” I said.

“There are too many about,” said the officer.

“It is all they can do,” laughed the subaltern.

The officer studied the delka.

“It was cut deeply, swiftly,” he said, “with strength, probably in hatred.”

“These signs are doubtless the works of only a few,” said the subaltern.

“But they may be seen by many,” said the officer.

“There is nothing to fear,” said the subaltern.

“I will have this board replaced,” said the officer.

“Shall we continue our rounds?” I asked the officer.

“Yes,” said the officer.

Marcus and I turned about then, and continued as we had been originally, south

on the Avenue of the Central Cylinder.

“What will be the move of Cos?” asked Marcus.

“The city championships in the palestrae games will take place soon,” I said.

“So?” asked Marcus.

“That is her overt move, that things should proceed as though nothing had

happened, as though nothing were afoot.”

“I see,” he said.

“And in the meantime, I expect,” I said, “she will turn her attentions to

matters of internal security.”

“The officer was not pleased to see the delka,” said Marcus.

“Do you think he was afraid?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I do not think so.”

“Perhaps he would have been more afraid if it had been cut with more care, with

more methodicality.”

“Perhaps,” said Marcus.

“It is one thing to deal with sporadic protest,” I said. “It is another to deal

with a determined, secret, organized enemy.”

(pg. 238) “Like the Cosian propagandists, infiltrators and spies during the

war?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.