John Norman - Hunters of Gor

The Goreans, do not believe, incidentally, that the human being is a simple function of the independent variables of his environment. They have never endorsed the “hollow body” theory of human beings, in which a human being is regarded as being essentially a product of externalities. They recognize the human being has a genetic endowment which may not be, scientifically, canceled out in favor of the predilection of theories developed by men incompetent in physiology. For example, it would not occur to a Gorean to speak of the “role” of a female sparrow feeding her young or the “role” of a lion in providing meat for its cubs. Goreans do not see the world in terms of metaphors taken from the artificialities of the theater. It is certain, of course, that certain genetic endowments have been selected by environmental considerations, and, in this sense, the environment is a significant factor. The teeth of the lion have had much to do with the fleetness of the antelopes.

In Gorean thinking man and woman are natural animals, with genetic endowments shaped by thousands of generations of natural and sexual selection. Their actions and behavior, thus, though not independent of certain long-range environmental and sexual relationships, cannot be understood in terms of mere responses to the immediate present environment. The immediate environment determines what behavior will be successful, not what behavior is performed. Woman, like man, is the product of evolution, and, like man, is a complex genetic product, a product not only of natural selections but sexual selections. Natural selections suggest that a woman who wished to belong to a man, who wished to remain with him, who wished to have children, who wished to care for them, who loved them, would have an advantage, in the long run, as far as her genetic type was concerned, of surviving, over a woman who did not care for men, who did not wish for children, and so on. Female freedom, of a full sort, would not have been biologically practical. The loving mother is a type favored by evolution. It is natural then that in modern women certain instincts should be felt. The sparrow does not feed her young because the society has fooled her into playing that exploitative role. Similarly, sexual selection, as well as natural selection, is a significant dynamic of evolution, without which it is less comprehensible. Men, being stronger, have had, generally, the option of deciding on women that pleases them. If women had been stronger, as in the spiders, for example, we might have a different race.

It is not unlikely that men, over the generations, have selected out for breeding, for marriage, women of certain sorts. Doubtless women are much more beautiful now than a hundred generations ago. Similarly, a woman who was particularly ugly, threatening, vicious, stupid, cruel, etc., would not be a desirable mate. No man can be blamed for not wishing to make his life miserable. Accordingly, statistically, he tends to select out women who are intelligent, loving and beautiful. Accordingly, men have, in effect, bred a certain kind of woman. similarly, of course, is so far as choice had been theirs, women have tended to select out men who are, among other things, intelligent, energetic and strong. Few women, in their hearts, despite propaganda, really desire weak, feminine men. Such men, at any rate, are not those who figure in their sexual fantasies.

Goreans believe it is the nature of a man to own, that of a woman to be owned. I observed Verna’s women, no longer hers, but now the slaves of their masters, in the longboats.

Verna had given them their choice, had indeed forced the choice upon them. I wondered if, in the forest, she had expected any of them to return to her. She had had them clad in slave silk. She had had earrings put in their ears. Perhaps she had already gone her own way. Her women, now slaves, waited in longboats to be carried to the Rhoda, the Tesephone.

They had made their choice, to surrender to a man. They had yielded to their womanhood.

Verna would hunt alone in the forests. She would have her freedom. About her neck she wore the signet ring of Ar. She would be swift and free in the dark green glades. She would be alone. I wondered if, at times, she would lie in the darkness, clutching the ring of Marlenus, and twist, and weep. Her pride stood between herself, and her womanhood. Yet in the darkness, as she lay on the leaves in her lair, in her ears would glint the gold of earrings. She had not removed them. They had been fastened in her ears upon the order of Marlenus, when he had been her master. She would never forget, in her freedom, nor did she wish to do so, that she had been once his utter slave. Perhaps from time to time she would long for his collar and touch. She had made her choice, for her independence. She had not been exchanged that even for the throne of Ar. Her women had, too, made their choice. Verna was free. They were shamed, as slaves. I did not know which was happiest. They sat silently in the longboats, obedient. The hands of each were now being fastened behind her back. I saw Rena’s wrist secured. They, new slaves, were shy. But they did not seem unhappy. I wondered if any, as her wrists were drawn together behind her back and fastened together, regretted her decision. If she did, it was too late. The binding fiber was upon her. But they did not seem unhappy. They had yielded to their womanhood. They had surrendered themselves to bondage, and love. This gift, this choice, which she had refused for herself, Verna had given them.

Doubtless now, alone, somewhere within the forest, in freedom and solitude there was a panther girl. She hunted. Her name was Verna. I wished her well. I wondered if she might, sometime, trek to Ar, to call upon its Ubar, or if he, attending to his hunting in the northern forests, might once more chance upon her. I did not suppose it likely. “She is only a woman,” he had said. But he had given her the signet of Ar. I wondered if Verna knew that she who wore that ring about her neck was the Ubara of Ar.

“We have set the logs of the palisade in the form of a great beacon,” aid Thurnock.

I looked to the stony beach. There, high on the stones, rose the beacon, tier upon tier of crossed logs.

“Pour oil upon it,” I said.

“Yes, Captain,” he said.

Oil was poured.

I sat high on the beach, wrapped in blankets, in the captain’s chair, cold. I looked at the beacon.

Its light would be seen more than fifty pasangs at sea.

I turned back to the beach. My men stood about.

“Put the slave Rissia, before me, she who was of Hura’s band,” I said. I heard Ilene’s switch strike Rissia, twice across the back. Rissia stripped, her ankles, wrists and throat locked in the graceful chain and rings of the sirik, stumbled forward. She knelt before my chair, on the sand. Twice more fell Ilene’s switch, and I saw bloody stripes leap on the girl’s exposed back. Her knees were in the sand, her head was down.

“Withdraw,” I said to Ilene, who stood over Rissia in her white woolen slave tunic, herself barefoot, my collar at her throat. Ilene backed away, the switch still in her hand, to stand to one side.

“This woman,” said I to Thurnock, indicating Rissia, “remained behind in the camp of Sarus and Hura, when many of her fellow panther women were drugged.” Thurnock nodded.

“She had a bow,” I said, “ with an arrow to the string. It was her intention to defend her drugged sisters, to protect them.” “I see, Captain,” said Thurnock.

“She might have slain me,” I said.

Thurnock smiled.

“What should be her fate?”

“That,” said he, “is for my captain to decide.”

“Her act,” I asked, “does it not seem brave?”

“It does indeed, my captain,” said Thurnock.

“Free her,” I told him.