John Norman - Beasts of Gor

“Kneel,” said a guard.

The two slave girls immediately knelt, obedient to a master’s command.

My lovely captor regarded them with contempt.

The red hunter, he of the polar basin, had not knelt. Perhaps he did not speak Gorean well enough to understand the command. There are several barbarian languages spoken on Gor, usually in more remote areas. Also, some of the dialects of Gorean itself are aimost unintelligible. On the other hand, Gorean, in its varieties, serves as the lingua franca of civilized Gor. There are few Goreans who cannot speak it, though with some it is almost a second language. Gorean tends to be rendered more uniform through the minglings and transactions of the great fairs. Too, at certain of these fairs, the caste of scribes, accepted as the arbiters of such matters, stipulate that certain pronounciations and grammatical, formations, and such are to be preferred over others. The Fairs, in their diverse ways, tend to standardize the language, which might otherwise disintegrate into regional variations which, over centuries, might become mutually unintelligible linguistic modalities, in effect and practice, unfortunately, separate languages. The Fairs, and, I think, the will of Priest-Kings, prevents this.

“No,” said the red hunter. He had spoken in Gorean.

He was struck to his knees by the blows of spears. He looked up, angrily. “Free our tabuk!” he said.

“Take him away and put him to work on the wall,” said my lovely captor.

The man was dragged away.

“What have we here?” Sidney Anderson asked, regarding the two girls.

“Polar slaves, beasts of the red hunters,” said a man.

“Look up at me,” she said.

The girls looked into her eyes.

“You have the look of Earth girls,” said my captor, in English.

I thought her perceptive. They could still be distinguished from Gorean collar girls. There was still something about them which, to a discerning eye, betrayed their intricate, constricted Earth origin. Later, if they had the proper master or series of masters, it would no longer be possible to do this by sight. They would be betrayed then, if their teeth were not carefully inspected, only by their accent. A filling found in a tooth is usually a sign of an Earth girl. It is not an infallible sign, however, for not all Earth girls have fillings and some dental work is done upon occasion by the caste of physicians on Gorean girls. Cavities are rare in Goreans because of their simple diet and the general absence of cruel emotional stress, with its physiological and chemical consequences, during puberty. Gorean culture tends to view the body, its development, its appetites and needs, with congeniality. We do not grow excited about the growth of trees, and Goreans do not grow excited about the growth of people. In some respects the Goreans are, perhaps, cruel. Yet they have never seen fit, through lies, to inflict suffering on children. They seem generally to me to be fond of children. Perhaps that is why they seldom hurt them. Even slave children, incidentally, are seldom abused or treated poorly, and are given much freedom, until they reach their young adulthood. It is then, of course, that they are taught that they are slaves. Men come, and the young male is tied and taken to the market. If the young slave is a female she may or may not be sent to a market. Many young slave maidens are raised almost as daughters in a home. It is often a startling and frightening day for such a girl when, one morning, she finds herself suddenly, unexpectedly, put in a collar and whipped, and made to begin to pay the price of her now-blossomed slave beauty.

“Are you not Earth girls?” asked blue-eyed, auburn-haired Sidney Anderson of the two kneeling girls, in their short fur tunics, the strings on their throats, and tethers, their hands tied behind their backs.

“Yes! Yes!” said the blond girl suddenly, “Yes!”

Sidney Anderson, I conjectured, was the first. person on Gor whom they had met who spoke English.

“What are you?” asked Sidney Anderson.

“We are slaves, Mistress,” said the blond girl.

“What are your names?” asked my lovely captor.

“Barbara Benson,” said the blond girl. “Audrey Brewster,” said the dark-haired girl.

“I scarcely think,” said my captor, “that those names would have been given to you by an Indian.”

I had not really thought of the red hunter as an Indian, but I supposed this was true. The men of the polar basin are usually referred to as the red hunters in Gorean. Certainly they were culturally distinct from the red savages, tarn riders, of the countries north and east of the Thentis mountains, who maintained a feudal nobility over scattered agricultural communities of white slaves. Those individuals, more than the red hunters, I thought of as Indians. Yet, doubtless the red hunters, too, if one were to be strict about such matters, were Indian. On the other hand the children of the red hunters are born with a blue spot at the base of the spine and those of the red savages, or red tarn riders, are not. There is, thus, some sort of racial disaffinity between them. There are also serological differenees. Race, incidentally, is not. a serious matter generally for Goreans, perhaps because of the inter-mixtures of people. Language and city, and caste, however, are matters of great moment to them, and provide a sufficient basis for the discriminations in which human beings take such great delight.

The blond-haired girl looked up at Sidney Anderson. “I am Thimble,” she said.

“I am Thistle,” mid the dark-haired girl.

How beautiful they looked, kneeling, with their hands bound behind them.

“Are you not shamed to be slaves?” asked Sidney Anderson.

“Yes, yes!” wept the blond-haired girl. I remembered she had once worn the brief, denim shorts, raveled, and the man’s shirt, tied under her breasts.

“Good,” said Sidney Anderson.

They looked at her.

“Look at yourselves,” she said. “Consider your attire. You should be ashamed.”

“Are you going to free us?” breathed the blond-haired girl. Then she added, “—Mistress?”

Sidney Anderson regarded them with contempt.

“Some women,” she said, “should be slaves.”

“Mistress,” protested the blond-haired girl.

“I look upon you,” said Sidney Anderson, “and I see women who deserve to be only meaningless slaves.”

“Mistress!” protested the blond-haired girl.

“Take them away,” said Sidney Anderson.

“Do you want them killed?” asked a guard.

“Wash and comb them,” she said, “and then chain them in the long house for the guards.”

“It will be done,” said the man.

The girls were dragged away.

“Doubtless you have other girls, too,” I said, “kept for the men.”

“Those are the only two,” she said. “I have given orders that our sutlers not peddle slave sluts in the camp.”

“When I was captured,” I said, “a blond slave named Constance was taken, too. I would have thought she would have been brought here.”

“No,” said my lovely captor.

“Where was she taken?” I asked.

“I do not know,” she said..

She tugged on the rawhide leash I wore. Then she reached up and removed it from my neck, and coiled it, and replaced it on the ring on her belt.

“The sun is beautiful in your auburn hair,” I said.

“Oh?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Did you know that girls with auburn hair often bring higher prices on the slave block?” I asked.

“No,” she said, “I did not.” Then she said to guardsmen who stood about. “Take him to the whipping frame. Secure him there and beat him well. Use the snake. Then pen him and chain him. Tomorrow put him to work on the wall.”