John Norman - Rogue of Gor

“There are many reasons,” said Policrates. “One is that you are a man of Earth, and no man from that dismal, terrorized world, where men are mean and small, could have dared to enter this holding.”

“How do you know I am from Earth?” I asked.

“We know that from Beverly, a slave in this holding,” said Policrates.

“Nonetheless,” I said, “it was I who entered this holding and deceived you, in the guise of the courier of Ragnar Voskjard.”

“Impossible,” said Policrates.

“It is true,” I answered.

It angered me that Policrates and Kliomenes, and the others, could not even accept this possibility. Surely not every man of Earth was as meaningless, as trivial, as obedient, as unquestioning, as well trained, as emasculated and effete as their various political imprisonments demanded. I had little doubt but that somewhere on Earth, in spite of censorship, media control, manipulated education and outright political suppression, and the almost nonexistent channels for expressing alternative viewpoints, some males remained men. Not every man can forget he is a man, even when he is instructed to do so. Why, he might ask, should I forget it? Indeed, why should I not be a man? It is, after all, what I really am. You may not like it, but that does not make it wrong. Do you truly know better than nature? There seems no guarantee that the perversion of nature is more likely to lead to general human happiness than its recognition and celebration. Only in remaining true to nature can we remain true to ourselves. All else must be falsehood and pathology.

“I crossed swords with the courier of Ragnar Voskjard in the great hall,” said Kliomenes. “He was not unskilled. Jason of Victoria, on the other hand, does not know the sword.”

“Accordingly, it could not have been I?” I asked.

“Certainly not,” said Kliomenes.

“We have information,” said Policrates, “that it was the true courier of Ragnar Voskjard who came to the holding, independently of the evidence that it was he who gave us the topaz, which stone presumably could have been only in the possession of the true courier.”

“Information?” I asked.

“Which, further,” said Policrates, “has assured us that the true courier was captured, and is now being held by those in league with Tasdron and Glyco.”

Suddenly I began to understand what must be the case. Whoever had betrayed us must be, or be in contact with, the courier of Ragnar Voskjard, he who had tried to obtain the topaz from me on the wharves of Victoria. And it must have been he, or one in league with him, who had communicated with Policrates. Of course, the true courier would not wish it known that he had lost the topaz, that a false courier had gained access to the holding. The true courier, in this respect, was protecting himself. Doubtless he did not wish to be bound to the shearing blade of one of Ragnar Voskjard’s galleys. He could always maintain later that he had managed to escape from Tasdron’s confinement.

An idea suddenly sprang into my mind, one of a possible modality of escape for myself.

“No, it was I,” I said, but I faltered, or seemed to falter, as I said this.

Policrates smiled. “Do not be afraid, Master,” said the red-haired girl at my side. “No, Master,” said Bikkie, the dark-haired wench, so lasciviously active on my left, “you are only chained helplessly before your enemies.”

“Do you still maintain the pretense of having posed as the courier of Ragnar Voskjard?” inquired Policrates.

“Yes,” I said. “I mean, ‘It is not a pretense’ It was I!” I made my voice tremble, as though I had been found out.

“Beware,” said Policrates, “there are tortures in this holding to which you might be subjected other than the caresses of slave girls, the twisting of chains, of burning irons, of knives.”

The girls laughed.

“Make the fool writhe,” said Policrates. I gritted my teeth.

“Beverly!” called Policrates, sharply. I tried to control myself.

Then I saw she who had once been Beverly Henderson hurry into the room, commanded by her master.

She ran immediately to the tiles before the dais on which reposed the large, curule chair of Policrates. Swiftly she knelt there, head down, small and beautiful. She wore a tiny bit of yellow silk, a steel collar, and her brand. “Yes, Master,” she said.

“Rise, and turn about, Slave, and regard a prisoner,” said Policrates.

Gracefully, swiftly, the girl did so. She looked at me, startled. The girls, as she had entered, had desisted in their attentions to my body. They would resume their ministrations upon the indication of Policrates.

My fists clenched in the chains.

“Do you know him?” asked Policrates.

“Yes, my Master,” said the pirate’s slave. “He is Jason, from Victoria. Once he was of Earth, as I, your slave.”

Policrates lifted a finger and the girls about me again began to fondle, and to kiss and caress at my body.

Beverly, as her masters had chosen to call her, regarded me, unmoved.

“How do you regard the men of Earth?” Policrates asked her.

“I hold them in contempt,” she said.

“To whom do you belong?” asked Policrates.

“To Gorean men,” she said, “who are my natural masters.”

I tried to resist the caresses of the slave girls.

“Could you ever yield to one such as he?” asked Policrates.

“Never,” she said.

I looked at Beverly, the slave, standing on the tiles, bare foot, in the bit of silk, almost naked. The collar was very beautiful on her throat, and her dark hair, loose and soft, as a slave’s hair is commonly worn, was soft and lovely about her shoulders. I almost gasped at the sight of her beauty, the lineaments of her face, and the exquisite curves of her body.

I recalled, long ago, how we had met in a restaurant on Earth, and she had desired to speak intimately to me, of fears and dreams, and matters which troubled her. I suspected that there might have been at least one matter of which she had not spoken to me, to which she had perhaps implicitly alluded, but of which she had refused to explicitly speak. I wondered what it might have been.

Then I remembered how she had looked, with her hair drawn severely back, and fastened in a bun, but wearing a svelte, feminine, off-the-shoulder, white, satin-sheath gown. Too, she had worn a bit of lipstick and eye shadow, and had worn a tiny bit of perfume. On her feet had been golden pumps, fastened with a lace of golden straps. She had carried a small, silver-beaded purse. The linen had been very white, and the silver soft and lustrous in the flickering candlelight.

Had I been able to see her then as I was now enabled, by my Gorean experience, to see her now, I would have been able to see instantly through the trappings of her freedom to the slave beneath. I would have known for certain then as I knew for certain now that she belonged in the collar. Then, as now, though I was not able to recognize it clearly then, Beverly Henderson was the sort of woman who belonged to men, the sort of woman who should be put naked upon the block and sold to the highest bidder. What an exultant pleasure to own such a woman, and to have her at your bidding, your slave, among your treasures.

“This fellow claims to have impersonated the courier of Ragnar Voskjard, and to have deceived us all,” said Policrates to the girl.

The girl regarded me in astonishment, in disbelief. “That is absurd, Master,” she said.

“You were given to the courier of Ragnar Voskjard for the night, were you not?” asked Policrates.

“Yes, Master,” said the girl. “That was your command. You had me sent to his chambers.”

“Did he make you yield?” inquired Policrates.

“Yes, Master,” she said, head down. “He made me yield, and many times, and he made me yield totally, and abjectly, and as his full slave.”