John Norman: Conspirators of Gor

So please forgive me for addressing you, for speaking first.

Do not think me bold.

I assure you I have learned my place.

My master has taught it to me well.

Many women on my old world do not know their place. At one time I did not know it, but I know it now.

My master has taught it to me well.

I am content in my place, for it is where I belong.

I have been commanded to speak.

I must obey.

I have no choice, I am collared.

But, too, I wish to speak.

Suppose then, if you wish, if it is easier for you, that I have been admitted to your presence, unworthy though I am, and am kneeling before you, head down, naked if you wish, a meaningless, purchasable barbarian who, with your permission, begins to speak.

She will speak of cities, and secret places, of a metal box, a Metal Worker, of beasts, large, hirsute, and dangerous, of an underground workshop, of pride, ambition, and devotion, of warriors and slaves, of gold and steel, of cords, and silk, of ships and worlds.

And so she begins.

On my former world, Gorean, the Language, is spoken rarely, and then only secretly. That is another thing you may find difficult to understand. But even on your world there are places where Gorean is not spoken. Surely you know that. Too, on my former world we do not have the serums you take so much for granted, assuring youth and strength, youth and beauty, serums so readily available, so inexpensive and abundant, that you administer them thoughtlessly and routinely, even to such as I. On my old world, such things would buy cities and ransom Ubars. On the other hand, I have here seen disputes resolved with blades, fleet tabuk felled with arrows, men confronting larls with no more than spears. Time kept with sand and water. Your swiftest ships knifing the water, propelled by no more than wind and oars. How primitive this seems to me, this country of paradoxes, of marvels and anomalies. I have gathered that much of this has to do with the rulings of your gods, called Priest-Kings, reigning from the dark, palisaded Sardar. But we are told little of these things. They are not for such as we. Matters of such moment are not discussed with us, no more than with sleen or kaiila. We rage with curiosity, and learn that curiosity is not becoming to such as we. But perhaps, finally, you know as little of your gods, your sovereigns, or Priest-Kings, as we. But we do know they exist. I have seen melted stones, where their ships have landed.

I have spoken of those who lurk in the brush, so to speak, and who watch from the skies.

They have powers far beyond your keenest steel, your sharpest spears, your swiftest arrows.

And they desire your green, fresh, unspoiled world.

The least of them, the weakest and most defective, armed with engineering, technology, and weaponry, could destroy the finest bands and prides of your Scarlet Caste, could reduce the mightiest walls to rubble, burn your ships like kindling, demolish to dust the loftiest of your fortresses.

Your only protection against these Others, these Different Ones, the lurkers and watchers, are your gods, your Priest-Kings.

But what if they should tire of you, and desert you?

I was not brought here to be embroiled in intrigue. It was not my choice. I was brought here as most from my world, as animals for your markets, selected for qualities and attributes of interest to strong men, qualities and attributes for which strong men, historically, even on my old world, will bid and pay, those qualities and attributes so despised in us, and yet coveted, I think, by your free women, beauty, desirability, weakness, vulnerability, femininity, a readiness and longing for submission, an inevitability to become, in a man’s hands, the helpless, begging prisoner of our own passion, a desire to love and serve, to give all, to belong unstintingly and wholly, to be a sort of woman, meaningless and worthless, a man’s subdued, yielding, grateful, loving slave! And yet, put them in a collar, and see if they are different! Subject them to the suitable and uncompromising power of nature, to exposure on the platform, to cages and kennels, to thongs, to the chain and whip, to thorough, unqualified, absolute domination, and see if they do not hasten, quickly and gratefully, to press their lips to the sandals of masters!

“Slave,” she said. “Kneel!”

“You are not a free woman!” I said. “Are you so different from me? That bit of cloth you wear is as much a mockery of a garment as that which clings about me! Do I not see a metal circlet clasped close about your neck, which, I trust, is locked in place? If it is not, remove it, and I will kneel before you.”

“Barbarian!” she said.

“We are no different,” I said. “We are now the same, whether barbarian or Gorean!”

“No!” she said.

“I might sell for as much, or more than you!” I said.

She put her hands on her collar, her eyes flashing. “I was once free!” she said.

“So, too, once, on my world, was I!” I exclaimed.

“Liar!” she said. “See your upper left arm. You came here with that brand!”

“It is not a brand,” I said. “It is a medical thing, a trace, a mark, the residue of a medical procedure, called a vaccination.”

“It is a blemish,” she said.

“It is very tiny!” I said.

“By such things, tiny, betraying brands, marking them as slaves,” she said, “many barbarians are recognized.”

“They are not brands,” I said.

“Perhaps by such brands,” she said, “the hunters recognize slaves.”

“That is unlikely,” I said, “for women on my world do not rush about, unclothed.”

“What a liar, you are!” she said. “Many of your women are unveiled. Many times their arms are bared. I have seen slave garments exhibited which were concealed beneath the clothing of women on your world, obvious slave garments, garments so tiny, so soft, so smooth, so stimulating to the base, possessive instincts of men. And your hands and ankles might be noted on your world, or often so. And what of the beaches on your world, where slaves are exposed by their masters with little garmenture?”

“Few would be slaves,” I said.

“Then proto-slaves,” she said, “exhibiting themselves for prospective masters, displaying themselves brazenly, hoping that they might thereby come to the attention of masters.”

“I assure you,” I said, “my world is as complex as yours, perhaps more so.”

“In the markets,” she said, “I have seen chained barbarians exhibited in such garments.”

I did not respond. I was unfamiliar with such markets, save from the inside.

“To be sure,” she said, “only a fool would buy a clothed slave.”

I had, of course, as doubtless she had as well, been sold naked. Few such experiences are as telling in making clear to one one’s femaleness.

“Perhaps, on the other hand,” she said, “it is by such brands that the hunters mark out their picks, their selections, their prey, for a later, convenient acquisition, a preliminary, provisional mark, scarcely noticeable, which will do, until a more appropriate marking, in the pens.”

“No,” I said. “Such marks often go back to childhood.”

“They select them so young?” she said, interested.

“No,” I said. “And men of my world are often similarly marked.”

“Male silk slaves?” she said.

“Not at all,” I said.

“I have seen such milky, frightened things in the markets,” she said. “Some women like them. But they are men, of course, and there is always the danger that one of them, seeing here what men may be, may revert, and turn on one.”

“Many men on my world are capable of being masters,” I said, “and doubtless some are masters.”