John Norman: Mariners of Gor

“No!” I cried.

“I assume she is the one you had in mind,” he said.

“She is no longer there?” I said. “Are you sure? Perhaps she was not on the floor at the time.”

“No,” he said. “She was sold.”

“When?” I asked.

“Does it matter?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“Recently,” he said.

“Aiii!” I moaned. I sank to my knees beside the door, my head in my hands. My body shook with sobs.

“Master!” breathed Alcinoe, concerned.

“Please,” said Callias, embarrassed.

“Forgive me,” I said.

“It is only a slave,” he said.

“Of what value is this?” I said, looking down at the tiny golden tarsk in my hand.

“Something like a hundred silver tarsks,” said Callias.

With a cry of anger and frustration I cast the golden tarsk to the end of the room.

It was retrieved by Callias.

Alcinoe had not stirred. A slave, commonly, may not touch money without permission.

Callias thoughtfully placed the coin in my purse.

“Thank you,” I said.

“These things are not to be thrown about,” he said.

“No,” I said.

“Forget her,” said Callias.

“No,” I said.

“You can buy another,” said Callias.

“I do not want another,” I said. “All my life I have waited for one such as she.”

“And then,” said Callias, “you found her.”

“In one brought from a far world,” I said.

“A mere barbarian,” he said.

“What is a barbarian,” I asked, “other than one whose native tongue is not Gorean?”

“Oh, much more than that,” said Callias. “One lacking civilization, or derived from some civilization which is unnatural and inferior, perhaps one which is complex, selfish, polluted, crowded, and uncaring, one unfamiliar with suitable customs and proprieties, with codes and castes, with literature, music, and poetry.”

“Gorean literature, music, and poetry,” I said.

“I knew a barbarian once,” said Callias, “who not only lacked a Home Stone, but did not know what a Home Stone was.”

“That is more serious,” I granted him. “I am sure she knows now!”

“But a slave is not permitted one,” he said, “no more than a verr, a tarsk or kaiila.”

“True,” I said.

“There are places, I am told, on the world, Earth, where free women do not veil themselves.”

“Shameless,” I said.

“You know why that is, do you not?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“Because they are slaves,” he said. “They bare their features that men may look upon them, and scrutinize them, and ponder them, and assess them, and consider them as what they are, as slaves.”

“Perhaps,” I said.

“And do you not think their men do not strip them in their minds, imagine them naked in collars, and consider what they might pay for them?”

“Perhaps,” I said. “I do not know.”

“Do you not do the same with free women,” he asked. “Do not we all, perhaps glimpsing an ankle, a bared wrist, a fluttering veil, the turn of a hip within the robes of concealment?”

“Master!” protested Alcinoe.

“Be quiet, girl,” said Callias.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“You are attractive in your tunic,” said Callias, “but I think we may shorten it, considerably.”

“As Master wishes,” she said.

“Also,” he said, “there are many of these slaves brought to Gor who do not even know how to please a man, are ignorant even of the dances of slaves.”

“They may be taught,” I said.

“I would conjecture that your little barbarian,” he said, “knows nothing of the dances of slaves.”

“She could be taught,” I said.

“Do you think she might look well, writhing before you, hoping to please her master, fearing your whip did she not do so?”

“I would think she would look quite well,” I said.

“Has she not in her imagination, many times, naked and in a collar, so danced, danced as a slave before men, fearing their whips?”

“I do not know,” I said.

“She has,” said Callias. “That was clear in her expressions, in her movements, in the tavern. She is a slave.”

“You think so?” I said.

“She is a slave to the core, awaiting her master.”

“And she is gone, sold!” I said.

“Poor, dear Master,” breathed Alcinoe.

“There will never be another,” I said.

“And there need not be another,” he said.

“What?” I said.

“Alcinoe,” he said, “are your thighs hot?”

“That is not all that is hot, my Master!” she whispered.

“I take it you are well lubricated,” he said, “and are oiling nicely?”

“Yes, Master!”

“Are you ready to squirm as the slut you are?” he asked.

“Yes, Master!” she said.

“Do you beg to do so?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said. “Yes, Master!”

“My dear friend,” said Callias to me, “as I recall, you mentioned you might arrange some bedding.”

“It is at the side of the room,” I said.

“Perhaps you might spread it for us,” said Callias.

“What?” I said.

“We are your guests,” he said.

“It is right there,” I said, pointing.

“And you are our host,” he said.

“You have spent several nights here,” I said. “Is it suddenly so inaccessible?”

“Please,” said Callias.

“Very well,” I said.

I moved toward the bedding.

“Wait!” I said.

“What?” he said.

“We shall learn her fate,” I said. “In the morning, we will venture to The Sea Sleen , find out to whom she was sold, contact him, and buy her back!”

“She had no papers,” said Callias. “The transaction was informal. She is nameless. It would be difficult to trace her. Moreover, it seems she was not purchased by one of Brundisium, but by an itinerant, one bound abroad.”

“Surely there is a name,” I said.

“Apparently,” said he, “no name was given.”

“We must watch the gates,” I said, “the piers!”

“All of them?” he asked.

“What shall we do?” I asked.

“I would think about retiring,” he said. “Is there not the matter of the bedding?”

“I trust that you will enjoy Alcinoe,” I said.

“I intend to,” he said.

“Please, hurry, Master,” said Alcinoe.

“Do not be bitter,” he said. “Remember that your paga girl is only a slave.”

“So, too, then,” I said, “is your Alcinoe.”

“Yes, yes,” said Alcinoe. “Please, Master.”

“You are quite right,” he said. “Alcinoe is, of course, only a slave, but one must note, as well, that she is different, perfect, wonderful, unique, special, and incomparable, unparalleled, and the most desirable woman on all Gor.”

“Please,” said Alcinoe, “please, Master!”

“To you,” I said.

“Surely you acknowledge she is quite nice,” he said.

“Yes,” I said, “she is quite nice.”

“The bedding, the bedding,” he said.

I reached down, angrily, seizing the first covering to hand, one of the down-filled comforters, for I could not afford furs, and lifted it back.

“Aii!” I cried.

“I expect to be leaving in a few days,” he said. “I do want to see the River Dragon sail.”

“You are an itinerant,” I said, “one bound abroad!”

“Yes,” he said, “one soon bound abroad.”

“You gave no name,” I said.

“No,” he said, “but I suppose some might have recollected it, from before.”

The large, soft eyes of the girl were frightened, looking up at me. She squirmed a little, but was helpless. She was naked, of course, and bound, hand and foot. I turned her quickly, exposing the left thigh, high, just under the hip. She was kefed, the letter nicely entered into her thigh. How beautiful is the kef ! And how meaningful, recognized on all Gor. I then put her to her back. She pulled at her bound wrists; her small ankles were crossed, and thonged closely together, as had been her wrists. She was not collared, but such an oversight may be remedied quickly, at the shop of any Metal Worker. I already had one in mind, he closest to my dwelling, scarcely yards away. I would have to have a slave ring put in, and buy some chains, rope, binding fiber, slave bracelets, perhaps ankle rings, and, surely, an attractive leash. In time, if she proved satisfactory, I might even consider a tunic, or two, the sort of tunic men choose for owned women. I doubted if, when on her own world, her old world, that no longer her world, as she was now of Gor, she had anticipated her present helplessness, and the absoluteness of her new condition, that of a Gorean kajira .