John Norman - Swordsmen of Gor

“Your slave,” I said, “is badly in need of discipline.”

“As she has been treated this evening,” he said, “I think she is more aware than hitherto that she is a female.”

“It is unfortunate,” I said, “that some women must be reminded of that.”

“She thinks of herself as a man,” he said.

“She is mistaken,” I said. “Her thinking must be corrected.”

One could see clearly she was woman, even if she did not understand that, except perhaps in some peripheral sense.

Certainly she was nicely shaped. And I thought she might, given some instruction, and a sense of what it was to be a slave, sell well.

It is interesting, I thought, the Book of Woman. How few have opened that book. Is the seal, I wondered, so securely fastened? Is it truly so hard to break? How many women themselves have feared to open that book and read what is written there. But some do open the book, with whatever trepidation, and read what is written there. And then, page by page, they peruse the ancient text, and in it, ever more deeply, page by turning page, discover themselves, and I think there is no final page for that book, for the book is without an end, for it is the Book of Woman.

“She is from Earth, is she not?” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“As are you?”

“Yes,” he said. “But so, too, I gather, are you, and your slave. Your accents.”

“English,” I said.

“It seemed so,” he said.

“You are Canadian, or American?” I surmised.

“Canadian,” he said.

“Your slave,” I said, “is Canadian?”

“No,” he said. “She is American, from the eastern seaboard of America.”

“An excellent area for slaving, I understand,” I said.

“Perhaps,” he said. “I would not know.”

I recalled Peisistratus, who had sampled women from various nations and continents, had spoken highly of several areas, Canada, Australia, England, France, Germany, Japan, Taiwan, Hawaii, the southwest of the United States, its west coast, its eastern seaboard, and such. It was pleasant, he had remarked, to take beautiful, highly intelligent, sophisticated, civilized women, so often unhappy, some even stupidly at war with their sex, and teach them their collars.

“She is from New York City,” said Pertinax.

“Not originally,” I said. “Her accent is different. I lived there for a time.”

“Then from elsewhere,” he said.

“An immigrant to that metropolis,” I said, “perhaps from Cleveland, Cincinnati, Chicago, Los Angeles, San Francisco, or somewhere.”

“I do not know,” he said.

“Perhaps one determined and ambitious, and one not too scrupulous, one intending to achieve wealth and success at any cost.”

He smiled. “Yes,” he said.

“As many others,” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“And now,” said I, “she is in a collar on Gor.”

“Yes,” he said.

“But it seems she does not yet know the meaning of her collar,” I said.

“No,” he smiled.

“Teach it to her,” I said.

“You do not understand,” he said. “She is my superior. There are riches behind her. It is she who recruited me.”

“A slave has such power?” I asked.

“It would seem so,” he said.

“In two days, as I understand it, you are prepared to unravel this mystery for me?”

“We will leave in two days,” he said. “There is to be a rendezvous. I will conduct you to the place.”

“You think you will then be through with the matter?” I asked.

“Surely,” he said.

“You are entangled here,” I said.

He regarded me, uneasily, startled.

“No,” he said.

“We shall see,” I said.

“Should we not free Constantina?” he asked.

“Leave her where she is,” I said. “Let her squirm in the darkness and leaves, for a time. It will do her good.”

“Is that appropriate?” he asked.

“Quite,” I said, “as she is a slave.”

“Perhaps she will work herself free,” said Pertinax.

A small sound of mirth escaped Cecily.

Pertinax looked at her, puzzled.

“She was bound by a warrior,” I explained.

“I see,” said Pertinax.

“She might, of course,” I said, “be stolen, say, by some of the brigands to whom you have occasionally alluded, or, say, be dragged away, by a sleen, to be eaten in some secluded place.”

“We must bring her in, instantly,” said Pertinax, “and free her!”

“Shortly,” I said. “You know who I am, I take it.”

“You are a tarnsman,” he said, “one known as Tarl Cabot.”

“You have read my girl’s collar?” I inquired.

“No,” he said.

“You have been waiting for me,” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“I am Tarl Cabot,” I said. “That is of less interest, I take it, than the fact that I have ridden.”

“That you are a tarnsman, yes,” he said. “I think so.”

“Master!” said Cecily. “I hear a stirring outside.”

“Yes,” I said, “it is a sleen.”

“Master!” she cried.

“It has been there for a time,” I said.

“I cannot go out,” said Pertinax, turning white. “I am no hunter, no sleen master. I am no match for a sleen. It would kill me!”

“Do not be concerned,” I said. “I saw it when I went out. The sleen is a tenacious hunter. It clearly had another trail in which it was interested. At the most it will investigate your Constantina, poking her a bit with its snout, or such. In its hunt she will be no more than an inconvenience or distraction. It might not even be hungry. It is probably gone by now.”

“Bring her in,” said Pertinax. “I beg you!”

“She is only a slave,” I reminded him.

“Please!” he said.

“To be sure,” I said, “she will not be worth much on the block if she has been mauled by a sleen.”

“Please!” he insisted.

“I saw the beast,” I said. “I watched it. There is no danger.”

“Please!” he insisted.

“It was otherwise occupied,” I said.

“There might be another,” he said.

“The sleen is territorial,” I said. “It is unlikely there would be another in the vicinity.”

“Please! Please!” he said.

“Very well,” I said. I then left the hut and went to where I had left the girl. The sleen was gone, as I had anticipated. I could see a little, from one of the moons, which was ascendant, but not yet full. The leaves about her were muchly crushed, which suggested she had done, at least at first, a good deal of squirming and, as she could, rolling about. I also saw sleen tracks near her, and could smell sleen on the leaves. She had been unable to call attention to what she must have deemed her harrowing predicament, given the gag. One might have heard something if one were quite close to her. When I came to her she had fainted. I picked her up, and carried her into the hut, and Pertinax, gratefully, closed and bolted the door. I removed the bonds and gag from the unconscious girl and replaced the binding fiber in my pouch, and left the gag out, to dry. She murmured then, in misery, and, half-conscious, huddled, trembling, on the floor of the hut.

“Let us see more of her legs,” I suggested.

“No!” cried Pertinax.

I thrust up the tunic so that I could see more of her legs. She was nicely legged, but one expects that in a slave.

The girl whimpered, but, terrified, made no effort to readjust her tunic. It was as though she realized that various things might be done to her as others might please, and that she must abide their will.

Pertinax regarded her with visible excitement. Had he never seen a slave?

“It is late,” I suggested. “Perhaps we should retire.”

“There are blankets,” said Pertinax.