Captive of Gor (2 page)

head. I tore at the pile on the rug. I would not lose consciousness. I must keep

my wits.

(pg. 8) I looked about the room.

My heart nearly stopped. It was empty.

I crawled to the telephone on the night table by the bed. I lifted it with great

care, that not the slightest sound be made. There was no dial tone. The cord

hung freely. Tears stung my eyes.

There was another phone in the living room, but it was on the other side of the

door. I was afraid to open the door. I glanced toward the bathroom. That room,

too, frightened me. I did not know what might be within it.

I had a small revolver. I had never fired it. I though of it only now. I leaped

to my feet and darted to the large triple chest at the side of the room. I

plunged my hand beneath scarves and slips in the drawer and felt the handle. I

cried with joy. I looked at the weapon, disbelievingly. I could not even sob, or

moan. I simply could not understand what had happened. Most of the weapon was a

shapeless lump of metal. It was almost as if it were a piece of melted, steel

chocolate. I dropped it back onto the silk. I stood up, numb, and looked at

myself in the mirror. I was defenseless. But my terror was not a simple terror.

I sensed that more had occurred to me than could be accounted for simply in the

terms of the world I knew. I was afraid.

I ran to the floor-length curtains before the huge window of my bedroom and

flung them open.

I looked out on the city.

It hung dark with the gases of pollution, made golden in the sunlight. I could

see thousands of windows, some with the sun reflecting from them, in the unreal

golden haze. I could see the great walls of brick, and steel and concrete and

glass.

It was my world.

I stood there for a moment, the sun streaming in upon me through the thick,

dirty glass.

It was my world!

But I stood behind the glass nude, on my throat a band of steel, which I could

not remove. On my thigh there was a mark.

(pg. 9) “No!” I cried to myself. “No!”

I turned away from the window and, stealthily, made my way to the door to the

living room, which was slightly ajar. I summoned all my courage, and opened the

door slightly more. I almost fainted with relief. The room was empty. Everything

was as I had left it.

I ran to the kitchen, which I could see from the living room, and threw open a

drawer. I took out a butcher knife. I turned wildly, my back to the counter,

holding the knife, but there was nothing.

With the knife in my hand I felt more secure. I returned to the living room, and

the phone on the end table. I cursed as I saw that the cord had been severed.

I examined the penthouse. The doors were locked. The house was empty, and the

patio on the terrace.

My heart was beating wildly. But I was elated. I ran to the wardrobe to dress,

to leave the house and summon the police.

Just as I reached the wardrobe there was a heavy, firm knocking on the door.

I turned, grasping the knife.

The knocking was repeated, more insistently.

“Open the door,” commanded a voice. “This is the police.”

I almost fainted with relief. I ran toward the door, still holding the knife.

At the door I stopped, clutching the knife, terrified.

I had not called the police. In the penthouse it was not likely anyone had heard

me scream. I had not tried to signal anyone when I had found the phones had been

destroyed. I had only wanted to escape.

Whoever was on the other side of that door could not be the police.

The knocking repeated again.

My head swam.

Then the knocking became even louder. “Open the door!” I heard. “Open the door.

This is the police!”

I controlled myself. “Just a moment,” I called, as calmly as I could. “I’ll open

the door in a moment. I’m dressing.”

The knocking stopped.

(pg. 10) “All right,” said a voice. ”Hurry.”

“Yes,” I called sweetly, sweating. “Just a moment!”

I ran into the bedroom and looked wildly about. I seized some sheets from a

linen closet, feverishly knotting them together. I ran to the terrace. I felt

sick, looking over the ledge. But some fifteen feet below me was a small

terrace, one of hundreds projecting from the sides of the building. It opened

into the apartment below me. In the sun, the air stinging my eyes, particles of

soot and ash falling on me, I knotted one end of the rope of sheets securely

about a small iron railing that surmounted a waist-high wall around the patio

and terrace. The other end fell well down to the small terrace below. Had I not

been terrified I would never have had the courage to do what I intended.

The knocking had now began again on the door. I could sense the impatience in

the sound.

I ran back into the bedroom to seize something to wear but as I entered the room

I heard a man’s shoulder strike at the heavy door.

I had seen on the patio that I could not carry the knife down the rope of sheets

with me, for I would have to use both hands. Perhaps I should have held it

between my teeth but, in my panic, I did not think of it. I was in the bedroom

when I heard the door begin to splinter in, away from the hinges and the lock.

Wildly I thrust the knife beneath the pillow on my bed and ran back to the

patio. Not looking down, terrified, I seized the rope of sheets and, scarcely

breathing, sick to my stomach, hand over hand, began to lower myself. I had

disappeared over the ledge when I heard the door splinter fully away and heard

men enter the apartment. As soon as I reached the terrace below, only a few feet

away, I would be safe. I could attract the attention of the individuals in the

apartment below or, if necessary, with a chair, or implement, or whatever might

be found, break through the glass of their apartment.

Above me from within the penthouse, I heard an angry cry.

I could hear noises from the street, far below. I did not dare look down.

(pg. 11) Then my feet touched the tiles of the terrace below.

I was safe!

Something soft, folded and white slipped over my head, before my eyes. It was

shoved deeply into my mouth. Another folded piece of cloth passed over my head.

It was knotted tightly behind the back of my neck.

I tried to cry out but could not do so.

“We have her,” I heard a voice say.

3
     
Silken Cords

(pg. 12) I stirred uneasily, shaking my head. It was a bad dream. “No, no,” I

murmured, twisting, wanting to awaken. “No, no.”

It seemed as though I could not move as I wished. I did not like it. I was

displeased. Angry.

Then, suddenly, I was awake. I screamed, but there was no sound.

I tried to sit upright, but I nearly strangled, and fell back. I struggled

wildly.

“She’s awake,” said a voice.

Two men, masked, stood at the foot of the bed, facing me. I heard two others

speaking in the living room.

The two men who had been at the foot of the bed turned and left the room, going

to the living room to join the others.

I struggled fiercely.

My ankles had been bound together with light, silken cords. My wrists had also

been bound together, but behind my back. a loop of the silken cord had been

fastened about my neck, and by it I was bound to the head of the bed.

I could see myself in the mirror. The strange mark, drawn in lipstick, was still

on the mirror’s surface.

I tried to scream again, but I could not. My eyes, I could see in the mirror,

were wild over the gag.

I continued to struggle, but after some moments, hearing men returning to the

room, stopped. Through the open door, I saw the backs of two men, in police

uniforms. I could not see their faces. The two men with masks re-entered the

room.

(pg. 13) They looked upon me.

I wanted to plead with them, but I could make no sound.

I drew up my legs and turned to my side, to cover myself as well as I might.

One of the men touched me.

The other uttered a brief sound, abrupt. The other man turned away. The sound

had been a word, doubtless of negation. I did not know the language.

The men had not ransacked the penthouse. The paintings remained on the walls,

the oriental rugs on the floors. Nothing was touched.

I saw the man who had turned away, who seemed to be a subordinate, remove what

appeared to be a fountain pen from a leather holder in his pocket. He unscrewed

it, and I was startled. It was a syringe.

I shook my head wildly, no!

He entered the needle on my right side, in the back between my waist and hip.

It was painful. I felt no ill effects.

I watched him replace the syringe in its holder, and the holder in his inside

jacket pocket.

The larger man looked at his watch. He spoke this time in English to the smaller

man, he who had had the syringe. The larger man spoke with a definite accent,

but I could not place the accent.

“We will return after midnight,” he said, “It will be easier then. We can reach

point P in five hours with less traffic. And I have other business to attend to

this evening.

“All right,” said the smaller man. “We’ll be ready then.” There had not been the

slightest trace of an accent in the smaller man’s response. I had no doubt that

his native tongue was English. He perhaps had difficulty following the natural

speech of the other. But when the other had spoken to him, curtly, in the

strange tongue, he had obeyed, and promptly. I gathered he feared the larger

man.

The room began to grow a bit dark at the edges.

The larger man came behind me and felt the pulse of one of my bound wrists.

(pg. 14) Then he released me.

The room seemed to grow darker, and warmer. I tried to keep my eyes open.

The larger man left the room. The smaller lingered. He went to the night table

and took one of my cigarettes and with one of my tiny, fine matches, imported

from Paris, lit it.

He threw the match into the ash tray. He touched me again, this time intimately,

but I could not cry out. I began to lose consciousness. He blew smoke into my

eyes and noes, leaning over me. I struggled weakly against the bonds, fighting

to stay conscious.

I heard the larger man’s voice, from the doorway it seem, but it seemed, too,

from far away.

The smaller man hurriedly left my side.

The larger man entered the room, and I turned my head weakly to regard him. I

saw the two men in the uniforms of police leaving the penthouse, followed by the

smaller man, who, as he left the house, was drawing the mask from his head. I

did not see his face.

The larger man was looking down at me. I looked up at him, weakly, almost

unconscious.

He spoke to me matter-of-factly. “We will return after midnight,” he told me.

I struggled weakly to speak, fighting the gag, the drug. I only wanted to sleep.

“You would like to know,” he asked, “what will happen to you then?”

I nodded.

“Curiosity,” he said, “is not becoming in a Kajira.”

I did not understand him.

“You might be beaten for it,” he said.

I could not understand.

“Let us say simply,” he said, “that we will return after midnight.” Through the

mouth hole in the mask I saw his lips twist into a smile. His eyes, too, seemed

to smile. “Then,” he said, “you will be drugged again.” “And then,” he added,

“you will be crated for shipment.”

(pg. 15) He left the room.

I pulled at the cords that bound me, and lost consciousness.

* * *

I awakened in the bed, still bound.

It was dark. I could hear the noises of the city’s night traffic through the

door open to the patio and terrace. Through the open curtains I could see the

tens of thousands of bright rectangles of windows, many of them still

illuminated. The bed was drenched in sweat. I had no idea of the time. I knew

only it was night. I rolled over to see the alarm clock on the vanity, but the

face had been turned to one side.

I struggled with my bonds, wildly. I must free myself!

But after a few precious minutes of futile struggle I lay bound as perfectly as

I had been earlier in the afternoon.

Then suddenly new sweat broke out on my body.

The knife!

Before the men had burst into the penthouse I had thrust it beneath the pillow.

I rolled on to my side and, bound, lifted the pillow away with my teeth. I

almost fainted with relief. The knife lay where I had left it. On the satin

sheet I struggled to move the knife, with my mouth and the back of my head,

toward my bound hands. It was a painful, frustrating task, but inch by quarter

inch, I moved it downward. Once it fell to the floor and inwardly I cried out

with anguish. Almost choking, from the loop on my throat, I slid half out of the

bed and felt for the knife with my feet. My ankles had been crossed and lashed

securely together. It was extremely difficult to pick up the knife. It fell

again, and again. I cursed the neckrope that bound me to the head of the bed. I

wept. Far below, in the streets, I heard the siren of a fire engine, and the

other noises of the city night. I struggled, gagged and bound, silently,

torturedly. At last I managed to get the knife to the foot of the bed. With my