Conspirators of Gor (22 page)

I trusted that the sales were over.

There was, at least, a lacuna in the proceedings.

Might I not now be returned to the house?

I had not been offered, so I should not be beaten, having not been sold.

Some men, I was pleased to note, had now turned away, and were leaving the vicinity of the block. Two others, however, I noted, were crossing the street, approaching.

Then the slaver’s man had entered the cell, and, taking me by the left wrist, drew me after him, and I was beyond the portal, and in the short passage, and then I was in the sunlight, outside, and I felt the nap of the worn, faded, scarlet rug beneath my bare feet. I blinked against the light, and put down my head. Then I felt the switch of the auctioneer beneath my chin, and I lifted my head, and opened my eyes, looking over the heads of the men.

Much of what then went on remains a blur. At times I did not even understand the auctioneer. This was doubtless in part a function of my Gorean, which was new, and limited, with its unfamiliar grammar, and my vocabulary consisting at that time of only a few hundred words, but, too, I think, part of it was an unwillingness, or refusal, to understand what was being said, or done. My native tongue is called “English,” and I am not sure that I would have allowed myself to understand the auctioneer even had he been speaking in that tongue. I had, incidentally, interestingly, understood him quite well, almost always, when he was vending others. To be sure, even if I had known not a word of Gorean, but had found myself somehow on that platform, so clad, so regarded, perhaps having been magically transported from my own world, wafted away, somehow, from chatting, strolling, or shopping, it would not have been difficult to understand what was occurring. I was a female being sold.

The auctioneer was not cruel with me.

The sale proceeds in three phases, in each of which the girl is turned, and exhibited, first in the brief sheet, then, the sheet removed, in the tunic, and, lastly, neither in the sheet nor tunic. The whole process takes no more than a few Ehn. I understood matters in disjointed patches of intelligibility. I did learn, for the first time, that I had been brought from the House of Tenalion, apparently a slaver of Ar. I was clearly identified as a barbarian, which I sensed was of some interest to the men. To be sure, I have gathered that we are no longer the novelties in the markets that we once were. Strictly, a “barbarian,” I have been given to understand, is one whose native tongue is not Gorean, a language spoken pervasively but not universally on your world. The pervasiveness of Gorean on your world, as I understand it, has something to do with your gods, the Priest-Kings, laired in the Sardar Mountains. These beings, it seems, encourage Gorean, perhaps that they might the more conveniently make known their will on this world. The caste of Initiates, it is said, act as the intermediaries between Priest-Kings and men, appointing festivals, prophesying, uttering oracles, accepting offerings, selling blessings, performing sacrifices, and such. Much remains unclear, however, as I understand it, concerning the actual relationship, if any, between the Initiates and the Priest-Kings. It is clear, however, that the Priest-Kings are not to be taken lightly. Violations of their weapon, transportation, and communication laws are often, when discovered, followed by sanctions of fearsome import, the destructions of cities, the seizures and flingings of tides, the melting of mountains, the geysers and floodings of fiery magma, inexplicable bursts of flame, and such. The standardization of Gorean is accomplished largely in virtue of the meetings of Scribes four times a year on the neutral ground of the great seasonal fairs held in the vicinity of the Sardar itself. This tends to standardize lexicons and prevent phonetic drift. On the other hand, it is also clear that the connotations of the term ‘barbarian’, if not its literal meaning, extend well beyond the matter of what might be one’s native language. As I have learned, “barbarians” are commonly taken to be simple, stupid, ignorant, uncouth, crude, unrefined, untutored, uncivilized, and, in general, worthless, and far inferior to native Goreans. But even your physicians, your men of medicine and health, the members of your green caste, will assure you that we are much the same as you. Had I been born on Gor and you on Earth, would I not, then, be the Gorean and you the barbarian? It is not our fault if we do not know what you know, your caste customs, your legends, your political arrangements, the histories of your cities, your holidays, your famous generals, musicians, poets, and such. How could we? We may be ignorant, but we are not stupid. To you we may seem lacking, to be simple, primitive, and barbarous, and, doubtless, in a way, we are, but these differences, I assure you, have to do with our history and background, not with what we are in ourselves, apart from such things. If we are so obviously inferior to you, it is a cultural inferiority, and only that. Certainly we have certain qualities which you recognize, which have value. You buy us, do you not? Perhaps in some respects we are objectionable. Yet I do not think you mind us in the furs, in our collars. It is generally understood we beg, squirm, and moan well. If you despise us for this I would suggest you put your precious, priceless, exalted, lofty free women at a slave ring and see if they are any different! Please, Master, do not beat me for this observation.

The sheet was pulled from me.

I was turned about.

“Behold this barbarian vulo,” said the auctioneer. “Surely she is of some interest. Might she not be useful as a third or fourth slave in your house, to relieve higher, better slaves of disagreeable tasks? Perhaps she might do as a starter slave, for a son, or a gift for a son or nephew, returning from his studies in Harfax, Venna, Besnit, or Brundisium.”

It was called to the attention of the men that I was new to bondage and only partly trained, but these defects were somehow transformed into advantages, that a master might then have the exquisite pleasure of teaching a new girl what it was to be in a collar, that one might then train me more specifically to his own tastes, and such.

“Speculate,” said the auctioneer. “Would she not look well in a camisk, or less?”

I recalled I had been put in a camisk by Mrs. Rawlinson at the party on Earth, when I had been forced, as a part of my punishment, for having dared to read of your world, to serve the guests half-naked, as though I might be a slave.

“Less!” called a man. “Let us see!”

“Part your tunic, my dear,” said the auctioneer.

“Please, no, Master,” I said.

Laughter greeted my request.

“Gracefully,” said the auctioneer.

I looked over the heads of the men, to the shops across the street. I dared not meet the eyes of any of the men. Tears sprang to my eyes.

“Posture,” said the auctioneer.

I straightened my body.

I felt tears running down my cheeks.

“Perhaps you suspect,” said the auctioneer, “that this is her first sale.”

There was laughter.

I supposed it was obvious.

“Turn about,” said the auctioneer. “Now face the masters.”

“A bit slender perhaps,” said the auctioneer, “but not, I think, disagreeably so.”

Surely I had had one of the best figures in the sorority!

“Let us see all of her,” said a fellow.

He did not seem excited. The request seemed very matter-of-fact. Were they unaware of my feelings? Did they not realize what was occurring? I was a female! I was a slave! I was being sold!

“The tunic, my dear,” said the auctioneer.

“Master!” I begged!

“Gracefully,” he said.

The tunic was handed to the slaver’s man, who stood to the left, behind, on the platform.

“Consider her,” said the auctioneer. “Barbarian. Slim, lovely. Darkly pelted, glossy hair. Partly trained, recently red-silked.”

I dared not look into the eyes of any of the men.

“Turn about, slowly,” said the auctioneer.

“Surely worth something,” said the auctioneer. “She is a barbarian, a mere barbarian. She has been harvested from the slave world for one purpose, and one purpose only, to serve your pleasure, wholly, in all ways. It is all she is for. She has no Home Stone. She has never had a Home Stone. Do what you will with her, without a second thought, use her variously, however you might wish. Keep her nude for a year, if you wish. Conceive of her, neck-chained, ankle-chained, at your slave ring. Consider her soft lips, and tongue, obedient and moist, on your feet, on your body. Is she not of interest? Consider her crawling to you, begging not to be whipped.”

I cried out, softly, in misery.

“Forgive me, Master,” I said.

“I am now prepared to accept bids,” said the auctioneer.

None had been forthcoming yet.

I saw two or three of the men turn about, and leave, chatting.

“Begin, begin, begin,” said the auctioneer. “Twenty, twenty, twenty.”

I stood there, weak, almost faltering.

The auctioneer occasionally held my upper left arm, steadying me. I might otherwise have fallen.

I knew myself a slave, but, still, the enormity of what was being done to me seemed almost incomprehensible. Where was Earth, my familiar surroundings, the college, the classes, my fellow students, the sorority?

I stood there, under the eyes of buyers.

I wondered if some of the young men I had known might have wondered how I, so aloof, so superior, so unapproachable, might have appeared on an auction block, reduced, rightless, stripped, a slave displayed for the perusal of buyers. I was not so lofty, so proud, now. They might have been amused to see me so, frightened, being vended. I wondered if some might have bid upon me. What if one had purchased me? I would then have been his, helplessly.

“Twenty-five, twenty-five, thirty,” was saying the auctioneer.

I feared I might fall.

The auctioneer’s hand steadied me.

“Thirty, thirty-five,” he was saying.

I heard coins, being rattled against one another, in the palm of someone’s hand.

So I stood there, naked, on the platform, only half understanding what was being done.

Was this being done to someone else?

Then I realized that it was I, I, who was being sold!

I recalled Mrs. Rawlinson.

How, in her mind’s eye, she must have smiled, considering the fate she was arranging for her lovely, vain, shallow, spoiled charges, the markets of Gor!

In the beginning, we had looked down on her, she merely a house mother, an employee, a servant of sorts, far beneath us, a woman hired to manage the house, to regulate mundane and domestic matters, to look after, even regulate and supervise, to some extent, a number of aristocratic, supercilious, patronizing young women, her social betters. But soon, whether because of the force of her personality, or the uncompromising, confident sternness of her demeanor, we began to fear the influence she might bring to bear, the power she might exercise. We had soon begun to treat her with respect, even awe. We followed her instructions, and did as we might be told. Even Nora feared her. The board, it seemed clear, for we, in our resentment and annoyance, had sought this information, was behind her. It became clear to us that however she had been emplaced, and however she had been empowered, that the house, and its occupants, were hers to rule. In that tiny world her word would be law. The board would accommodate itself to her recommendations, whatever they might be. A word from her, a charge from her, would initiate a sequence of actions which might culminate in one’s expulsion from the house, with the shame and ruin which might be consequent on such a disgrace. She might disrupt our plans; she might jeopardize our very future. Imagine then my terror, and that of Jane and Eve, when forbidden literature, secret, suspect literature, literature inappropriate for such as we, improper, scandalous literature, was discovered in our rooms! We were then at her mercy!

I wondered if she thought of us, I and the others, from time to time, now on Gor, owned, doubtless all of us, now the property of masters.

She had done her work well.

Perhaps she was now similarly employed, elsewhere.

That seemed not impossible.

The slave nets are carefully woven, with stout inescapable cordage, and they are cast with skill.

One does not escape their coils.

And so, as I stood naked on a block in the Metellan district, in Ar, the worn carpet beneath my feet, the afternoon sun on my body, warm, shadows across the street, the men about, some people passing by, not noticing me, exposed to buyers, being sold, I thought of Mrs. Rawlinson.

Yes, I thought, Mrs. Rawlinson, you are Mistress. You are a free woman, and here, on this world, as I had not on Earth, I have begun to sense what that might be, its unchallenged force, and pride, and power, and here I am a slave, only that, and here, naked on an auction block, being sold, I have begun to sense what that might be.

“Forty, forty,” said the auctioneer. “Forty-two, no more? No more? No more? Done!”

I realized I had been sold.

At least, I thought, I have gone for forty-two. I dared not suppose it would have been forty-two pieces of gold, for I was new to my condition, had not been extensively trained, and had only recently been opened, in what I now had come to understand was the house of Tenalion, in Ar.