I remained still, anxious.

  “Now,” he called.

  I then put my head down, quickly, and bit at it.

  I heard him laugh.

  In a moment, holding it in place, against the walkway, with my mouth, I had, in a few bites, managed to finish the roll. It was warm, and fresh.

  I lifted my head, gratefully. “Thank you, Master,” I called.

  But his back was turned.

  I was dismissed.

  I rose to my feet.

  Ahead on the walkway were more shops, amongst them something of an emporium for scrolls, some of which might be purchased, and others rented.

  I could not read Gorean, of course. Most slaves are not taught to read. An exception seems to be the slaves of scribes. I do not know why that is. Perhaps they wish their slaves to be special, or of assistance to them, or such. Also, if they wish to discard her, literacy is likely to improve her market value. Or perhaps they merely regard a capacity to read as very precious and they wish to share it with others, even meaningless slaves. A slave who was once a free woman, of course, particularly if she was formerly of high caste, is likely to be literate.

  I had relished the roll.

  I supposed that Adraste could read.

  She thought herself so beautiful, so superior! Perhaps she could even read. Suppose it was true, if it was true, that she had once been of high caste. What did that matter? She was no longer of high caste. There was a collar on her neck now, locked there, as mine on me. The proud Adraste was now no more than I, only another slave.

  Then I put the haughty, pretentious Adraste from my mind.

  As I continued on my way, a sudden rage welled up in me. I had knelt before Leander of Port Kar, the Baker. I had tried to delight and flatter him, hoping to be fed. I had feared that I would not be fed. As I had departed, he had called out to me, and cast a roll to the walkway. I had hurried to it, elated. Then I could not pounce upon it until permitted. Then I must eat it without the use of my hands, as a collared beast!

  I went well to the side of the walkway and kept my head down, as a free woman passed. She carried a switch.

  Do they not enjoy kneeling us, often not even knowing us, and lashing us about the neck, the arms, and calves?

  How helpless we are in their presence, half naked, vulnerable, not permitted to resist, who must accept and endure, uncomplainingly, without the least demur or protest, their abuse, only slaves.

  Next, two free men passed. I kept my eyes straight ahead, as I knew myself assessed, as what I was, a purchasable female animal.

  Yet what woman, slave or free, does not thrill to the curious, admiring scrutiny of a handsome, powerful male who one day might prove to be her master?

  Ambivalences warred within me, excitement, rage, joy, warmth, shame, humiliation, pride!

  How dare these monsters take for granted, so easily and unassumingly, and assert and enact, so simply and unquestioningly, the powers of their nature? Why does their society not reduce, cripple, and enshackle them? Why does their society not forbid them to be themselves, or force upon them an alien, unnatural self, to serve its own ends?

  But perhaps biology is not the foe of happiness.

  I knew what I was supposed to feel and think on my former world. Had I not been taught it? Why then had I not felt it, and thought it?

  How effective can it be, to lie to nature?

  What can be the test of truth, if not its consequences?

  I had retired one fall night on my former world, thinking of nothing, aware of nothing. Then I had awakened in a Gorean cell, naked and chained, hand and foot, and neck, soon to find myself at the total mercy of men such that I had not suspected could exist, save in my dreams.

  I did not even know, at that time, what had been done to me.

  I soon learned.

  I had been selected to be a Gorean slave.

  I put my head down, as I passed another free woman.

  How was I so different from she?

  Take away her abundant, colorful, glorious robes and veils, every last stitch and thread of her clothing, and brand and collar her, and own her! Would we not then be the same, nothing, only slaves?

  Yet what a mighty social chasm now separated us, the oceans and continents, the skies and earths, that separate the slave from the free!

  I continued on, tunicked, collared, and branded.

  I felt the wind blow the tunic back, against my body.

  I supposed that the men, the beasts, would like that.

  But I did not object.

  Rather it thrilled me.

  Then I was angry again.

  What right had men to enslave us, I asked, to strip and brand us, to collar us, to put us in tiny, revealing tunics, if that, tunics without nether closures, tunics exhibiting us as properties and goods? Then I answered my own question, the right of nature, the right of men, the right of masters.

  Leander had cast me a roll, and I had eaten it, eagerly, as an animal. Part of me was then, when I had risen up, angry, and I had smarted with humiliation, but another part, I recalled, when I had been on all fours, was gratified, and grateful; how warm, right, and perfect, how reassuring and fulfilling, it had seemed for me, to be so fed, fed as what I was, a slave. Is a dog not grateful to be fed as a dog, a slave as a slave?

  Then I became angry again.

  A free man passed me.

  I kept my eyes straight ahead.

  My tunic concealed little, my collar proclaimed much.

  Then suddenly I stopped, startled, gasped, caught my breath, and nearly swooned. I backed against the wall to my right, away from the canal, that I might not fall. I struggled to retain consciousness.

  Surely it could not be!

  A few yards ahead, standing before a street bin of cheap rence-paper scrolls, on the walkway, in front of the scroll shop, chatting, in street robes, were two men. One was holding, partly opened, a scroll, the spindles or rollers of which, knobless and unornamented, were of natural wood, neither stained nor varnished. A white ribbon was tied to one of the spindles or rollers which, I supposed, as there was writing on it, identified the scroll. Different-color ribbons are commonly indexed to one consideration or another, most commonly the asking price for a scroll, after which negotiations commonly begin. Scrolls with purple ribbons, as I had learned on former walks, were usually kept behind the counter, in the back, in pigeon holes or racks.

  One of the men, he who had held the scroll, briskly rewound the scroll, smiled ruefully, and dropped it into the bin with the others. “It is not authentic,” he said. “It is not the work of Tius, of Citium.” “I did not think so,” said the other. “Beware of bargains,” said the first. “Most assuredly,” said the second. The first fellow then, wishing the other well, took his leave, and the other watched him leave.

  I was breathing hard, gasping for breath.

  I did not want to faint.

  I feared I would fall.

  It was the fellow, he, who had lingered behind, by the bin of scrolls!

  I had seen him.

  I was sure of it!

  And I had seen him not here, not on this world, I was sure, but on my former world, had seen him occasionally, at one party, or restaurant, or another. I had once been formally introduced to him, as I recalled, at a cocktail party. His name, as I recalled, was Steele, Addison Steele. The first name had seemed unusual, or odd, or pretentious, to me, ‘Addison’. That is perhaps why I remembered him. Or I may have remembered him because he made me feel uneasy. I had found him disturbing. Annoying. Certainly I did not know him well. Who would want to know such a person well? I had taken him to be in his early thirties. He was tall and well-built, with dark hair and eyes. He had been dressed casually with a blue jacket and slacks, and a blue, open-necked shirt. How different he seemed here, easy, in a street robe, and sandals, on the walkway, against the so-different background, the walls, the canal, the sky. At the party, when I had first been introduced to him, I had decided to attract him, as was frequently my wont when introduced to a new male, for the sport of it. It is easy to do, to be charming, to smile, to turn in certain ways, to affect a rapt interest, and such. One can so gain attention, interest, dates, and gifts. If one were as attractive as I, it is easy to do. He had been polite, and smiled, but had seemed distant, and aloof, perhaps preoccupied. He seemed to look past me, to others. Did he find others more interesting or attractive? I found that difficult to believe. Surely I was not accustomed to being overlooked, ignored, or dismissed. That this was done with all politeness and courtesy rankled me no small bit. I was not used to this sort of thing. My invitations were abundant, and my dates were frequent, and my escorts were invariably complaisant, attentive, and generous, often to the point of a heedless, unjustified extravagance, the consequences of which would later, doubtless, be keenly felt. I had found it irritating that this new acquaintance, if one were to call him that, Mr. Addison Steele, had not only, at least seemingly, failed to be moved by my charms, but was actually indifferent to me. He had looked at me once, carefully, and then, apparently having reached some opinion, had smiled, and turned away, to engage others in conversation. I was concerned, and puzzled, and annoyed. Surely my ensemble was tastefully and carefully thought out, the basic short, black cocktail dress, set off with pearls. It was chic, simple, tasteful, and severely elegant. Somewhat apprehensive and somewhat annoyed, I had withdrawn shortly thereafter to the apartment’s bathroom, to examine my attire, hair, and makeup. A few moments later, satisfied that nothing was obviously amiss, I returned to the party, and, from time to time, as one might, found myself in the vicinity of Mr. Steele, who, though acknowledging my presence with a smile or nod, seemed, on the whole, not to notice me. His opinions on various matters, when expressed, seemed unusual or unorthodox, if not actually incorrect. There are, in all groups, I suppose, various positions, values, and views which are expected to be shared, uncritically, unquestioningly. Do not herds, and ilks, bond so, and thus reassure one another? Truth, I suspect, is complex and obscure; ideology, on the other hand, is simple and clear; it is thus not surprising, I suppose, that it might be frequently preferred to truth. On the whole, however, he seldom spoke but, rather, listened to others, apparently carefully. Few listen, I suppose, because it is difficult to listen when one is oneself speaking. I had the sense that he thought about what he was saying when he spoke, despite the trivial, hazy ambiance of the location, that of such a party, and the accepted customs of such gatherings. Sometimes he would actually turn away from me, though politely. I had seen him later once in a while, here or there, but we had never spoken save for an exchange of routine pleasantries. He never asked me for the date which I had planned to deny him. It was not so much that he did not know that I existed, as that he recognized my existence and did not find it much worth noticing. I decided to hate him. I found him disturbing. Then, eventually, I had put him from my mind. I had not seen him for months on my former world, before I was brought to Gor.

  Now, incredibly, here he was, on this fresh, green, simple, strange, untainted, beautiful world!

  Or was it he?

  How could it be he?

  Surely it could not be he.

  How could he be here? It must be another who, in virtue of some strange coincidence, resembled him.

  I backed further, more against the wall.

  No, it was he.

  I was sure of it!

  He adjusted the street robe, shifted the position of the wallet which hung over his shoulder, and, clearly, was preparing to leave the vicinity of the bin of scrolls, the venue of the scroll shop.

  “Addison!” I cried, rushing forward. “Addison! Addison Steele!”

  He turned about, startled.

  I hurried wildly to him. “You know me!” I cried. “I know you! From Earth! From Earth! I know you! You know me! From Earth! From Earth!”

  He was here, on Gor! He was in the garb of the free! He would know me! He must have connections, relationships, power! He would free me! He would rescue me! He would save me! I would be released from the horrid degradation of slavery! He would deliver me from the miseries of helpless and total bondage! I would be liberated and returned to Earth, a free woman, no longer a vulnerable, helpless, collared slave, at the complete mercy of whoever might own me!

  I stopped short, my hands extended piteously to him.

  He was regarding me, disbelievingly.

  “Addison, Addison Steele!” I cried. “Surely you recognize me, surely you recognize me? Do you not recognize me, Mr. Steele?”

  Then suddenly I felt cold, and terrified.

  I trembled.

  My knees felt weak.

  I, a woman of Earth, now on Gor, on a walkway in Port Kar, a slave, half naked in a tiny, over-the-head tunic and fastened collar, was looking into the eyes of a Gorean master.

  “You collared slut,” he exclaimed, “on your knees! Head down! Lips to my feet! You dare to speak the name of a free man? You, a mere slave?”

  I knew the voice! It was indeed he, Addison Steele, but very different from the Addison Steele I had thought I had known.

  I flung myself to my knees before him, trembling, and, head down, pressed my lips to his sandaled feet.

  As he said nothing, I began to lick and kiss his feet. I continued to do this, for some time.

  Finally, after two or three minutes, keeping my head down, not daring to raise it, I whispered, “May I lift my eyes to yours?”

  “Do so, slave,” said he.

  “Look upon me!” I begged. “You see me before you, kneeling, half naked, on an alien world, helpless, collared, a slave! Surely you view me with keen commiseration! Surely you view me with pity!”

  “Not at all,” he said. “You are now where you belong, and as you belong.”

  “No!” I wept.

  “You were a taunting slut,” he said. “Now you are as you should be, on your knees, the meaningless property of men.”

  “Pity me!” I begged.

  “No,” he said.

  “The paving stones are hard on my knees,” I said.

  “You will remain as you are,” he said.

  I remained as I was.

  How helpless one is, as a slave!

  “You were Margaret Henderson,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said, eagerly, “yes, yes!”

  “No more,” he said.

  I wept before him, shuddering, a slave held in place, by a master’s will.

  “What name has been put on you?”

  “‘Zia’, ‘Zia’,” I said.

  “Then you are Zia, only Zia,” he said, “until masters are pleased to put another name on you.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  He then viewed me, as a master views one such as I, a slave.

  “You blush,” he said.

  “Forgive me, Master,” I said.

  “On Earth,” he said, “as I recall, you had painted fingernails, and, doubtless, I would suppose, painted toenails, as well.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “They are now plain,” he said.

  “Such things were scraped off, in my house of training,” I said.

  “And had your hair been dyed,” he said, “your head would have been shaved. Goreans prefer natural women, the fully naked slave, so to speak. A slave dealer who falsifies his merchandise can be mobbed, and his emporium burned.”

  “I have seen slaves with lipstick and eye shadow,” I said.

  “They were not sold that way,” he said.

  I supposed that true.

  “We saw one another on Earth,” he said. “I wondered, idly, then, what it might be to have you. I shall now learn. A tavern is nearby. If I am not satisfied with you, you will be whipped.”

  “What are you going to do?” I asked, disbelievingly, uncertainly.

  “What I want,” he said.

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  “This is not Earth,” he said.

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  “How stupid you are,” he said.

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  “We shall see how you squirm, squeak, cry out, beg, and moan,” he said.

  “No,” I wept.

  “What else, petty, shallow slut, are you and your sort good for?” he asked.

  “Mercy!” I begged.

  “Remove your clothing,” he said, “the scrap that there is of it.”

  “Surely not here, not on the walkway!” I said.

  “Now,” he said.

  I slipped the tunic away, over my head, clutched it, and looked up at him.

  “I am exposed,” I said. “I am bared, helplessly so, utterly so!”

  “Do not concern yourself,” he said. “You are an animal, a property.”

  “Can you think of me so?” I asked.

  “Easily,” he said.

  “You regard me boldly,” I said, angrily. “Appraisingly!”

  “Your lineaments are much what I conjectured they would be,” he said.

  “We were both of Earth!” I said.

  “On your feet,” he said.

  I rose to my feet.

  “Your neck looks well in a collar,” he said.

  “Please!” I begged.

  “I thought it would,” he said.

  “Please!” I said.

  “We shall see how you writhe,” he said, “in chains.”

  “No!” I said.

  “All women writhe well in chains,” he said. “And slaves, such as you, writhe the best of all, by far. If not, the whip will see to it.”

  “You knew me!” I cried.

  “Not well,” he said.

  “Remember Earth!” I begged.

  “This is Gor,” he said.

  I wept, humiliated, uncontrollably.

  “You see the sign to the tavern,” he said, “a hundred paces, that or more, ahead?”

  “Yes, Master,” I moaned.

 

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