Verna gave six points to each of her girls. Ten she kept for herself. She, and they, put the points into the pouches they wore at their belts.
I looked at her, shaking my head, not believing what I had seen. Could it be that this, and this alone, was my price, that I had been purchased for only this, the points for one hundred arrows? But I reminded myself that I could not be purchased, for I was Elinor Brinton, for I was free!
"Rise, Slave," said Verna.
I rose to my feet and she unsnapped from my throat the hated choke leash. I looked at her. "I am free," I told her.
"Let us kill her," urged the blond girl, she who had held my leash. "All right," said Verna.
"No!" I cried. "No! Please!"
"Kill her," said Verna.
Uncontrollably I feel to my knees before her. "Please don't kill me!" I cried. "Please! Please!" I trembled. I wept. I pressed my head to her feet. "Please!" I begged. "Please!" Please! Please! Please!"
"What are you?" asked Verna.
"A slave," I cried out. "A slave!"
"Do you beg for your life?" asked Verna.
"Yes," I whimpered "Yes, yes!"
"Who begs for her life?" asked Verna.
"A slave begs her mistress for her life," I wept.
"Is it only slaves who so beg for their lives?" asked Verna.
"Yes," I cried out, "Yes!"
"Is it only slaves who so beg and grovel?" asked Verna.
"Yes!" I cried out. "Yes!"
"Then you are a slave," said Verna.
"Yes!" I cried.
"You then acknowledge yourself a slave?" Verna inquired.
"Yes!" I cried. "Yes! I acknowledge myself a slave! I am a slave! I am a slave!" "Spare the slave," said Verna.
I almost collapsed. Two of the girls lifted me to my feet. I could scarcely stand.
I was shattered.
I then knew as I had not known before, that I was a slave. I was not free. I knew then that the body of Elinor Brinton, even when she had been in college, even when she had concerned herself with the trivia of term papers, even when she had eaten in Parisian restaurants, when she had strolled the boulevards of the continent, when in New York she had stepped from and into taxis, had been the body of a slave girl. That body, attired in its evening gowns, its cocktail dresses, its chic tweeds, might perhaps have been more appropriate clad in the brief silk of a Gorean slave girl, fit only for the controlling touch of a master. I wondered if men had realized that. If there had been Gorean men who had looked upon me I had little doubt that they might, smiling, have seen me thus. But I hated men!
I wondered what price my body would bring in a market.
I wondered what price I would bring.
I was shattered.
My eyes met those of Verna.
"Slave," she sneered.
"Yes, Mistress," I whispered, and looked down. I could not meet her eyes, those of a free woman.
"Are you a docile slave?" she asked.
"Yes, Mistress," I said, quickly, frightened, "I am a docile slave." "Docile slave," she sneered.
"Yes," I said, "yes, Mistress."
The girls laughed.
Suddenly it seemed so foolish to me that it had seemed that I was free. I almost choked with misery. It was only too obvious that I was not free. I knew then that I might indeed figure in transactions, and knew that I would do so as mere property. I could figure in commercial exchanges, for I was goods. I could indeed be purchased, and bought and sold. In the moment of my misery my vanities, my pretenses, had been swept away. I knew then, as I had not before, that I was a slave girl.
"Through that door," said Verna, gesturing with her head, "is your master." I stood and faced the door, stripped, wrists lashed behind my back. Suddenly, unaccountably, I turned and faced her. "A hundred arrow points," I pouted, "is not enough!" I was startled that I had said this, and more with how I had said it. It was surely not Elinor Brinton who could have said this. It was the remark of a slave girl. But it had been Elinor Brinton who had said it. With horror I suddenly realized that she was a petty slave girl.
"It is all that you are worth to him," said Verna.
I pulled futilely at the binding fiber on my wrists.
She regarded me, as might have a man. I stood in fury, scrutinized. "I myself," said Verna, "would not have paid as much."
The girls laughed.
I shook with fury, a humiliated slave girl. My action seemed uncontrollable, and I hated myself for it.
"The girl fancies," said the blond girl, who had held my leash, "that she should have fetched a higher price."
"I am worth more!" I pouted.
"Be silent," said Verna.
"Yes, Mistress," I said, frightened, putting down my head.
A ripple of amusement passed through the girls.
I did not care. I was angry, and I was humiliated. I should have brought far more.
I suddenly knew that I would be a clever slave. I was highly intelligent. I could undoubtedly scheme and wheedle, and obtain my way. I could smile prettily, and would, to obtain what I wished. I felt petty and sly, but justifiably, proudly so. Was I not a slave? I knew that I could well employ the wiles of a slave girl to make my life pleasant and easy.
But only a hundred arrow points! It was not enough!
The door to the hut swung open. Suddenly terrified I faced the opening.
I felt the point of Verna's spear in my back.
"Enter, Slave Girl," said Verna.
"Yes, Mistress," I whispered.
I felt the point of Verna's spear again against my back. It pressed forward. I stumbled into the room, crying out with anguish.
The door shut behind me, two beams falling into place, barring it.
I looked about, and then I threw back my head and screamed in uncontrollable horror.
10 What Transpired in the Hut
The large-eyed, furred thing blinked at me.
"Do not be afraid," said a voice.
The animal was fastened to a ring in the wall by a stout, spiked leather collar, fastened to a heavy chain.
I stood with my back to the opposite wall of the hut, shrinking against it, terrified. I felt the rough boards at my back. my head was lifted and back, eyes wide. The back of my head pressed back against the boards. I felt the boards, too, pressed against the fingertips of my bound hands. I could not breathe. The beast looked at me, and yawned. I saw the two rows of white fangs. Then, sleepily, it began to nibble at the fur of its right paw, grooming it. I saw that the chain was short, that it would not reach even to the center of the room.
"Do not be afraid," again said the voice.
I took a breath, with difficulty.
Across the room, his back to me, bending over a shallow pan of water, with a towel about his neck, was a small man. He turned to face me. His face was still the painted clown's face, but he had put aside his silly robes, the tufted hat. He wore a common Gorean male house tunic, rough and brown, with leggings, such as are sometimes worn by woodsmen, who work in brush.
"Good evening," he said.
I shuddered. I did not move.
His voice seemed different now, no longer the voice of the comical mountebank. Too, somehow the voice seemed familiar to me, but I could not recall if, or where, I had once heard it. I knew only that I was terribly frightened. He turned again to the pan of water on the table and began to wash the paint from his face.
I could not take my eyes from the beast.
It regarded me, sleepily, and returned to the grooming of its paw.
It seemed incredibly huge, even more so in the small hut then earlier outside of Targo's compound. It was like a glistening, somnolent, boulder of fur, alive, hundreds of pounds in weight. The eyes were large, black, round, the snout wide, two-nostriled and leathery. I shuddered at its mouth, and fangs, the upper two protruding downwards at the sides of its jaws. Its lips were wet from the saliva from its long, dark tongue, which, with its teeth, it was using to groom the fur on its right paw. The strike of those jaws could, with one wrenching twist, have torn away the shoulder of a man.