“First obeisance position!” snapped one of the instructresses.
Swiftly I knelt, my head to the floor, the palms of my hands on the floor, at the sides of my head.
“You are changing, pretty Allison,” said an instructress.
“A transformation is being wrought in you, shapely barbarian,” said another.
“Are you aware of this, Allison?” asked another.
“No, Mistress,” I said. Then, by means of a shadow, I saw a switch lifted. “Perhaps, Mistress!” I sobbed. “Perhaps, Mistress!”
To my relief, the switch was lowered.
“She perhaps does not understand how she is changing,” said one of the instructresses.
I feared I was beginning to understand, only too well. The instructresses, of course, could be aware only of attitudes, postures, behaviors, speech, and such. On the other hand, it was becoming clear to me that these externalities, as profound as they might be, were no longer the simple result of intent and design, but were now beginning to emerge as the inevitable consequence of internal realities. My behavior, I sensed, was now becoming less the imitation of a slave’s behavior; and more the behavior of a slave.
“Do not be concerned, Allison,” said the first instructress. “There is nothing wrong with being graceful, beautiful, vulnerable, soft, passionate, and wholly, wholly female.”
“In short,” said another, “in being a slave.”
“Her transition is well underway,” said another.
“Men like women as women,” said one of the instructresses.
“And do we not like men as men?” asked another.
“True,” laughed another.
“Much of this you do not understand now,” said one of the instructresses, “but in time it will become clear.”
“Changes are being wrought in you,” said another, “that will become part of you, and improve your price on the block, how you move, smile, turn your head, and such.”
“You will not even be aware of these things,” said another.
“But one can tell a slave by such things,” said another.
“Sometimes guardsmen do so,” said another, uneasily. “Sometimes they simply command a woman to walk before them, back and forth, and thus detect the slave, even within the robes of a free woman.”
“Barbarians, such as you,” said another, “are even easier to detect, apart from the marks often placed on your upper arm, or the tiny bits of metal often found in your teeth. You do not know the drapings, the foldings, the layerings, and fastenings of the robes of concealment, the arrangement of the veils, and such.”
“There is much more to such things than the donning of a tunic or a camisk,” said one of the instructresses.
“Does Mistress know of such things?” I asked.
“Once,” she smiled. “But I would not now trade my tunic for the robes of a Ubara.”
I could not understand this.
Was not a Ubara a free woman, and one of consequence?
“There are a thousand things a native Gorean would know, of which a barbarian would be ignorant,” said an instructress.
“Too,” said another, “the Gorean taught to barbarians is often subtly different from that spoken by native Goreans, for example, in the pronunciation of certain words.”
“Have you taught me such a subtly different Gorean?” I asked.
“Curiosity,” she said, “is not becoming in a kajira.”
“Yes, Mistress,” I said.
“I wish we had more time to train her,” said one of the instructresses.
“Mistress?” I said.
“Market conditions change, orders vary, what is wanted at one time is not wanted at another time, what sold yesterday may not sell today, what sells today may not sell tomorrow.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
“You are a virgin, are you not?” asked one of the instructresses.
“Yes, Mistress,” I said.
“You do not look like a virgin,” said one.
“Most do not,” said an instructress.
“True,” said another.
“Unbeknownst to you,” said an instructress, “you have been observed by masters.”
“Yes, Mistress,” I said. I had not known this, but, surely, I had suspected as much. Would they not observe me, with certain ends in view?
“You have much to gain in attractiveness,” said one of the instructresses.
“I do not understand, Mistress,” I said. “Am I not beautiful?”
“Her slave fires have not yet been lit,” said one of the instructresses.
“Being beautiful and being attractive are not the same thing,” said an instructress. “Some extremely beautiful women are not attractive, and some extremely attractive women are not beautiful.”
“But I am attractive, am I not?” I asked.
“Do you wish to be attractive?” asked an instructress.
“Do not all women?” I asked. I knew that even cold women, and women who professed to hate men, wanted to be found attractive, if only to torment men, or further their own ends.
“Of course,” said an instructress.
“Am I not attractive?” I asked.
“You are attractive,” said an instructress. “Otherwise you would not be in your collar. But the masters feel that your current attractiveness does not measure up to your beauty.”
My head was at the floor. I had not received permission to lift it.
“Doubtless, in time, it will do so,” said an instructress. “We have great hopes for you. You are clearly a born slave. And, eventually, you should be an exquisitely desirable slave.”
“Her slave fires have not yet been lit,” said one of the instructresses, again.
“Kneel up,” said an instructress.
Gratefully I knelt up.
“Belly in, shoulders back, head up,” said an instructress.
I complied.
My knees were clenched closely together.
I kept my eyes straight ahead.
“What are you doing, Mistress?” I asked.
“I am removing the white ribbon,” she said.
“Mistress?” I asked.
The instructresses were about, looking at me.
“What do you think?” asked one of the instructresses.
“She is pretty,” said one.
“Better than a kettle girl, or a pot-and-mat girl,” said another.
“A Tarnster, or Drover,” speculated another.
“If the price were right,” said another.
“Spread your knees, Allison,” said an instructress.
“Surely not, Mistress!” I exclaimed.
“Now,” she said.
I felt enormously vulnerable, and, oddly, subtly enflamed.
How could I, the former Allison Ashton-Baker be placed in such a position?
What sort of slave would kneel in such a position?
I feared I knew.
She who had removed the white ribbon now approached.
“Do not move, Allison,” she said.
I saw that in her hand she had a different ribbon, a red ribbon.
“I am not red-silk!” I said. “I am not red-silk!”
“Do not move,” she said, again.
“Yes, Mistress,” I said, a slave, commanded.
I was very much aware of the position and attitude in which I had been placed.
To be sure, it could not be appropriate for me.
It must be some mistake.
I was from Earth.
It is strange, how, when one is a slave, small things are noticed, the nap of a rug, the feel of tiles beneath one’s knees, one’s body then so alive.
I regarded the instructress, apprehensively.
The red ribbon, of dyed rep-cloth, not silk, was doubled, and then threaded under and over my collar. Its loose ends were then threaded through the loop, and I felt it jerked tight, against the collar.
“There,” said the instructress, and stood up. She and the others then stood back, a bit, looking at me. “What do you think?” she asked. “Is she satisfactory, will men like her?”
“She may do,” said another.
“Sooner or later,” said another.
I did not understand. Had I not been one of the most beautiful girls in my sorority, a sorority noted on campus for its beauties? Certainly I had not lacked for the attentions of young men. A week would not pass without my declining several offers for outings, afternoons or evenings, with such, while I would select from amongst such offers those few which I deemed suitable, those which might prove eventually to be to my advantage, those from suitably positioned young men, young men worth interesting and cultivating, young men whose background and assets exceeded my own. Oddly, though I had pretended to be interested in them, laughed at their jokes, and such, I had seldom received a second invitation from them. I did not understand this. Did they not realize my quality, the honor I paid to them, how fortunate they were, that I would permit them to share my company, however briefly? Surely there were many who would have rejoiced to be granted such an opportunity. How ungrateful, how foolish, how stupid they were!