“Are you not, too, of Earth?” she asked.
“Yes,” I told her.
“I am not as these other girls,” she said. “I am of Earth. Be merciful to me. Give me special privileges.” “To me,” I said, “you are only another slave.” “Please!” she wept.
“Feed,” I told her.
“Yes, Master,” she said. The slave then fed.
I, crouching down on the grass, with my two hands and teeth, finished the remainder of the animal.
The girls’ gags and waddings, formed from the slave silk of the garments of two of them, I had set out on the grass to dry.
It had grown dark.
I must soon be to the clearing.
I reinserted the gags in the mouths of the fair captives.
“I am of Earth,” said Ilene, piteously.
“You are a Gorean slave girl,” I told her. I then thrust the large wadding into her mouth, and tied it tightly in place. Her eyes, over the gag, regarded me with horror. She knew then that she could be to me only what she would be to any other Gorean male, a slave. I looked into her eyes. They were those of a Gorean slave girl.
I was not pleased with Ilene. She had not been completely open with me. It was for that reason that she would be sold in Port Kar.
I walked about the girls and checked the knots of the slave star. They were secured, perfectly.
They looked at me, over their gags. If panthers came upon them in the night, or sleen, their cried would not serve to alert my enemies.
I was not much pleased with them. They had aided in the betrayal of my camp. Without them it would not have been possible. I recalled how they had, on the beach, laughed and jested with the men of Tyros. Now they, who had served the men of Tyros, were bound as the helpless slaves of one of Port Kar, one to whom, in the betrayal of his camp, they had done great injury.
I smiled, looking at them, and they shuddered. They had served the men of Tyros. They would serve one of Port Kar even better. I would see to that.
I was displeased particularly with the one called Ilene. She had not been completely open with me. I would have special use for her.
As it grew dark I cut and dragged torn brush about the girls, to form a makeshift defensive perimeter.
I saw gratitude in their eyes.
“Do not be grateful to me, Slaves,” said I. “I am saving you for tomorrow, when, in the performance of my will, you will face dangers greater than those of sleen and panthers.” The gratitude in their eyes was transformed to fear.
I thrust the last bush, spreading and thick, of thorn brush into place. Then, not bidding them farewell, I turned and disappeared among the shadows and trees.
On the branch of the tree, high, in the darkness, crouching, I saw the man of Tyros, with his leather glove, reach to the handle of the slave iron, protruding from the brazier. By this time the moons were high. By this time the men of Tyros, and the panther girls, had all gathered about in the conquest circle. He lifted it up and there was a cry of pleasure. It was white with the ferocity of its heating. It was now ready to brand a slave.
Sarus, the leader of the men of Tyros, waved his men back now, except for the man with the iron. They took their places about the edges of the circle, sitting cross-legged. The panther girls of Hura’s band, more than a hundred of them, entered the circle. The moons were now near the height of the sky. At a sign from Hura the man from Tyros thrust the iron back into the brazier, to draw it forth again at her signal. The man with the hide drum then, for the first time was silent.
I looked down into the circle, with its fires, with its men staked out, with the men of Tyros sitting about its edges, with Marlenus helpless beside the brazier, the man from Tyros, with the leather glove, crouching beside it, with the panther girls, beautiful, numerous, lithe, in their skins and necklaces of claws and ornaments of gold.
There was a long silence, of some Ihn, and then, at a nod from Hura, who threw her long black hair back, and lifted her head to the moons, the drum began again its beat. Mira’s head was down, and shaking. Her right foot was stamping. The panther girls put down their heads. I saw their fists begin to clench and unclench. They stood, scarcely moving, but I could sense the movement of the drum in their blood.
The men of Tyros glanced to one another. It was few free men who had ever looked, unbound, on the rites of panther girls.
Hura’s eyes were on the moons. She lifted her hands, fingers like claws, and screamed her need.
The girls then, following her, began to dance.
I looked upon Marlenus. He struggled, but he could not, of course, free himself. It was he who had, long ago, banished me from the city of Ar, denying me bread, fire and salt.
It was he who had always been so successful. It was he upon whom luck and glory had shone.
I began to grow furious with Marlenus. He had been Ubar, the Ubar of Ubars. He had been fortunate, always fortunate. I had come to the forest to find Talena. I had not done so. I, and my men, had been outwitted by panther girls. We had fallen to them. We would have been raped and sold slave had not Marlenus, with almost casual insolence, rescued us.
Then he had invited us to his camp, and we had come, and dined upon his largesse!
In the game he had devastatingly beaten me.
I looked down to the circle.
It might have been a rite not of women, but of she-panthers! How starved must be the lonely, hating panther women of the forests, so gross is their hostility, so fierce their hatred, and yet need, of men. They twisted, screaming now, clawing at the moons. I would scarcely have guessed at the primitive hungers evident in each movement of those barbaric, feline bodies. They would be masters of men. Proud, magnificent creatures. And yet by biology, by their beauty, by their aroused inwardness, could not, in fact, own but only, in their true fulfillment, belong, be taken, be conquered. It was little wonder such proud, fine women hated men, to whom nature had destined them. Woman is the natural love prey of men. She is natural quarry. She is complete only when caught, only when brought to the joy of her capture and conquest. It was not strange that the proud, intelligent women of the forest, and elsewhere, chose war with men, rather than admit the meaning of his strength and swiftness, the meaning of their own weakness and beauty. Set a woman to run down a man and she cannot do so. Set a man to run down a woman and he will be successful. Nature has not destined her to escape him. It has destined her to be his capture and love.
I smiled to myself at those who regarded the needs of women as inferior to those of men. The woman, I realized, looking down upon the panther girls, has an imperative, enormous need. It is as great as that of the male, I expected, perhaps greater, for she is less satiable, and the tissues of her womanhood are widely spread, and intricate and deep. Her entire body, is seems, is alive to feeling, and yielding and touching, is a need. Her beauty is she, and its meaning, from the turn of an ankle to the delicacy of her deft, sweet fingers, from the turn of a calf to her belly and the beauties of her breasts, to those of her shoulders and throat and the marvelousness of her head and hair, is a need. How tragic it is, I thought, that such incredible human beings should be so belittled, frustrated and abused. I do not refer to the cruelties of Gorean slavery, which celebrate women and, in their rude fashion, often uncompromisingly, force the helpless, total surrender she yearns in the heart of her to give, but the subtler, crueler slaveries of Earth, pretending to respect her and then, by education and acculturation, depriving her not only of status and independence, but of love.