"It is not the first,” said Cabot.
"No,” said Grendel.
"We have had foragers in this area, humans,” said Cabot. “None have been attacked."
"I do not understand,” said Grendel.
"Only Kurii have been killed,” said Cabot.
"It makes no sense,” said Grendel.
"It is almost as though the camp were being guarded,” said Cabot.
"Absurd,” said Grendel.
"Look,” said Cabot. “Here!” He pointed to the soft earth. “Tracks!"
"Sleen tracks,” said Grendel.
"Observe them,” said Cabot. “Closely."
"Interesting,” said Grendel.
"One track is lighter than the others,” said Cabot. “The paw barely touched the ground."
"The rear paw of the left side,” said Grendel.
"You understand this?” said Cabot.
"Certainly,” said Grendel. “It is lame."
Chapter, the Fiftieth:
THE HAND OF AGAMEMNON IS PLAYED,
BUT PERHAPS NOT WISELY
"I am thinking,” said Cabot to Lita, “of having you conducted to the theater of amnesty, in the habitats, where you might be spared, as the goods you are, later with others to be distributed or sold."
"Please, no, Master!” she cried, falling to her knees before him, and pressing her head to his feet.
Through her hair he glimpsed the collar on her neck, his collar. It is interesting, he thought, how one can grow fond of them, though they are only slaves, no more than domestic animals.
"You might then live,” he said.
"I would remain with you,” she wept.
"It is highly unlikely you would be slain,” he said, “as you are nicely curved, and would have value in the markets of Gor."
"Keep me!” she begged.
"It is only a matter of time until we are located and destroyed,” said Cabot. “I see no need for you to die, too."
"You care for me!” she cried.
His body tightened with anger.
How dare she so speak? What arrant presumption!
"Impudent, impertinent, presumptuous slut!” he cried.
"Master!” she cried.
With his foot he spurned her suddenly, angrily, violently, to the ground.
"Forgive me, Master,” she whispered, frightened, tears in her eyes, from her side on the earth.
How dare she, a slave, an article of goods, think that her master might care for her?
Did she not know what she was?
Or, more judiciously, more carefully put, how dare she suggest such a thing? Many a woman has been bound, hooded, and leashed, and conducted weeping to a market for such an indiscretion.
This is not to deny, of course, that many a slave is well aware of her place in a master's heart, even that he might die for her. Doubtless neither, neither slave nor master, have planned it so, but so it not unoften comes about. Is it so strange? That a slave might love her master, that a master might care for his slave? Might she not, to some extent, have brought this about, perhaps lamentably, by her beauty, her helplessness, her heat, her love, her devotion, her selfless service? Too, is she not, after all, a perfection of a female for a man, a slave, what he most desires and wants, something far beyond what he might obtain from a free woman? In a collar she is, after all, a creature of love. Is the collar itself not a symbol of this? That she exists for love? So, kneeling, needful, submitted, her own love opened like a flower, she begins to hope that something of her own feelings, so deep, so profound, so overwhelming, might be reciprocated, if only to a tiny extent, by her master. Scarcely had she dared hope for this that night when, to the double stroke of a whip, she was dragged in chains from the auction block. And as time passes she begins, fearfully, trying to conceal her joy, to suspect it may be so. Has her master not, for example, of late become less patient and more strict with her, as though he might be fighting something within himself, something unwelcome, which he was unwilling to acknowledge? Surely she must now strive to do nothing which might cause him to rid himself of her. She is well aware that he would be subjected to the scorn of his peers, did they, in amusement, suspect that he might care for a slave. But might they not, some of them, in the secrecy of their own domiciles, be as deplorably guilty in this regard? Certainly the joy, the radiance, of many slaves, encountered in the markets and streets, suggested that. But she is well aware that, given the man he is, she has much more to fear from his own possible self reproach than from the jibes of others. His sense of himself, of what is proper for him, might be her greatest danger. She feels vulnerable. She may be sold on a whim. She redoubles her efforts to be his humble, pleasing slave. Surely she strives to be acceptable to him, and wholly, as she must, and desires, in the way of the slave. And of course there is no diminishment in her slave fires. Does she not, eagerly and piteously, driven by her aroused needs, as before, crawl to his slave ring, soliciting his least touch? Even were he a cruel and hated master, even of an enemy city, she could not help but behave so. Men had seen to it. But, now, even well away from the slave ring, when he returns from his labors and she welcomes him, kneeling, looking up at him, to his domicile, when she serves his supper or wine, when he observes her polishing his leather, when he orders her to light the lamp of love, has there not been something different about him, perhaps a slightly different light in his eyes? So she suspects now, as she moves before him, subtly provoking his desire, as though unintentionally, as before, as the slave she is, as she serves, that he may have begun to care for her, despite the fact that she is only a submitted, vanquished property, a slave. It is one thing, of course, in all of this, for a slave, scarcely daring to hope, grateful and rejoicing, to understand, to suspect, how she may have now come to be regarded by her master, and quite another to speak of it. Is this not a secret, not to be spoken, though possibly shared, however reluctantly on the part of the master? She will, of course, continue to kneel and serve, and please. And if she does not please, she knows she will feel the lash, as any other girl, and she would have it no other way, for she is proud of her master and his strength, proud to be owned by such a man. He is her master.
"Do not forget yourself,” he said. “You are not a free woman. You are an animal, a branded domestic animal, a meaningless work and love beast, purchasable, a thing to be set to labors, a passion toy, a sexual plaything, something to be exploited at the master's will, for his pleasure."
"Yes, Master,” she wept.
"If spared, some others might get some good from you."
"Yes, Master,” she whispered. And then she cried out with misery, and crawled to his feet, her head down. “Keep me!” she sobbed. “Keep me, please, Master!"
"I have decided the matter,” said Cabot. “You will be bound, and leashed, and taken from the camp. If necessary, you will be whipped from the camp."
"Master has never whipped me!” she said.
"I am prepared to do so,” said Cabot.
"Surely not, Master!” she said.
Cabot turned to Archon, and another. “Strip and tie her,” he said. “And bring me a whip."
"Master!” she protested.