Tuvo regarded the two nigh beasts. “Surely those are wolves,” he said.
“No,” said Julian, “dogs.”
“They are feeding,” said Tuvo, “on your kill.”
“Such things are familiar with cooked meat,” said Julian.
“I do not care how they look upon us,” said Nika.
“The margin which separates such things from their wild brethren is, I fear, narrow,” said Julian.
“We are in danger?” said Nika.
“Not now, perhaps soon,” said Julian.
“Surely they are wolves,” said Tuvo.
“No,” said Julian, “they are dogs, bred for size and ferocity, bred to hunt, bred to attack on command, bred to kill wolves.”
“Dogs?” said Tuvo.
“Yes, dogs,” said Julian, “and here, Otung dogs.”
“The wolves are gone,” said Tuvo.
“Probably not far,” said Julian. “They have probably returned, to feed on their fellows.”
“If those are Otung dogs,” said Tuvo, “then we must be in the country of the Otungs.”
“Yes,” said Julian. “We have arrived. We are now in the country of the Otungs.”
Tuvo recovered the fallen rifle and handed it to Julian. “You still have one charge not expended,” he said.
“I think we have little to fear from the wolves at present,” said Julian. “They fear the dogs, and there is enough feeding about for them. I think they will eat, and then drift away, and, in a day or two, range forth again, seeking the scent of possible prey.”
“Then we are safe,” said Tuvo.
“Not from the dogs,” said Julian, “nor from Otungs, if they are about.”
“Let us be on our way,” said Tuvo.
Then, warily, backing away for a time, regarded occasionally by the monstrous dogs, lifting their heads from the burned, blackened, half-eaten carcass, they turned, and moved into the darkness, away from the dying fire, inside its ring of dark earth, where the snow had melted.
“Heel us,” said Julian, to the slave.
“I heel, Master,” she said.
They had not gone far when, in the distance, they noted a spot of light, incongruous in the darkness, not far from a partly illuminated, thick border of looming trees.
“Look,” said Tuvo.
“I see,” said Julian.
The party stood in the darkness, in the snow, amongst trees, regarding that surprising, tiny, far-off point of illumination.
“Otungs?” said Tuvo.
“No,” said Julian. “That light, so cold, so bright, so bleak, so steady, is artificial.”
“Here, then, in the wilderness,” said Tuvo, “it can be but one thing.”
“Yes,” said Julian. “We have found the camp.”
9
“Your hands are now free,” said the barbarian. “Perhaps you do not know what to do with them.”
“Forgive me, Master,” said Filene, “but I have recently been free.”
She slipped quickly, gracefully, beneath the furs.
“You conceal yourself,” observed the barbarian.
“Permit me to do so,” she said.
“Why?” he asked.
“I am still timid, and modest,” she said. “Much of the free woman remains in me.”
“It could be whipped out of you,” said the barbarian.
“Be kind,” she said.
“The slave is not a free woman,” he said. “It is a mistake to lavish consideration on her. Soon, as the free woman, she will not appreciate it, but expect it, and take it for granted. Thus, a slave should be kept on her knees.”
“I see,” she said.
“That is what they want, and where they belong,” he said.
“I see,” she said.
“They are women, slaves,” he said.
“Join me within the covers, Master,” she said.
“No woman is truly happy,” said the barbarian, “who is not in her collar.”
“Hurry, Master,” she urged.
“You are an extremely pretty slave,” he said.
“That is why you give me my way,” she said.
“Your hair is long, your eyes blue, your features exquisite, your lips soft,” he said.
“And my skin is smooth, and my thigh fair, and unmarked,” she said.
“As unmarked as that of a free woman,” he said.
“That is interesting, is it not?” she asked.
“I find it so,” he said.
“It is my hope that I will please Master,” she said.
“Your hands,” he said, “are small, soft, and fine.”
“Thank you, Master,” she said.
“I freed them,” he said. “I would see them.”
“Join me,” she said. “And let them, within the furs, unseen, concealed, touch and caress you, addressing themselves to your pleasure.”
“I have heard that some call you ‘Cornhair’,” said the barbarian.
“Please do not do so,” she said.
“You wish to please me?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” she said. “And you will be well pleased, I assure you, with how I shall please you.”
“Are you trained?” he asked.
“I do not need to be trained,” she said.
“Why is that?” he asked.
“I am beautiful,” she said.
“That is pleasant, but, for a slave, far from enough,” he said.
“Master?” she said.
“Are you trained?” he asked.
“I have had little, or no training,” she said.
“Are you trained?” he asked.
“No, Master,” she said.
“No woman,” said the barbarian, “should be sent to the selling platform without some training.”
“But many are,” protested Filene. “Cities fall, space liners are seized, ships are captured at sea, caravans are intercepted, girl tributes are levied from subdued communities, taxes may be levied in terms of female flesh, edifices are raided, women’s baths are plundered!”
“Who would wish to purchase an untrained slave?” said the barbarian.
“Surely much depends on the slave,” said Filene.
“When one buys a slave, one expects a slave,” said the barbarian, “not simply a piece of chained meat.”
“I have heard, Master,” said Filene, “that some men prefer a hitherto-unowned slave, that they may train her with perfection to their personal tastes.”
“Every slave is trained to her Master’s tastes,” said the barbarian, “but one expects them to know something or other before they are introduced to the whipping ring in their Master’s domicile.”
“Still,” protested Filene.
“And what then,” he asked, “when she is sold to another?”
“I see,” said Filene.
“It is dangerous to the woman to be sold untrained,” said the barbarian. “What if she does not know how to please a man? Some Masters are impatient.”
“I trust that Master is not impatient,” said Filene.
“For you do not know how to please a man?”
“I fear not,” said Filene.
“You are an interesting slave,” he said.
“Every slave hopes to be of interest,” she said.
How horrid, she thought to herself, how dreadful, how humiliating, to be of “interest.” I am a free woman. We do not wish to be found of interest. We are not slaves! How insulting to be found of interest! And yet, too, she recalled, on a dozen worlds, at a hundred entertainments, on the street, in restaurants, in theaters, at races, at arena events, in the gambling palaces, at the tables and wheels, in her gowns and ensembles, she had been smugly thrilled to be found of interest. How she, delighted and keenly aware, had relished the heedful, furtive glances of men, the striking impression she had made, the stir for which she was responsible, had sensed their notice and attention, had basked in their commendatory regard. How she despised men, and yet thrived on their discomfort. Yes, she thought, she had wished to be found of interest! Keenly so, very much so! Could it be, then, she wondered, that in every woman there was a slave? Could it be, then, as the barbarian had asserted, that no woman could be truly happy who is not in her collar? No, no, she thought. But there was a pleasure, doubtless, an exceedingly pleasant gratification, in being a tumult-engendering, exhibited, inaccessible treasure. Let them suffer the starvation and denial of their nature, the frustration of their blood, the pangs of unrequited desire! How horrifying then, she thought, to be a slave, to be owned, to be available and resistless, to be wholly and instantaneously subject, at any moment, to a man’s least wishes, to be the helpless, defenseless source of a thousand pleasures which might be reaped at will from her body, to be at the mercy of a Master! I am not a slave, she cried out to herself. Not a slave! I am a free woman! And yet here I am, she thought, wildly, hidden in the furs of a barbarian’s couch, as stripped as a slave, a chain locked on my neck!