corridor that led to a large well-lighted hall. The slaves were already assembled when we entered, and some kind of indoctrination had begun. I felt my face redden, as rather conspicuously we headed along the side of the group, all the way to the front. A tall narrow-faced young man with reddish hair was talking and he broke off when he saw us to ask, 'What's this?' This was worse than the pavilion. I tensed all over, and tried to look really contrite. 'Proud Slave, sir,' the handler answered with amazing rancor. 'It took three handlers to force him onto the stage in the garden ...' 'Oooh, yes,' the tall red-haired man cut him off. The words seemed to boom through the hall. All the meek were surely staring.
Again, I tried to analyze the sense of shame I felt but it was no good. 'Pride so soon, Mr. Slater?' said the red-haired man. I was stung to hear him say my name. And he hadn't ever looked at that tiny delicate gold bracelet with the nameplate. This was great. I didn't dare to look up but I could still see he was not only tall, but kind of sinewy in a graceful way, and real sea-tanned like he'd done his time on the yacht. I could also see glass walls on either side of us, and men and women behind them. And a number of people assembled behind the red-haired man. Everybody was watching this little debacle. And I knew this weird crowd had to be the trainers, the real heavies of The Club, because they were wearing a lot of black. Black leather boots, skirts, pants, with their white blouses or shirts. They had black straps hanging from hooks on their belts. Martin had said only the top brass in paradise wore the black leather. And I was hardly immune to the effect.
The man started pacing, as if looking me over, and even his posture, the way he shifted his weight, exuded command. With a dull, ugly shock, I glimpsed a row of four obviously anxious slaves to the right of him, all turned to face the assembly, some wet faced, others just red. They had the grease pen writing on their chests or bellies. They'd all been very well worked over by the strap. My gang, the bad guys, I thought dismally. Not good at all. This was the old-fashioned schoolroom I'd never been in, where the frock-coated schoolteacher dragged you to the fore to be whipped in front of the class. 'I've heard about your little performance in the garden, Mr. Slater,' said the red-haired trainer, 'your little beauty pageant walk down the plank.' They pick these guys for their voices, I was thinking. He is the frock-coated schoolteacher right out of the Dickens novel. Excuse me, please, I think I would like to read Robinson Crusoe now instead ...
'You'd receive the Initiative Award of the new season ii we had one to give.' I gave a little shake of my head to show I thought it was awful what I'd done. It was awful. 'But we don't want initiative here, Elliott,' he said, drawing closer so that his height got almost as menacing as his voice. Men this tall should be immediately anaesthetized and have four inches excised from both legs. 'You are a slave. And it seems you have a little difficulty keeping that in mind.' Nice pause for effect.
'We are here to help you with your difficulty, to eradicate it, so to speak, along with your pride.' I didn't need to try to look miserable. He was flaying every inch of my naked skin. The stillness of the damned place was nerve shattering. I had the sense again, the way I'd had it on the yacht, that there was no reality any more beyond this. I'd always been this bad little boy, in need of the worst correction, and now the real world had shaped itself around that simple fact. To make matters worse, one of the female trainers was zeroing in. Okay, you knew it would happen sooner or later. So hold tight. But the word defenseless was taking on new dimensions in my head. I could see her shadow, smell her perfume. Fragrances and sex, a kind of tinderbox for reactions. I saw her boots, small and beautifully moulded to her ankles. I could hear my own breathing, my own heart. (Steady, Elliott. No more panic.) She was tall, though nothing as