well aware that is she herself which is desired, and for the purposes of a slave, service and pleasure, inordinate pleasure. How horrifying it must be for one of these lofty free women, hitherto so exalted, privileged, and superior, hitherto so smug, petulant, arrogant, and demanding, hitherto so incomparably, so insufferably proud, if she should, to her horror, undergo a catastrophic reversal of fortune, if she should find herself reduced to bondage, to be stripped, collared, and sold! Yet how strange, too, that these women, so many of them, seem restless, impatient, short-tempered, and miserable. Surely this is incomprehensible. Do they not have everything for which a woman might long, cultural elevation, standing, status, prestige, power, dignity, and respect, even awe? Why then are they so unhappy? And why are they so cruel to us, and hate us so? We are not interfering with their precious freedom. We could not do so if we wished. We are only helpless beasts, in our collars and tunics. Can we help it if men want us more? And why do they so often insult and taunt men? Are they angry with men, and, if so, why? What do they want from men? Do they not understand that this might annoy, or anger, the men? A slave might die of fear before risking such a thing. And why do some of them join small caravans, and risk dangerous journeys to far places, or wander dark, unguarded streets, or stroll the high bridges alone, in the bright moonlight? Are they so smug, so sure of themselves, that they do not understand the perils of such things? Do they court the collar? Do they long to be owned, and thrown naked, with a jangle of chain, to the furs of love?
I looked about myself, at the men about, the workers, several of them, a mercenary or two, a mariner in his brimless cap. These were Gorean men. Such men wanted women as slaves, and so they had them so. Such men were scions of a culture founded on nature and its fulfillment, not its denial. I wondered if such men knew we yearned for their collars.
I thrust such thoughts from my mind!
I was of Earth!
Goreans were fools! I would escape!
Chapter Eighteen
“What is wrong, Master?” inquired Asperiche.
“Nothing,” I told her, angrily.
“You have seen her!” she laughed. “At long last! Here, in Shipcamp!”
“Who?” I asked.
“She whom you have sought so long,” she said. “Even in Brundisium, surely in Tarncamp!”
“I have sought no one,” I said.
“I think Master did not come to this remote, forlorn place for two staters,” she said.
“Gold staters,” I said.
“Even so,” she said.
“Do you wish to be beaten?” I asked.
“Is she well-curved,” she asked, “a blonde or a brunette?”
“You would look well,” I said, “on all fours, bringing me the switch in your teeth, whimpering plaintively to be beaten.”
“I trust she is not a barbarian,” she said.
“What is wrong with barbarians?” I asked.
“I thought so,” she said. “They are stupid.”
“They twist, sob, and cry out, as well as any other woman,” I said.
“Buy her,” she said. “Does she have a private master?”
“No,” I said, “she is a camp slave.”
“She will be cheap then,” she said. “Has she been in the slave house?”
“I do not know,” I said.
“If so,” she said, “she would be well heated by now.”
“I do not want her,” I said.
“Buy her,” she said. “Get her out of your system. Get her on your chain, have her crawl about for a time in your collar, use her for slave sport, make her sob and cry, and beg, and then sell her.”
“She is nothing to me,” I said. “I turned my back on her. I left her on her knees, on the dock.”
“What is her name?” she asked.
“I do not know, nor do I care,” I said.
“Was she sold in Brundisium?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, “to agents of the Pani, who were stocking slaves for the camps.”
“More likely, for trade goods,” she said.
“Perhaps,” I said.
“What was her lot number?” she asked.
“119,” I said.
“Master has an excellent memory,” she said.
“I scouted her, on the world called Earth,” I said. “She owes her collar to me.”
“I have heard it is a sorry world,” she said.
“It has not been well kept,” I said.
“Not even the urt soils its own nest,” she said.
“I have no interest in her,” I said.
“If you know her former lot number,” she said, “it would be easy enough for you, a free man, to learn her name, and where she is housed. Records