“Her contract is held by Lord Nishida,” said Pertinax.
“Contracts may change hands, be purchased, and such,” I said.
“Doubtless,” said Pertinax.
“Why should she treat Tajima badly?” I asked.
“Doubtless for the same reason that the Lady Portia Lia Serisia of Sun Gate Towers would, if she dared, not treat Pertinax well,” said Pertinax.
“You are referring, incorrectly, I take it,” I said, “to a meaningless slave, your Jane, in her collar, who must now obey, fetch, and serve, unquestioningly.”
“Yes,” he said, “to my slave, Jane.”
“Your insolent slave,” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
“No slave is insolent,” I said, “whom you do not permit to be insolent.”
“Perhaps,” he said.
“That lovely brat still has to learn her collar,” I said.
“Perhaps,” he said.
“Do not fear to use the switch, or whip,” I said. “The slave learns quickly to respond to its discipline, to its swift, informative, lashing sting, its sudden monitory caress on her soft, smooth skin.”
“Perhaps,” he said.
“Certainly,” I said. “The next time your Jane’s behavior, in any way, whether verbal, physical, or attitudinal, asks for such a stroke, or even seems that it might ask for such a stroke, see that she receives it. You will learn shortly thereafter that her behavior will then seldom ask for such a stroke, or even seem to ask for such a stroke.”
“She will learn to fear, and will then attempt to avoid, the stoke,” he said.
“Certainly,” I said.
“A switch in time saves nine?” he smiled.
“You could put it that way,” I said. “The sooner she kneels before you and sees you as her master, the better for the both of you.”
“She as slave, I as master,” he said.
“Yes,” I said. “How can she be slave, if you are not master?”
“I fear I lack the courage, the strength, to be a master,” he said.
“Then sell her to another,” I said, “who will treat her as she deserves, and, in her heart, desires to be treated.”
He was silent, angry.
What man, after all, does not, in his deepest heart, want to own a woman? What could begin to compare with such a property?
Perhaps, I thought, he has dreamed of another woman, a different slave, his, helpless at his feet?
Would he have the courage, the will, the determination, the kindness, the compassion, I wondered, to put her at his feet, keep her there without the least compromise, and fulfill her?
“Why should Sumomo not respect Tajima?” I asked. “Or Jane Pertinax?”
“Perhaps because we are weak,” said Pertinax.
“I do not think so,” I said.
“Perhaps,” said Pertinax, “because neither of us speak Gorean natively, perhaps because neither of us was born to this world. We are seen as different, as barbarians.”
“I, too,” I said, “would be such a barbarian.”
“No,” he said, “you are Gorean.”
“Tajima,” I said, “is now of Gor.”
“I do not think Sumomo understands that,” said Pertinax.
“A dangerous misunderstanding,” I said.
“Perhaps,” he said.
“Pertinax,” I said, “may one day, too, be of Gor.”
“It is not easy to be of Gor,” said Pertinax.
“At one time, long ago,” I said, “none were of Gor.”
“Now, many?”
“Of course,” I said.
“Is it good to be of Gor?” asked Pertinax.
“That question can be asked only by one who does not know Gor,” I said.
“I do not understand,” said Pertinax.
“Is it good to be alive?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Pertinax.
“Then you sense Gor,” I said. “Once one has known Gor, one is alive. Once one has known Gor, one never goes back.”
“Tajima is now approaching,” said Pertinax.
“Yes,” I said. Sumomo, I noted, perhaps alerted by Hana, had turned about, to watch Tajima withdraw. She seemed amused. Tajima did not look back at her. My pantherine associate did not seem pleased. Although his face was a careful study in composure, there was a tightness about the jaw, a rigidity, that bespoke a rage and shame he was too proud to display. He had been genuinely concerned with the safety and welfare of the contract woman, Sumomo. His concern had seemingly been scorned, perhaps even mocked. Certainly, from the looks of it, he had been treated badly, very badly. I suspected he now viewed the contract woman differently, doubtless now as less worthy of his concern, which he would now recognize had been seriously misplaced. Had we been elsewhere on Gor and she branded and naked in a slave cage I did not doubt but what he would bid on her, and soon, doubtless regardless of the cost, would have her on his chain. She might then look forward to a perfect and exquisite bondage at his feet, one from which he would see to it that he derived much satisfaction. To be sure, there was little prospect of this, as Sumomo’s contract was held by Lord Nishida. And doubtless the proud Sumomo was only too well aware of this fact. Within the fortress of etiquette and custom she doubtless supposed herself to repose secure. I supposed it would take some time for Tajima to nurse his wounds. And the deepest of wounds, we note, do not always bleed. Too, the Pani have long memories.
Tajima had now joined us.
“You saw?” asked Tajima.
“Sumomo belongs in a collar,” I said.
“She is Pani,” said Tajima.
“Doubtless some women of the Pani are in collars,” I said.
“Yes,” he said, “primarily women of enemy houses. Taken, they may be reduced to collar girls.”
“Enemy houses?” I asked.
But Tajima was silent.
I suspected, but did not remark it, that Sumomo’s treatment of Tajima might have obscure motivations, motivations more subtle and deeper than a mere scorn for one she might despise as having been extracted from an alien world. I suspected she was fighting irresistibilities within herself, longings to feel his switch, curiosities as to what it might be to kneel naked before him and press her lips upon his bared feet, what it might be to writhe in his arms, helpless, and owned, as only a woman may be owned, owned to the tiniest tremor of her subdued and surrendered heart, to the last obedient cell of her mastered body.
I did not speak these things, of course, to Tajima.
We turned our attention to the door of the closed, presumably blockaded hut.
Several of the Pani with the masked figure had now ranged themselves on either side of the door of the hut.
I did see, briefly, a frightened face within, in the small, open window, to one side of the door.
The figure in the hideous mask-helmet, with the bloodied sword, gave a sign and several
I would have thought it well to have warned the walled-in, dangerous, doubtless panic-stricken prisoners of
