“By such things, tiny, betraying brands, marking them as slaves,” she said, “many barbarians are recognized.”
“They are not brands,” I said.
“Perhaps by such brands,” she said, “the hunters recognize slaves.”
“That is unlikely,” I said, “for women on my world do not rush about, unclothed.”
“What a liar, you are!” she said. “Many of your women are unveiled. Many times their arms are bared. I have seen slave garments exhibited which were concealed beneath the clothing of women on your world, obvious slave garments, garments so tiny, so soft, so smooth, so stimulating to the base, possessive instincts of men. And your hands and ankles might be noted on your world, or often so. And what of the beaches on your world, where slaves are exposed by their masters with little garmenture?”
“Few would be slaves,” I said.
“Then proto-slaves,” she said, “exhibiting themselves for prospective masters, displaying themselves brazenly, hoping that they might thereby come to the attention of masters.”
“I assure you,” I said, “my world is as complex as yours, perhaps more so.”
“In the markets,” she said, “I have seen chained barbarians exhibited in such garments.”
I did not respond. I was unfamiliar with such markets, save from the inside.
“To be sure,” she said, “only a fool would buy a clothed slave.”
I had, of course, as doubtless she had as well, been sold naked. Few such experiences are as telling in making clear to one one’s femaleness.
“Perhaps, on the other hand,” she said, “it is by such brands that the hunters mark out their picks, their selections, their prey, for a later, convenient acquisition, a preliminary, provisional mark, scarcely noticeable, which will do, until a more appropriate marking, in the pens.”
“No,” I said. “Such marks often go back to childhood.”
“They select them so young?” she said, interested.
“No,” I said. “And men of my world are often similarly marked.”
“Male silk slaves?” she said.
“Not at all,” I said.
“I have seen such milky, frightened things in the markets,” she said. “Some women like them. But they are men, of course, and there is always the danger that one of them, seeing here what men may be, may revert, and turn on one.”
“Many men on my world are capable of being masters,” I said, “and doubtless some are masters.”
“It must be a fearful experience,” she said, “when one’s silk slave turns on one, perhaps binds one and disposes of one in a small market, taking the coins and departing the city.”
“Perhaps few would have such courage,” I said.
“Let us hope so,” she said.
“I think that mark was a brand,” she said, “by which the hunters recognized you as a slave.”
“Not at all,” I said. “It would not have been visible. It would have been concealed by the clothing I wore.”
“How then did they recognize you as a slave?” she asked.
“I have no idea,” I said, though, in truth, I had an idea of such matters. Who could not have seen the slave beneath my clothing? Could not a practiced eye have discerned saleable lineaments beneath that cloth? Who could not have looked upon my throat and not speculated on how fittingly it would have been encircled by a metal collar? Who could not have looked into my eyes, severely, and not seen the trembling, waiting slave?
“You must have been assessed,” she said.
“Doubtless,” I said.
“Where, when, how?” she asked.
“I do not know,” I said. I did not know. It might have been anywhere, at any time, perhaps when I least suspected it, on a bus, in a subway, on the street, shopping, waiting for a light to change, stepping in or out of a taxi, in a corridor, in the aisle of a market, in a classroom, on the campus, anywhere, anytime.
But then I was sure I knew.
It had been at a party, in the house, if nowhere else.
“It is unusual that you would not have been assessed naked,” she said.
“Perhaps,” I said.
I did not tell her of a troubling dream I had had, weeks ago, after the party. I had dreamed I had been sedated, and stripped in my own bed, in the house, in my room, and, in the light of a flashlight, a sort of torch without fire, held by one man, had been turned about, and, roughly, in one way and another, handled as expertly and casually as might have been a slave, by two others, even measured. The men had then tied me, supine, my hands and ankles fastened well apart, to the posts at the head and foot of the bed. It seemed I was struggling, futilely, trying to regain consciousness, trying to awaken, unsuccessfully, while the men conversed nearby, with low voices. I sensed they had come to some sort of agreement. Notations were made, on some sort of device. I twisted, and squirmed, and bucked and thrashed, wildly, jerking against the cords, fastened several times about my wrists and ankles. Then I lay back, knowing that I could not free myself. I was helpless, absolutely helpless. The flashlight was turned on me. Two of the men laughed. I then fully lost consciousness. I awakened in the early morning, in the house, in what, in your reckoning, would have been something like the Fifth Ahn, whimpering, and then suddenly I screamed, before I realized, with unbounded relief, that I was safe, so safe, in my own room. But somehow, inexplicably, I was naked. Somehow, in the night, I had slipped from my night gown. I did not see how that could be. I shuddered. I felt small, and helpless, and frightened, and quietly, not moving, lay in the bed, my legs drawn up. It had been a most unusual, and frightening, dream. I was still uneasy. I still felt its terror. But in a few moments I had recovered myself sufficiently to regard the dream with amusement, but then, suddenly, a moment later, cried out with horror. Two of the other girls entered the room, Eve and Jane, and the house mother, Mrs. Rawlinson. I drew the covers about me. “A dream,” I explained. “A dream!” My two friends, Eve and Jane, looked to one another, and then left. The house mother, Mrs. Rawlinson, however, dallied a bit, and regarded me, the covers drawn up about my neck, and smiled, and, as it seems to me now, knowingly. I and two others of my sisters in the house, my sorority sisters, for a sorority is a sort of club, my friends, Eve and Jane, had had, some days ago, a fearful contretemps with the house mother. Examining our rooms in our absence, while we were in class, certain books had been discovered, literature certainly inappropriate for our prestigious house, one of the most exclusive and inaccessible on campus, and inappropriate, as well, for our small, expensive, illustrious, private institution, one of the most selective in the northern hemisphere of my former world, save for certain reluctant concessions to political pressures, abetted by special grants and fellowships, and inappropriate, as well, for members of our class, that of my sisters and myself, our social station. I think there was no girl in our house who did not derive from a background of refinement and great wealth. Too, I think I should mention that our sorority was generally recognized as the richest and most desirable sorority on campus, amongst several others, of similar repute. We lived arrogant, tasteful, condescending lives, in keeping with our superiority. On the other hand, we underwent much supervision by our peers, and house mother, Mrs. Rawlinson, and much attention was devoted to our activities. Though we were undeniably privileged and special, we were not as much at liberty as might be supposed, for our freedoms were limited in certain ways, that as a natural function of our station and the reputation of the house. For example, our classes, interests, books, majors, and such, were to be such as were suitable for us; our charity work, if done, was to be restricted to suitable charities; our acquaintances were to be proper, of a suitable class, position, background, appearance, and such; and, in particular, one must be judicious in dating. We were not to date beneath our station, for, just as you have castes, we have social divisions which, in their way, are also strict. Certainly we were expected to behave in such a manner as to, at all times, maintain the dignity, prestige, and reputation of the house. Accordingly, our social activities, where the men, or boys, were concerned, were to be limited to a small set of men’s clubs or fraternities, in their ranking comparable to ours. The girls of our sorority, or club, I might add, were not only rich, but, too, tended to be aloof, refined, aristocratic, spoiled, and vain. That is clearer to me now than it was at that time. Also, there seemed to be another criterion imposed on membership in our house, but, as obvious and generally recognized as it was, it was never mentioned explicitly. Each of our girls was extremely beautiful. We were the Ubaras of the campus, so to speak. To date one of us was a coup for the lucky fellow, and one of our common pleasures was to disdainfully refuse such dates, unless, of course, requested by young men whose wealth and social position was superior to ours. What is the point of beauty, if not
