I saw two or three of the men turn about, and leave, chatting.
“Begin, begin, begin,” said the auctioneer. “Twenty, twenty, twenty.”
I stood there, weak, almost faltering.
The auctioneer occasionally held my upper left arm, steadying me. I might otherwise have fallen.
I knew myself a slave, but, still, the enormity of what was being done to me seemed almost incomprehensible. Where was Earth, my familiar surroundings, the college, the classes, my fellow students, the sorority?
I stood there, under the eyes of buyers.
I wondered if some of the young men I had known might have wondered how I, so aloof, so superior, so unapproachable, might have appeared on an auction block, reduced, rightless, stripped, a slave displayed for the perusal of buyers. I was not so lofty, so proud, now. They might have been amused to see me so, frightened, being vended. I wondered if some might have bid upon me. What if one had purchased me? I would then have been his, helplessly.
“Twenty-five, twenty-five, thirty,” was saying the auctioneer.
I feared I might fall.
The auctioneer’s hand steadied me.
“Thirty, thirty-five,” he was saying.
I heard coins, being rattled against one another, in the palm of someone’s hand.
So I stood there, naked, on the platform, only half understanding what was being done.
Was this being done to someone else?
Then I realized that it was I, I, who was being sold!
I recalled Mrs. Rawlinson.
How, in her mind’s eye, she must have smiled, considering the fate she was arranging for her lovely, vain, shallow, spoiled charges, the markets of Gor!
In the beginning, we had looked down on her, she merely a house mother, an employee, a servant of sorts, far beneath us, a woman hired to manage the house, to regulate mundane and domestic matters, to look after, even regulate and supervise, to some extent, a number of aristocratic, supercilious, patronizing young women, her social betters. But soon, whether because of the force of her personality, or the uncompromising, confident sternness of her demeanor, we began to fear the influence she might bring to bear, the power she might exercise. We had soon begun to treat her with respect, even awe. We followed her instructions, and did as we might be told. Even Nora feared her. The board, it seemed clear, for we, in our resentment and annoyance, had sought this information, was behind her. It became clear to us that however she had been emplaced, and however she had been empowered, that the house, and its occupants, were hers to rule. In that tiny world her word would be law. The board would accommodate itself to her recommendations, whatever they might be. A word from her, a charge from her, would initiate a sequence of actions which might culminate in one’s expulsion from the house, with the shame and ruin which might be consequent on such a disgrace. She might disrupt our plans; she might jeopardize our very future. Imagine then my terror, and that of Jane and Eve, when forbidden literature, secret, suspect literature, literature inappropriate for such as we, improper, scandalous literature, was discovered in our rooms! We were then at her mercy!
I wondered if she thought of us, I and the others, from time to time, now on Gor, owned, doubtless all of us, now the property of masters.
She had done her work well.
Perhaps she was now similarly employed, elsewhere.
That seemed not impossible.
The slave nets are carefully woven, with stout inescapable cordage, and they are cast with skill.
One does not escape their coils.
And so, as I stood naked on a block in the Metellan district, in Ar, the worn carpet beneath my feet, the afternoon sun on my body, warm, shadows across the street, the men about, some people passing by, not noticing me, exposed to buyers, being sold, I thought of Mrs. Rawlinson.
Yes, I thought, Mrs. Rawlinson, you are Mistress. You are a free woman, and here, on this world, as I had not on Earth, I have begun to sense what that might be, its unchallenged force, and pride, and power, and here I am a slave, only that, and here, naked on an auction block, being sold, I have begun to sense what that might be.
“Forty, forty,” said the auctioneer. “Forty-two, no more? No more? No more? Done!”
I realized I had been sold.
At least, I thought, I have gone for forty-two. I dared not suppose it would have been forty-two pieces of gold, for I was new to my condition, had not been extensively trained, and had only recently been opened, in what I now had come to understand was the house of Tenalion, in Ar.
I did not fear pregnancy, for early in my sojourn in the house I had been given Slave Wine. Understanding its nature, I had imbibed it willingly enough, as disgusting and foul a brew as it was. Its effects are removed, I am told, if one is given a Releaser, which, I am told, is palatable, even delicious. As a slave, an animal, I knew I could be bred, as any other animal. It is done with us as masters please. But I was not now apprehensive. I had not been administered a Releaser. The breeding of slaves, as you know, as other animals, is carefully controlled. I would be bred only if the masters so pleased.
I took forty-two silver tarsks to be a considerable amount of coin, particularly for a new slave.
My estimation of my extraordinary beauty, I was pleased to note, was now well confirmed, confirmed objectively, in virtue of a block price, in virtue of a sober economic transaction. The matter was now beyond argument. The former Lady Persinna, as I recalled, whom I had thought very beautiful, had gone for only three and a half silver tarsks.
I recalled that it had been estimated, even on Earth, that I would go from between forty and sixty, an amount which I had then mistakenly interpreted as dollars, thousands of dollars, a form of Earth currency.
I heard coins being counted out, one upon the other.
I could not resist looking. Might it not, though improbable perhaps, be gold?
“Master!” I protested. Then I was frightened, for I had spoken without permission. “Forgive me, Master!” I said.
The coins being counted into the palms of the auctioneer were neither of gold nor silver. They were copper.
“Forty-two,” said a fellow, thick-bodied, short-bearded, in a brown robe, girded up to his knees. His arms were bare. His left arm was scarred.
“Forty-two copper tarsks,” confirmed the auctioneer.
I could not believe that I had brought so little.
“A splendid buy,” the auctioneer assured the buyer. “Fortune has smiled upon your bidding.”
“An untutored barbarian,” said the fellow.
“We had hoped to get fifty for her,” said the auctioneer.
“She is not worth so much,” said the fellow.
“I trust she will prove satisfactory,” said the auctioneer. “If not, we will buy her back.”
“For how much?” asked the fellow, warily.
“Twenty,” speculated the auctioneer.
“How much Gorean does she have?” asked the man.
“Enough,” said the auctioneer. To be sure, I do not know how he knew that. And I surely hoped it would be enough. It is hard to be pleasing, if one cannot understand what is expected of one.
“She will prove satisfactory,” said the fellow. “The whip will see to it.”
The slaver’s man, from behind, took me by the arms, lifted me up, my feet some inches above the surface of the platform, and descended the steps of the platform, to the street, and placed me before the bearded fellow in the short, girded-up robe.
He was looking at me.
I did not know what to do.
“She is stupid,” said the bearded fellow to the auctioneer.
I quickly knelt down before the man and, the palms of my hands down on the street, pressed my lips to his sandals, kissing them.
