to open doors, to bargain, and to enhance one’s prospects? Were we not prostitutes, in a way, ready to sell ourselves, high-priced merchandise, for power, position, station, and wealth?
You have probably guessed the nature of the “inappropriate literature” discovered by the house mother. But perhaps not.
Just as many of you doubt the existence of a world called Terra, or Earth, so, too, many on my world doubt the existence of your world. Indeed, I did so, as well, until I found myself here, naked in a slave pen, chains on my limbs. In any event, though the evidence for your world doubtless exists, in many ways, on my world, what evidence is recognized is, as far as I know, subjected to alternative explanations, ignored, or explained away, in one way or another. This is not to say, of course, that Goreans are not here and there on Earth. My presence here, for example, makes that clear, or, at least, that there are those on Earth who know of Gor, and are familiar with her. This is not to deny, of course, that better information might be housed in various intelligence communities on Earth, evidence which it would be wise to treat with circumspection. In any event, various manuscripts pertaining to your world have appeared, in a variety of languages, on my former world, despite efforts to suppress them, to deny them to the reading public. And even if such efforts should prove overtly successful it is not unlikely that some copies will elude the insecure and bigoted, and will continue to circulate, as an underground literature, if nothing else, hidden here and there, and passed secretly from hand to hand, a badge of understanding and brotherhood, in defiance of haters and tyrants concerned to engineer a pathology congenial to their political ambitions.
In any event, in my room, and apparently in those of Eve and Jane, Mrs. Rawlinson had discovered certain of these books, apparently, as I then thought, to her astonishment, embarrassment, dismay, and indignation. Certainly I had hidden the books, I had thought well, in a trunk, covered with clothing, had confessed to no one that I had read such things, and was terribly self-conscious at having done so. I was miserably embarrassed that this secret was discovered. What would Mrs. Rawlinson, my sisters, others, think of me?
Worse, I could be publicly humiliated, disdained, ostracized, and summarily expelled from the sorority, with all the devastating social consequences which that might entail.
A delicate and fragile world, carefully constructed and maintained with an eye to the future, might tumble about me.
I was frightened.
I was suddenly, for the first time in my life, vulnerable, at risk.
I would be on the outside, alone, ignored and despised, the gates shut against me.
How delighted would be Nora, and certain others of my sisters, at my downfall, my discomfiture!
How rapidly and eagerly would this welcome news of my exposure be broadcast about the campus!
I had come upon such books by accident, in a store dealing with old books. I was curious. I looked into one or more. I was startled. I could not believe, even from the first pages, the nature of what I read. I did not understand how the authors, Tarl Cabot, and others, might have dared to write what they did. Did they not know the formulas? Were they unaware of the political requirements imposed on contemporary literature? Were such so obscure, or difficult to discern? What an unexpected paradox, to put aside the rules, to deny orthodoxy, to speak so plainly, so simply and quietly, and naturally, of a culture so different from ours, and to speak of it not to denounce it, but to understand it, to speak of it from the inside, instead of disparaging it from the outside, from the alleged vantage point of some arrogant, unargued, unquestioned position or posture whose credentials were not only dubious but nonexistent. What of the simple test of life consequences? Is it obvious that an unnatural culture which produces vehemence, confusion, hysteria, sickness, treachery, hypocrisy, mass murder, and hatred is obviously superior to a culture compatible with nature, and her kinds and differences, a culture in which nature is recognized and celebrated, and enhanced by all the ennobling sophistications of civilization, rather than denied?
In any event, if only to my dismay, and fear, the books spoke to me.
Too, they spoke to me of secrets I had long concealed from myself. My life was boring and empty, and largely mapped out for me. I was on a road, cold, glittering, metallic, and arid, which I did not much care to follow. I did not know myself. Perhaps I was afraid to discover myself. What might I learn, what might I find? I did know that I was a scion of a series of species bred for thousands of generations for a world quite different from the one in which I found myself, a world less populated, greener, more open, more perilous perhaps, and certainly more beautiful. And I knew, too, that there were men and women, and that each had been bred beside the other, for countless generations, each in the light of the other, and I suspected, from my thoughts, my needs, and dreams, that they were not identical, but that each sex, so radically dimorphic, had its own wonderful nature, each nature complementary to the other. What of relationships, so pervasive amongst mammals? Had such things not been selected for? Was nature so hard to read? Did the consequences of denying her lead to happiness, or fulfillment? It did not seem so.
But, still, I had been caught.
Books had been found in my room.
Mrs. Rawlinson had sternly summoned me, and Eve and Jane, before her. We were then alone, frightened, in the room with her. The room was not well lit. Her straight, menacing figure was outlined against the wide window behind her. I soon realized, from the books on her desk, that Eve and Jane, too, were familiar with such books. I wondered how many other women, and men, knew of such things.
Could it be that I was not alone, that I was not an isolated, shameful exception to the pompous glories of political orthodoxy?
How rare is courage!
How mighty is the shuffling, drifting, dull, pressing herd!
Eve, Jane, and I exchanged frightened glances.
Oddly, I wondered which of us might be found most beautiful on a Gorean slave block. Do not women wonder about such things?
And what of Nora, and my enemies in the house?
Would they be so different, barefoot in the sawdust, turned, exhibited, in the torchlight, being bid upon?
“Shame! Shame!” said Mrs. Rawlinson, pointing to the books on the desk before her, the window behind her.
“What have you to say for yourselves?” she asked.
There seemed little for us to say. I felt tears of shame course my cheeks. Eve and Jane, too, sobbed.
“I thought so,” she said. “Know that there is no place for such as you in this house. This is terrible, terrible! You are an insult to the house, to your sisters, to the national organization. You are finished here, disgraced. You will go to your rooms, pack your belongings, and leave the premises before nightfall.”
“No,” we wept. “Please, no!”
“Tomorrow morning I shall bring the matter to the attention of the house board, and your sisters, following which the evidence will be presented, and the vote taken, the outcome of which I do not doubt will be to publicly and officially expel you from the house, and, concomitantly, the national organization.”
“Forgive us!” begged Eve.
“We are sorry!” said Jane.
“For offenses less meaningful, less heinous, expulsion is in order,” she said.
“Is it truly so great a matter?” I wept.
“Quite,” she said. “You may now leave the room,” she said.
“Please, no!” we wept.
She pointed to the door and, shuddering, stumbling, numb, we turned about, unable to speak, unable to comprehend the dissolution of our reality, the sudden and catastrophic loss of our position and status, taken as given and unassailable but moments ago.
We had been everything, and now, in moments, we would be nothing, we would be despised and negligible, would be then no more than others, inferiors. The shame of this expulsion would be general knowledge, and certain of our sisters, I thought I knew which ones, Nora, and others, would see to it that the cause of our expulsion would be well publicized. Our continued presence at the school would be intolerable.
“What do you think you are,” asked Mrs. Rawlinson, “reading such things?”
We turned back to face her.
Something had been different about her voice. She suddenly seemed other than she had been.
“We are sorry, very sorry!” said Eve, hopefully.
“You are silly little bitches,” said the house mother. “I wonder what you are good for?”
