Suddenly it seemed so foolish to me that it had seemed that I was free. I almost choked with misery. It was only too obvious that I was not free. I knew then that I might indeed figure in transactions, and knew that I would do so as mere property. I could figure in commercial exchanges, for I was goods. I could indeed be purchased, and bought and sold. In the moment of my misery my vanities, my pretenses, had been swept away. I knew then, as I had not before, that I was a slave girl.
'Through that door,' said Verna, gesturing with her head, 'is your master.' I stood and faced the door, stripped, wrists lashed behind my back. Suddenly, unaccountably, I turned and faced her. 'A hundred arrow points,' I pouted, 'is not enough!' I was startled that I had said this, and more with how I had said it. It was surely not Elinor Brinton who could have said this. It was the remark of a slave girl. But it had been Elinor Brinton who had said it. With horror I suddenly realized that she was a petty slave girl.
'It is all that you are worth to him,' said Verna.
I pulled futilely at the binding fiber on my wrists.
She regarded me, as might have a man. I stood in fury, scrutinized. 'I myself,' said Verna, 'would not have paid as much.'
The girls laughed.
I shook with fury, a humiliated slave girl. My action seemed uncontrollable, and I hated myself for it.
'The girl fancies,' said the blond girl, who had held my leash, 'that she should have fetched a higher price.'
'I am worth more!' I pouted.
'Be silent,' said Verna.
'Yes, Mistress,' I said, frightened, putting down my head.
A ripple of amusement passed through the girls.
I did not care. I was angry, and I was humiliated. I should have brought far more.
I suddenly knew that I would be a clever slave. I was highly intelligent. I could undoubtedly scheme and wheedle, and obtain my way. I could smile prettily, and would, to obtain what I wished. I felt petty and sly, but justifiably, proudly so. Was I not a slave? I knew that I could well employ the wiles of a slave girl to make my life pleasant and easy.
But only a hundred arrow points! It was not enough!
The door to the hut swung open. Suddenly terrified I faced the opening.
I felt the point of Verna's spear in my back.
'Enter, Slave Girl,' said Verna.
'Yes, Mistress,' I whispered.
I felt the point of Verna's spear again against my back. It pressed forward. I stumbled into the room, crying out with anguish.
The door shut behind me, two beams falling into place, barring it.
I looked about, and then I threw back my head and screamed in uncontrollable horror.
10 What Transpired in the Hut
The large-eyed, furred thing blinked at me.
'Do not be afraid,' said a voice.
The animal was fastened to a ring in the wall by a stout, spiked leather collar, fastened to a heavy chain.
I stood with my back to the opposite wall of the hut, shrinking against it, terrified. I felt the rough boards at my back. my head was lifted and back, eyes wide. The back of my head pressed back against the boards. I felt the boards, too, pressed against the fingertips of my bound hands. I could not breathe. The beast looked at me, and yawned. I saw the two rows of white fangs. Then, sleepily, it began to nibble at the fur of its right paw, grooming it. I saw that the chain was short, that it would not reach even to the center of the room.
'Do not be afraid,' again said the voice.
I took a breath, with difficulty.
Across the room, his back to me, bending over a shallow pan of water, with a towel about his neck, was a small man. He turned to face me. His face was still the painted clown's face, but he had put aside his silly robes, the tufted hat. He wore a common Gorean male house tunic, rough and brown, with leggings, such as are sometimes worn by woodsmen, who work in brush.
'Good evening,' he said.
I shuddered. I did not move.
His voice seemed different now, no longer the voice of the comical mountebank. Too, somehow the voice seemed familiar to me, but I could not recall if, or where, I had once heard it. I knew only that I was terribly frightened. He turned again to the pan of water on the table and began to wash the paint from his face.
I could not take my eyes from the beast.
It regarded me, sleepily, and returned to the grooming of its paw.
It seemed incredibly huge, even more so in the small hut then earlier outside of Targo's compound. It was like a glistening, somnolent, boulder of fur, alive, hundreds of pounds in weight. The eyes were large, black, round, the snout wide, two-nostriled and leathery. I shuddered at its mouth, and fangs, the upper two protruding downwards at the sides of its jaws. Its lips were wet from the saliva from its long, dark tongue, which, with its teeth, it was using to groom the fur on its right paw. The strike of those jaws could, with one wrenching twist, have torn away the shoulder of a man.
I trembled, terrified, my back pressed against the rough boards.
Elinor Brinton, trembled, terrified, naked and bound, her back pressed against the rough boards, a cowering slave girl.
'Good evening, Miss Brinton,' said the man. He had spoken in English. 'You!' I cried.
'Hello, Cookie,' he said.
'You! I whispered. It was the smaller man, one of those who had originally captured, and had bound me on my own bed in the penthouse. It was he who had entered the syringe in my right side, in the back, between my waist and hip, drugging me. It was he who had touched me intimately, who had been warned away from me by the larger man. It was he who had taken my matches and cigarettes, who had leaned over me, and had blown smoke, as I had lain nude before him, bound and gagged, into my face.
His ferret eyes regarded me, looking me over.
'You're a pretty little cookie,' he said.
I could not speak. 'Kajira!' he snapped in Gorean. Every muscle in my body tensed. He suddenly snapper his fingers and, in the swift double gesture of a Gorean master, pointed to a place on the dirt floor before him, almost simultaneously turning his hand, spreading his first and index fingers, pointing downwards. I fled to him and knelt before him, my knees in the dirt, in the position of the pleasure slave, my head down, trembling.
'It is interesting,' he mused, 'the effect of slavery on a woman.'
'Yes, Master,' I whispered.
'Excellent,' he said.
'The proud, arrogant, rich Miss Brinton,' he remarked, speaking in English. 'No, Master,' I whispered, in English.
'Are you not Miss Brinton?' he asked.
'Yes,' I whispered, 'I am Elinor Brinton.'
'What is she?' he asked.
'Only a Gorean slave,' I said.
'I never thought to have you at my feet,' he said.
'No, Master,' I whispered.
'It is not unpleasant,' he said.
'No, Master,' I whispered.
He went to a side of the room and picked up a small bench, which he brought forward and set before me. He then sat on this bench and, for some time, regarded me. I did not move.
Then he rose from the bench and went again to the side of the room, where there was a pile of cut logs. He took one and put it on the fire at the side of the room, in a shallow, rimmed stone hearth. There was a shower of sparks. Smoke found its way upward through a rudely fitted stone venting.
I was tense, frightened. I did not move. He returned and sat again before me. Then he said, 'Stand.'
Immediately I leaped to my feet. 'Turn,' he said.
I did so.
To my surprise, he unbound my wrists. My hands were numb. I could scarcely move my fingers.
He sat on the bench, and I stood before him. I rubbed my wrists and moved my fingers, trying to restore their circulation.
He did not speak to me.
I stood before him for a long time.
'Step back,' he said.
Terrified, because it brought me nearer the beast, I did so, trembling. 'Attack!' he shouted in Gorean to the beast.
It howled and lunged for me, jaws snapping, great black, furred arms gasping. I screamed hysterically and found myself in the corner of the room, screaming, wedged in the corner, on my knees, my hands in front of me, scratching at the boards with my fingernail, weeping, screaming and weeping.
'Do not be afraid,' he said.
I screamed and screamed.
'Do not be afraid,' he repeated.
