neatly, edges touching, about a cylinder, such as the staff of a marshal's office, the shaft of a spear, a previously prepared object, or so on, and then the message is written in lines parallel with the cylinder. The message, easily printed, easily read, thus lies across several of the divisions in the wrapped silk. When the silk is unwrapped, of course, the message disappears into a welter of scattered lines, the bits and parts of letters; the coherent message is replaced with a ribbon marked only by meaningless, unintelligible scraps of letters; to read the message, of course, one need only rewrap the ribbon about a cylindrical object of the same dimension as the original object. The message then appears in its clear, legible character. Whereas there is some security in the necessity for rewrapping the message about a cylinder of the original dimension, the primary security does not lie there. After all, once one recognizes a ribbon, or belt, or strip of cloth, as a scytale, it is then only a matter of time until one finds a suitable object to facilitate the acquisition of the message. Indeed, one may use a roll of paper or parchment until, rolling it more tightly or more loosely, as needed, one discovers the message. The security of the message, as is often the case, is a function not of the opacity of the message, in itself, but rather in its concealment, in its not being recognized as a message. A casual individual would never expect that the seemingly incoherent design on a girl's ribbon would conceal a message which might be significant, or fateful.
From the girl's reactions I gathered that she understood now that the ribbon bore some message, but that she had not clearly understood this before.
'It is a message?' she asked.
'Yes,' I said.
'What does it say?' she asked.
'It is none of your concern,' I said.
'I want to know,' she said.
'Do you wish to be beaten?' I asked.
'No,' she said.
'Then be silent,' I said.
She was silent. Her fists were clenched.
I read the message. 'Greetings to Tarl Cabot, I await you at the world's end, Zarendargar, War General of the People.'
'It is Half-Ear,' said Samos, 'high Kur, war general of the Kurii.'
'The word 'Zarendargar',' I said, 'is an attempt to render a Kur expression into Gorean.'
'Yes,' said Samos. The Kurii are not men but beasts. Their phonemes for the most part elude representation in the alphabets of men. It would be like trying to write down the noises of animals. Our letters would not suffice.
'Return me to Earth!' demanded the girl.
'Is she still a virgin?' I asked Samos.
'Yes,' he said. 'She has not even been branded.'
'With what brand will you mark her?' I asked.
'The common Kajira brand,' he said.
'What are you talking about?' she demanded. 'Give me my clothing,' she demanded angrily.
Again the points of the two spears pressed against her abdomen. Again they penetrated the loosely woven cloth. Again she stepped back, for the moment disconcerted.
I gathered that she had been accustomed to having her demands met by men.
When a woman speaks in that tone of voice to a man of Earth he generally hastens to do her bidding. He has been conditioned so. Here, however, her proven Earth techniques seemed ineffectual, and this puzzled her, and angered her, and, I think, to an extent frightened her. What if men did not do her bidding? She was smaller and weaker, and beautiful, and desirable. What if she discovered that it were she, and not they, who must do now what was bidden, and with perfection? A woman who spoke in that tone to a Gorean man, if she were not a free woman, would find herself instantly whipped to his feet.
Then she was again the woman of Earth, though clad in Gorean slave livery.
'Return me to Earth,' she said.
'Take her below to the pens,' said Samos, 'and sell her off.'
'What did he say!' she demanded.
'Is she to be branded?' asked the guard.
'Yes,' said Samos, 'the common brand.'
'What did he say!' she cried. Each of the two guards flanking her had now taken her by an arm. She looked very small between them. I thought the common Kajira mark would be exquisite in her thigh.
'Left thigh,' I suggested.
'Yes, left thigh,' said Samos to one of the guards. I liked the left-thigh branded girl. A right-handed master may caress it while he holds her in his left arm.
'Give me back my clothing!' she cried.
Samos glanced at the bundle of clothing. 'Burn this,' he said.
The girl watched, horrified, as one of the guardsmen took the clothing and, piece by piece, threw it into a wide copper bowl of burning coals. 'No!' she cried. 'No!'
The two guards then held her arms tightly and prepared in conduct her to the pens.
She looked with horror at the burnt remnants, the ashes, of her clothing.
She now wore only what Gorean men had given her, a scrap of slave livery, and a ring hammered about her neck.
She threw her head about, moving the ring. For the first time she seemed truly aware of it.
She looked at me, terrified. The guards' hands were on her upper arms. Their hands were tight.
'What are they going to do!' she cried.
'You are to be taken to the pens,' I said.
'The pens!' she asked.
'There,' I said, 'you will be stripped and branded.'
'Branded?' she said. I do not think she understood me. Her Earth mind would find this hard to understand. She was not yet cognizant of Gorean realities. She would learn them swiftly. No choice would be given her.
'Is she to be sold red-silk?' I asked Samos.
He looked at the girl. 'Yes,' he said. The guards grinned. It would be a girl who knew herself as a woman when she ascended the block.
'I thought you said I would be stripped and branded,' she said, laughing.
'Yes,' I said, 'that is precisely what I said.'
'No!' she screamed. 'No!'
'Then,' I said, 'you will be raped, and taught your womanhood. When you have learned your womanhood, you will be caged. Later you will be sold.'
'No!' she cried. 'No!'
'Take her away,' said Samos.
The guards' hands tightened even more on the beauty's arms. She might as well have been bound in steel. She must go as they conducted her. 'Wait! Wait!' she cried. She struggled, squirming in their grasp, her feet slipping on the tiles. Samos motioned that they wait, momentarily. She looked at me, and at Samos, wildly. 'What place is this?' she asked.
'It is called Gor,' I told her.
'No!' she said. 'That is only in stories!'
I smiled.
'No!' she cried. She looked about herself, at the strong men who held her. She threw her head back, moaning, sensing the ring on her throat. 'No, no!' she wept. 'I do not want to be a woman on Gor! Anything but a woman on Gor!'
I shrugged.
'You are joking,' she said, wildly.
'No,' I said.
'What language is it here which they speak?' she asked.
I smiled.
