name, had, too, recognized one another immediately, even in the darkness.
'I would like to switch her!' said Arlene.
'Why?' I asked.
'What a little slave she is,' said Arlene.
'She will indeed prove to be a superb slave,' I said. 'But so, too, will you.'
'I would like to beat her,' said Arlene.
'You and she,' I said, 'are quite evenly matched. Perhaps you are a little stronger. I do not know.'
'I can beat her,' said Arlene.
'I do not know,' I said. 'Perhaps she could now beat you.'
'That would be terrible,' said Arlene. 'I could not stand to call her 'Mistress. ' When one slave girl is beaten by another the loser commonly finds herself forced to call the winner 'Mistress'. In slave kennels and pleasure gardens the beaten girl is often expected to obey and serve the stronger girL Such cruel devices help to keep order among female slaves.
'You and Thistle,' I said, 'are extremely well matched. Perhaps that is why you hate her so.'
'She wants your hands on her!' said Arlene.
'Are you jealous?' I asked.
'You are my master, not hers,' she said.
'You and Thistle had better watch your step,' I warned her, 'or I will have Thimble thrash you both.'
'Yes, Master,' smiled Arlene. She feared Thimble, whom she knew could easily best her.
I looked about. I saw Thimble, or Barbara, serving a hunter, and Thistle, or Audrey, bringing meat to anotber. Poalu served Imnak.
'I note.' I said, 'that Poalu is bringing meat to Imnak.'
'That makes five times in a row,' smiled Arlene, looking up at me.
'Yes,' I said.
'It is possible he has not played the game fairly,' she smiled.
'Yes,' I said, 'I think that is possible.'
'I think he is a scoundrel, like all men,' said Arlene.
'Beware how you speak of men, Slave Girl,' said I.
'Is a slave not expected to tell the truth?'
'Yes,' I said, irritably.
'Surely then you have no objection to a girl's recognizing the objective truth that all men are scoundrels.'
'I suppose not,' I granted.
'How outrageous that such lovely creatures as I must come into the power of such scoundrels,' she said.
'I do not regard it as all that outrageous,' I said.
'But that is because you are a scoundrel,' she pointed out.
'Perhaps,' I admitted.
'But you are sometimes a nice scoundrel,' she said.
'We all have our weaker moments,' I admitted.
'I am not the first slave girl you have owned, am I?' she asked.
'No,' I said.
'Doubtless you have forced many girls to submit to your lust,' she said.
'Of course,' I said.
'Bold scoundrel,' she said, 'how I admire you doing what you want with us.'
'That is a bold admission for an Earth girl,' I said.
'I am no longer an Earth girl,' she said. 'I am a Gorean slave.'
'That is true,' I said. It was true.
I put my hand in her hair and turned her head to the side, to see the beauty of her profile.
'Strength in men, not weakness,' she said, 'excites me. You are the strongest man I have ever known.'
'I am sure there are many men stronger than I,' I said.
'Physical strength,' she said, 'is only a small part of what I mean, though it is not unimportant. I mean strength of will. Many men who are strong physically are spineless weaklings, tortured and dominated by women, and ideas. Women, despite what they may feel obligated to proclaim publicly, detest such men, for they betray their dominance, their genetic heritage as male primates, thus cheating not only themselves of the fulfillment of their nature but precluding the woman from also fulfilling hers. It is no wonder that women, in their helplessness and frustration, their own confusions, turn upon such men, hurting them and making them miserable. This, of course, causes such men, who do not understand the problem, to redouble their efforts to be accommodating and pleasing to the females, to give them whatever they want, and to reassure them of anything and everything they wish to hear. A vicious cycle is thus generated.'
'There is an escape from this cycle, of course,' I pointed out. 'Not all human beings are idiots.'
'Yes,' she said.
'It is called manhood, and womanhood, and nature.'
'It is a long time since those of Earth recollected the many names of nature.'
'It is time again, perhaps,' I said, 'to seek for her forgotten faces.'
'It will never be done on Earth,' she said.
'I do not know,' I said. 'I think, perhaps, that some human beings, here and there, even in the midst of the suffering, even m the very countries of confusion and pathology, will create for themselves small islands of reality and truth.'
I turned her head again to face me.
'Perhaps,' she smiled. Her eyes were moist.
I removed my hand from her hair.
She looked up at me, and shook her head, and laughed. She touched the leather strap on her throat with her small fingers.
'Do you find me of interest, Master?' she asked.
'Yes,' I said.
'How can a girl who is only a slave be of interest?' she asked.
'Your question is foolish,' I said. 'All men desire a slave, or slaves. It is their nature. Thus, that a woman is a slave, even m itself, makes her extraordinarily interesting. Her slavery in itself, apart from her intelligence or beauty, is found extremely provocative and exciting to the male, because of his nature.'
'But aren't free women more interesting?' she asked.
'All women are interesting,' I said. 'But consider the matter objectively. Anything that was interesting about you when you were free remains interesting about you now. But now you are additionally interesting because you are in helpless bondage. Too, slavery, because of its relation to a female's genetic predispositions, tends to free her to be herself, rather than an imitator of male-type values. It frees her individuality by liberating her from the necessities of pretense. Too, slavery, by removing certain inhibitions and demands alien to a female's deepest nature generally results in an increase in her beauty and energy; she is no longer as constricted and miserable, and needs no longer spend energy fighting to suppress herself and her natural desires, surely a grotesque and pathological misapplication of effort, a tragic waste of time and energy. That the girl, thus, becomes more beautiful and energetic does not, of course, diminish her interest. Indeed, similarity, routine, identity, boredom, those things which tend to make a woman less interesting, tend often to be functions of widespread conformances to externally imposed demands and images. It is thus that the free woman, though interesting, being female, is usually, sadly, a bound prisoner of her own prejudices, a rigid, constricted, ideologically restrained organism, an imitator of images and stereotypes alien to her own nature, a puppet obedient to principles foreign to herself. How can a woman be free until she obeys the laws of her own nature?'
'I do not know,' said Arlene.
'Interest, of course, is somewhat subjective,' I admitted. 'Some men may prefer neurotic frustrated, rigid, imitative, conforming free women, mouthing the correct slogans and adopting the correct views on all matters, and eager to slander all who disagree with her, but other men, perhaps naive types, would just as soon own an
