other two, with their keys, were in the flat box. The collar on her neck bore the legend, 'RETURN ME TO TARL AT THE INSULA OF TORBON.' I then removed the first of the other two collars from the box and, reaching out, put it on her neck, next to the other collar, but ahead of it, closer to the chin. I snapped it shut. It fit well. It was now on her, locked. Its legend read, 'RETURN ME TO THE WHIP MASTER OF THE CENTRAL CYLINDER.' I then turned it and, inserting the key, opened it, and removed it from her neck. I then lifted the second collar form the box, putting the first, with the key, back in it. This second collar I then put on her neck, next to the original collar, and ahead of it, closer to the chin, as I had the one a moment before. Then I snapped it shut. It, too, fit well, and was now on her, locked. Its legend read, 'RETURN ME TO APPANIUS OF AR.' I then let her remain that way for a little while, on all fours, in the two collars.
Phoebe was moaning on one side. She turned her head from one side to the other, her eyes closed. She was delirious with pleasure, slave to her master.
I then took the key to the second of the two collars which had been in the box, that which I had put most recently on her, the Appanius collar, and removed it from her neck. I put it back in the box, under the first collar. I dropped the key in the box. I closed the box.
'Claim me!' wept Phoebe. 'I beg it! I am your slave! Use me as the helpless vessel of your pleasure!'
'Do not move,' I said to the new slave.
She remained as she was, on all fours.
'I yield me your slave!' wept Phoebe. 'I yield me your slave!'
Then she was trembling, and gasping for breath, clinging to Marcus. He, too, gasped, and then suddenly he laughed, a might laugh, almost a roar, a laugh of triumph, like an exultant larl, joyful in his mastery of the beauty.
'Such may be done to slaves,' I said to the new slave.
'Yes, Master,' she said, on all fours.
'The other garment, I take it,' I said to the new slave,' is finished.'
'Yes, Master,' she said. 'Mistress finished it yesterday.'
'Put it on for me,' I said.
'Yes, Master,' she said. She rose to her feet and went to the side of the room where she knelt by a chest and took from it a white garment, of the wool of the bounding hurt.
I looked away, as she stood up, to slip it over her head and arms, and smooth it down on her body. I did not wish to look until it was on her.
'Master,' she announced.
'Excellent!' I said.
It came to a bit above the knees, and had a high, modest neckline. It some respects it was rather in the style set for the tunic of state slaves. That I thought might fit in well with my plans.
'Turn,' I said.
'Yes,' I mused. 'Excellent.' Perhaps even more importantly it was the sort of garment in which a slave might dare to appear before a free woman. It was not the sort of garment that would be likely to excite the envy or anger of free women. It was not the sort of garment which sometimes provokes free women to rush at slaves in the street, crying out and lashing at them with switches. It was decorous, and yet clearly the garment of a mere slave.
'Mistress has sewed it,' she said.
'You have done well, Phoebe,' I said. 'It is perfect.'
'Thank you, Master,' gasped Phoebe. She was lying next to Marcus. She was covered with a sheen of sweat. Her body was covered with red blotches, from the recent racing of her blood, the excited distention of thousands of capillaries. Her lovely nipples were not yet subsident.
'Your skin is blotchy,' I said to Phoebe.
She laughed, ruefully. 'Yes, Master,' she said.
The new slave, her head down, smiled.
'Remove the garment,' I said to her. 'Replace it in the chest. Then resume your position here, beside me, on all fours.'
'Yes, Master,' she said.
I then again, in a bit, regarded her. No longer was she in the dignity of the garment. Her breasts, in her present position, that which I had indicated, were beautifully, pendant.
'Can you write?' I asked her.
'Yes, Master,' she said.
I reached to her.
'Oh,' she said, softly. 'Oh!' I had taken her nipples gently, first one, and then the other, between my thumb and forefinger. They, too, it seemed, had not forgotten their state of but a few moments ago. Or, perhaps it was but the fact that the meaning of her present condition was intrusive in her consciousness.
'Surely you are interested in the nature of the messages you will carry,' I said.
'Yes, Master!' she said. I had touched her, lightly, at the side of the waist. 'One need not concern you,' I said, 'as you will be the mere instrument of its delivery. On the other hand, I think you will have a little doubt as to its general import.'
'Yes, Master,' she said.
'You will deliver it to the female I designate,' I said, 'and to her personally.'
'Yes, Master,' she said.
'To make it more likely you will be admitted into her presence, the message will be carried about your neck, in a message tube, and your hands will be back-braceleted.'
'As Master wishes,' she said.
'But even so,' I said, 'before being admitted to her presence, you may be double leashed, one on each side, that you cannot touch, or approach, the woman, except as permitted.'
'I understand, Master,' she said.
'Do you think she will be admitted to her presence?' asked Marcus.
'Given her story, and her collar,' I said. 'I think so.'
'The note she carries is to be written in a man's hand,' said Marcus.
'Of course,' I smiled.
'Doubtless in your deft script,' he said, lying on his back, looking at the low, peeling ceiling above him.
'I was hoping someone might be prevailed upon to provide a more convincing communication,' I said.
'Oh!' said the new slave. She moved uneasily, tensely, but did not break position.
'The handwriting must suggest a correspondent who is educated, charming, witty, elegant and suave,' I said.
'That sounds like a job for your own block script,' he said. 'It has many virtues. I have known peasants who could not do as well. Or, if you prefer, you could use your inimitable cursive script, with its unusual alternate lines. Its humorous suggestion of complete illiteracy adds to it's a piquant charm all of its own.'
'My master has an excellent hand!' volunteered Phoebe.
'Were you asked to speak?' inquired Marcus.
'No, Master,' she said. 'Forgive me, Master.' She then lay small and quiet beside him. She did not wish to be cuffed or whipped.
'It was my hope, Phoebe,' said I, 'that your master, exactly, might be prevailed upon to lend his expertise to this endeavor.
'Yes, Master,' she whispered.
'I write a simple hand,' said Marcus.
'Perhaps you could add a few flourishes, or something,' I suggested.
'No,' said Marcus.
'Do you want me to write it?' I asked.
'That would be disastrous,' he said.
'Also,' I said, 'my handwriting might be recognized.'
'I hadn't thought of that,' said Marcus.
'You will do it then?' I asked.
