by John Norman
“In a sense,” she said, “one might approve of many things, and recognize their justifiability, without thereby wishing to become implicated personally in them. One might approve of medicine, say, without wishing to be a physician. One might approve of mathematics without desiring to become a mathematician, and so on.”
“Of course,” I said, irritably.
“It might be done in various ways,” she said. “One might, for example, regard a society in which the institution of slavery, with its various advantages and consequences, was an ingredient as a better society than one in which it did not exist. This, then, would be its justification. In such a way, then, be might approve of slavery as an institution without wishing necessarily to become a slave himself. In moral consistency, of course, in approving of the institution, he would seem to accept at least the theoretical risk of his own enslavement. This risk he would presumably regard as being a portion of the price he is willing to pay for the benefits of living in this type of society, which he regards, usually by far, as being a society superior to its alternatives. Another form of justification occurs when one believes that slavery is right and fit for certain human beings but not for others. This position presupposes that not all human beings are alike. In this point of view, the individual approves of slavery for those who should be slaves and disapproves of it, or at least is likely regret it somewhat, in the case of those who should not be slave. He is perfectly consistent in this, for he believes that if he himself should be a natural slave, then it would be right, too, for him to be enslaved. This seems somewhat more sensible than the categorical denial, unsubstantiated, that slavery is not right for any human being. Much would seem to depend on the nature of the particular human being.”
“Slavery denies freedom!” I cried.
“Your assertion seems to presuppose the desirability of universal freedom,” she said. “This may be part of what is at issue.”
“Perhaps,” I said.
“Is there more happiness in a society in which all are free,” she asked, “than in one in which some are not free?”
“I do not know,” I said. The thought of miserable, competitive, crowded, frustrated, hostile populations crossed my mind.
“Mistress?” she asked.
“I do not know!” I said.
“Yes, Mistress,” said the girl.
“Slavery denies freedom!” I reiterated.
“Yes, Mistress,” she said.
“It denies freedom,” I said.
“It denies some freedoms, and precious ones,” said the girl. “But, too, it makes others possible, and they, too, are precious.”
“People simply cannot be owned!” I said, angrily.
“I am owned,” she said.
I did not speak. I was frightened.
“My Master is Ligurious, of the city of Corcyrus,” she said.
“Slavery is illegal,” I said, lamely.
“Not here,” she said.
“People cannot be owned,” I whispered, desperately, horrified.
“Here,” she said, “in point of fact, aside from all questions of legality or moral propriety, or the lack thereof, putting all such questions aside for the moment, for they are actually irrelevant to the facts, people are, I assure you, owned.”
“People are in fact owned?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “And fully.”
“Then, truly,” I said, “there are slaves here. There are slaves in this place.”
“Yes,” she said. “And generally.”
Again I did not understand the meaning of “generally.”
She spoke almost as though we might not be on Earth, somewhere on Earth. My heart was heating rapidly. I put my hand to my bosom. I looked about the room, frightened. It was like no other room I had ever been in. It did not seem that it would be in England or America. I did not know where I was. I did not even know on what continent I might be. I looked at the girl. I was in the presence of a slave, a woman who was owned. Her master was Ligurious, of this city, said to be Corcyrus. I looked to the barred window, to the soft expanses of that great, barbaric couch, to the chain at its foot, to the rings fixed in it, and elsewhere, to the whip on its hook, to the door which I could not lock on my side. I was again terribly conscious of my nudity, my vulnerability.
“Susan,” I said.
“Yes, Mistress,” she said.
“Am I a slave?” I asked.
“No, Mistress,” said the girl.
I almost fainted with relief. The room, for a moment, seemed to swirl about me. I was unspeakably pleased to discover that I was not a slave, and then, suddenly, unaccountably, I felt an inexplicable anguish. I realized, suddenly, shaken, that there was something within me that wanted to be owned. I looked at the girl. She was owned In that instant I envied her her collar.
“I am a slave!” I said, angrily. “Look at me. Do you doubt that I am a slave? I am wearing only an anklet and perfume.”
“Mistress is not marked. Mistress is not collared,” said the girl.
“I am a slave,” I said. I wondered, when I said this, if I was only insisting that I was a slave, that I must be a slave, because of such things as the barred window and the anklet, or if I was speaking what lay in my heart.
“Mistress is free,” said the girl.
“I cannot be free,” I said.
“If Mistress is not free,” she said, “who is Mistress’ master?”
“I do not know,” I said, frightened. I wondered if I did belong to someone and simply did not yet know it.
“I know Mistress is free,” said the girl.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Ligurious, my master, has told me,” she said.
“But I am naked,” I said.
“Mistress had not yet dressed,” she said. She then went to the sliding doors at the side of the room, and moved them aside. Thus were revealed the habiliments of what was apparently an extensive and resplendent wardrobe.
She brought forth a lovely, brief, lined, sashed, shimmering yellow-silk robe and, holding it up, displayed it for me.
I was much taken by it, but it seemed almost excitingly sensuous.
“Have you nothing simpler, nothing plainer, nothing coarser?” I asked.
“Something more masculine?” asked the girl.
“Yes,” I said, uncertainly. I had not really thought of it exactly like that, or not consciously, but it now seemed to me as if that might be right.
“Does Mistress wish to dress like a man?” she asked.
“No,” I said, “I suppose not. Not really.”
“I can try to find a man’s clothing for Mistress if she wishes,” said the girl.
“No,” I said. “No.” It was not really that I wanted to wear a man’s clothing, literally. It was only that I thought that it might be better to wear a more mannish type of clothing. After all, had I not been taught that I was, for most practical purposes, the same as a man, and not something deeply and radically different? Too, such garb has its defensive purposes. Is it not useful, for example, in helping a girl to keep men from seeing her as what she is, a woman?
“Mistress,” said the girl, helping me on with the silken robe. I belted the yellow-silk sash. The hem of the robe came high on the thighs. I looked at myself, startled, in the mirror.
In such a garment, lovely, clinging, short, closely belted, there was no doubt that I was a woman.
“Mistress is beautiful!” said the girl.
“Thank you,” I said. I turned, back and forth, looking at myself in the mirror.
I adjusted the belt, making it a little tighter. The girl smiled.
“Are such garments typical of this place?” I asked.
“Does Mistress mean,” asked the girl, “that here sexual differences are clearly marked by clothing, that here sexual differences are important and not blurred, that men and women dress differently here?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “The answer is �
��Yes,’ Mistress.”
“Sexuality is important here, then?” I said.
“Yes, Mistress,” she said. “Here sexuality is deeply and fundamentally important, and here women are not men, and men are not women. The sexes are quite different, and here each is true to itself.”
“Oh,” I said.
“By means of different garbs, then,” she said, “it is natural that these important and fundamental differences be marked, the garbs of men being appropriate to their nature, for example, to their size and strength, and those of women to their nature, for example, to their softness and beauty.”
“I see,” I said. I was a bit frightened. In this place, I gathered, the fact that I was a woman was not irrelevant to what I was. That I was a woman was, I gathered, at least in this place, something fundamentally important about me.
This fact would be made clear about me even by the clothing which I wore. I glanced at the wardrobe. Deceit and subterfuge, I suspected, were not in those fabrics. They were such, I suspected, as would mark me as a woman and even proclaimed me as such. How would I fare in such a place, I wondered, where it might be difficult to conceal or deny my sex. How terrified I was at the thought that I might have to be true to my sex, that I might have little choice here but to be what I was, a woman, and wholly. I looked in the mirror.
That is what I am here, I thought, a woman.
There was a sudden, loud knock at the door.
I cried out, startled. The girl turned white, and then, facing the door, immediately dropped to her knees. She cried out something, frightened. The door opened.
A large man stood framed in the doorway. He seemed agile and strong. He glanced about. His eyes seemed piercing.
He had broad shoulders and long arms. His hair was cut rather short, and was brown, flecked with gray. He wore a white tunic, trimmed in red. He looked at me and I almost fainted. It was something in his eyes. I knew I had never seen a man like this before. There was something different about him, from all other men I had seen. It was almost as though a lion had taken human form.
“It is Ligurious, my Master,” said the girl, her head now down to the floor, the palms of her hands on the tiles.
I swallowed hard, and then tried, desperately, to meet the man’s gaze. I must show him that I was a true person.
“Get on the bed,” he said. His voice had an accent. I could not place it.
I fled to the bed and crept obediently upon it.
He came to the edge of the bed and looked down at me. I half lay, half crouched on the bed. I was very conscious of the shortness of the robe I wore.
He said something to Susan and she sprang up and came to the edge of the bed. He said something else to her. I did not understand the language, or even recognize it.
“He says he thinks you will prove quite suitable,” she said to me, in English.
“For what?” I begged.
“I do not know, Mistress,” she said.
“Get on your back,” he said.
Immediately, obediently, I lay supine before him.
“Raise your right knee, and extend your left leg,” he said, palms of your hands at your sides, facing upward.”
I immediately assumed this position. I felt very vulnerable, particularly, interestingly, as the palms of my hands were exposed. I began to breathe deeply. I was terrified. I also realized, suddenly, that I was very aroused, sexually, obeying him.
The man glanced to the side. He said something to the girl.
“He notes that you have not touched your breakfast,” she said.
I moaned. I hoped that he was not displeased. It had been safe to displease the men I had hitherto known, or most of them. They might be displeased with impunity. I was afraid, however, to displease this man. I did not think he would accept being displeased. He, I was sure, would simply punish me, and well. He might even kill me.
He looked down at me.
I was much aroused. I whimpered. I expected him to rape me. I was even eager to be raped, anything to please him.
I felt his hand take my ankle. I was so charged with sensation that I almost fainted at the touch. Then I became aware that his grip was like steel. Then I saw him take a string from about his neck. On this string there was a tiny key. Startled, I felt the key inserted in the lock on my anklet. Then the anklet was removed. I lay trembling on the bed.
He stood there then, looking down at me, the anklet, string and key in his hand. I then realized, partly in relief, and, in a part of me, with disappointment, that I was not then, or at least not then, to be raped. I was not then to feel his strong hands on me, forcing me, as a woman, imperiously to his will.
“May I speak?” I whispered.
“Yes,” he said.
“Who are you?” I asked. “Who is she? Where am I? What am I doing here? What do you want of me?”
“I am Ligurious, first minister of Corcyrus,” he said. “She is unimportant. Her name is Susan. She is a slave.”
“No,” I said. “I mean, who is Ligurious? Who are you? I have never heard of you.”
“You need know little more of me than that I am the first minister of Corcyrus,” he said.
I looked at him. He must have some connection, of course, with the men who had come to my apartment. He had a key for the anklet.
“Where am I?” I asked.
“In Corcyrus,” he said.
“But where is Corcyrus?” I begged. “I do not even know in what part of the world I am!”
He looked at me, puzzled.
The girl said something to him. He smiled.
“Am I in Africa?” I asked. “Am I in Asia?”
“Have you not noticed subtle differences in the gravity here,” he asked, “from what you have been accustomed to? Have you not noticed that the air here seems somewhat different from that with which you have hitherto been familiar?”
“I have seemed to notice such things,” I said, “but I was drugged in my apartment, Obviously such sensations are delusory, merely the effects of that drug.”
“The drug,” he said, “does not produce such effects.”
“What are you telling me?” I asked, frightened.
“After a short while,” he said, “you will no longer think of these things. You will not even notice them, or, at least, not consciously. You will have made your adjustments and accommodations. You will have become acclimated, so to speak. At most you may occasionally become aware that you are now experiencing a condition of splendid vitality and health.”
“What are you telling me?” I asked, frightened.
“This is not Earth,” he said. “This is another planet.”
I regarded him, disbelievingly.
“Does this seem to be Earth to you?” he asked.
“No,” I whispered.
“Does this seem to be a room of Earth to you?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“You have been brought here by spaceship,” he said.
I could not speak.
“The technology involved is more sophisticated, more advanced, than that with which you are familiar,” he said.
“But you speak English,” I said. “She speaks English!”
“I have learned some English,” he said. “She, however, speaks it natively.” He turned to the girl. He said something to her.
“I have been given permission to speak,” she said. “I am from Cincinnati, Ohio, Mistress,” she said.
“She was brought to this world more than two years ago,” he said.
“My original name was Susan,” she said. “My last name does not matter. When I became a slave, of course, my name was gone. Animals do not have names, except as their masters might choose to name them. The name ‘Susan’ was again put upon me, but now, of course, I have it only as a slave name.”
“Why was she brought here?” I asked.
“For the usual reason for which an Earth female is brought here,” he said.
“What is that?” I asked.
&
nbsp; “To be a slave,” he said.
He then turned to the girl and said something. She nodded.
He then turned again to me. “You may break position,” he said.
I rolled to my stomach on the couch, clutching at it. I shuddered.
I was not on Earth.
“Why have I been brought here?” I asked. “To be a slave, to be branded, to wear a collar, to serve some man as though he might be my master?”
“He would be your master,” said the man, very evenly, very quietly, very menacingly.
I nodded, frightened. It was true, of course. If I were a slave then he who was my master would indeed be my master, and totally. I could be owned as completely, and easily, as Susan, or any other woman.
“But I think you will be pleased to learn what we have in store for you,” he said.
“What?” I asked, turning to my side, pulling the robe down on my thighs.
“In time,” he said, “I think things will become clearer to you.”
“I see,” I said.
“Do you have any other questions?” he asked.
I half rose up on the couch, my left leg under me, my palms on the surface of the couch. “Am I still a virgin?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
This pleased me. I would not have wished to have lost my virginity while unconscious. A girl would at least like to be aware of it when it happens. Too, I was pleased because I thought that the possession of my virginity might make me somehow more valuable. Perhaps I could use it somehow to improve my position in this world. Perhaps I could somehow use it as a prize which I might award for gain, or as a bargaining device in some negotiation in which I might be involved. Then I looked into the eyes of Ligurious, first minister of Corcyrus. I shuddered. I realized then that my virginity, on this world, was nothing, and that it might simply be taken from me, rudely and peremptorily, whenever men might please.
Ligurious then turned and left the room. As he had left the room, though he had scarcely noticed her, Susan had knelt, with her head to the tiles. She now rose to her feet.
“Earlier,” I said, “your master, when beside the couch, said something to you. What was it?”
“It is his desire,” she said, “that you eat.”
I quickly left the couch and went to the small table, on which the tray reposed. I did not wish to displease Ligurious.
