by John Norman
I saw a fellow several tables away, his back to me, leave the tenting. Something vaguely bothered me about him. I could not place it. I did not see his face. I did not think he had seen me.
I left the tenting. One pays before the meal, and carries a disk, a voucher, to the table. The meal itself is brought to his place, marked on an identical disk, by a slave girl. One surrenders the disk to her and she places the meal before you. The girl wears a leather apron and an iron belt. If one wants her one must pay more.
Outside the tent I again mingled in the crowds. There was nothing pressing until tomorrow’s forenoon when the match would begin.
The singing of the men of Ar was now behind me.
A slaver’s man, pounding on a bar with a metal rod, called that the sales in the pavillion would begin within the Ahn.
“Rent her! Rent her!” called a man, moving through the crowds. Before him, thrust ahead of him on a control stick, her wrists braceleted behind her, was a naked slave girl. There is a chain loop at the end of the control stick, which is about two feet in length. The loop goes about her neck and, by means of a trigger, may be tightened or slightly loosened. The girl may be signaled by means of the chain. I saw her neck and head move, jerking under the chain. She knelt quickly before me and began to bite at my tunic. “Only a quarter tarsk!” called the man. I brushed her aside. At the other end of the control stick there is a leather loop. This goes about the right wrist of the master. Behind me I heard the girl cry out in pain and struggle to her feet. “You worthless slut,” said the man to her. And then he again was calling out, “Rent her! Rent her, kind masters!”
Some jugglers, to one side, were exhibiting their astonishing talents with colored plates and torches.
I passed some booths where rep-cloth was being sold in bolts. Peasant women were haggling with the vendors.
In another area boiled meat hung on ropes. Insects swarmed about it.
I wanted to watch the sales, or some of them, this evening. I wished to pick up some girl flesh for my men..
But there seemed little point in arriving before they had begun. Indeed, there is not much point, usually, in coming early to a sale. Merchants usually exhibit their best merchandise only later in the evening.
The thought of the fellow whom I had seen in the restaurant briefly troubled me. Then I dismissed it.
I made my way toward the platforms.
I saw the fellow from the polar basin again, him with the fur trousers and boots, and the rope and short bow. I recalled he had sold carvings to a dealer in curios earlier in the day.
I was curious to see the Earth girls again. When I had last seen them two slaver’s men had been approaching them, one with a knife and the other with some brief, white, platform tunics. I was curious to see what they would look like in clothing which would make clear their femininity rather than conceal or deny it.
“Where are the platforms of Tenalion of Ar?” I asked a man. They had been his property.
The fellow pointed to the two hundreds.
“My thanks, Sir,” said I. Tenalion is a well-known slaver.
Most girls on the platforms are exhibited naked in their chains. Some, on the other hand, are attired, usually briefly and in platform tunics, which may be opened. It is thought that sometimes a clothed girl is more intriguing to a buyer. When he comes forward and asks to see the girl, and the tunic is opened, he is, of course, already there and interested. The slaver or the slaver’s man, then, can talk with him, discussing, praising and pointing out the values of the commodity. This would not be easy if the fellow had merely glanced upon the wares and passed by. Girls are seldom, if ever, of course, sold clothed: It is said that only a fool would buy a clothed woman. That is certainly true. Would you buy a girl you had not had a chance to examine in detail?
In the two hundreds Tenalion’s platforms were numbered from two hundred and forty through two hundred and eighty, inclusive.
How pleased I was to see the slaves. It was now clear they were beauties. But many of the slaves of Tenalion were beautiful.
They still wore neck collars and were chained together. But now the neck collars were fantastically beautiful on them. No longer did they now wear their distracting, meaningless Earth raiment, but Gorean platform tunics. The tunics were white, with deep, plunging necklines, well revealing and setting off the collars, completely sleeveless, and terribly brief. They knelt. There was about a yard of chain between the collars, fastening them in a four-girl coffle.
“I hardly dare move,” said the blond girl. She knelt, as the others did, with her knees pressed closely together.
Their wrists were now in steel cuffs behind their backs. No longer would they be able to conceal themselves if their tunics were opened.
“Nor I,” said the girl on the end. “What is being done with us?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” said the third girl. “I don’t know!”
A man walked by, slowly, appraising them.
They shrank back.
Their ankles were confined in loose, steel ankle loops, but they could not slip them. A common chain ran though rings on the loops. No longer were their ankles confined with a foot of chain between them. Their ankles, now, for the chain running through the loop-rings was long, could be moved as closely together or as widely apart as they, or their masters, might wish. There were round, pierced metal balls at each end of the ankle chain, to prevent its slipping through the rings entirely. One such ball was to the right of the blond’s right ankle and the other was to the left of the left ankle of the last girl on the chain. This ankle-chain arrangement, permitting much plasticity of movement, makes it easier to display a girl.
“We have rights!” whispered the blond girl.
“Do you think so?” asked the dark-haired girl, who had worn the black slacks and the soft, torn red pull-over.
“Yes!” said the blond girl.
“Look at their eyes,” said the dark-haired girl.
The blond girl shrank back in the chains.
“Do you still think we have rights?” asked the dark-haired girl.
The blond was silent.
“Do you think a woman could have rights with such men?” asked the dark-haired girl. “Do you think we are still on Earth?” she asked.
“What has become of us?” asked the girl on the end.
“Is it not obvious?” asked the dark-haired girl. Her face was narrow, but delicate and very beautiful. Her figure was slight. but exquisite. Her hair was short, and very dark. She had lovely legs, marvelously revealed by the brevity of the platform tunic. I thought her the most beautiful of all. I also thought her the most intelligent The next most valuable meat in the coffle was, in my opinion, the blond, who was sweetly slung and exciting.
“No!” said the girl on the end. “No! It is not obvious!”
The slender dark-haired girl shrugged, and, with a rustle of chain, turned away.
Then all the girls suddenly shrank back, frightened, for another fellow was passing by, slowly, examining them.
“I do not wish to be dressed like this,” said the third girl on the chain.
“Be pleased,” said the first girl on the chain, the blond, “that they have given you anything to wear.”
Within sight of them, on other platforms, there were numerous, naked chained beauties.
“You will note, of course,” said the dark-haired girl, second on the chain, who had worn the torn, pull-over, “the nature of the garments in which we have been placed.”
The left side of the brief tunic overlapped the right side of the tunic. It was held in place by a light, white cord, which passed through two loops and was loosely knotted at the right hip. If the cord were jerked loose the garment would fall open and could be. easily brushed aside, to fall back, loose, behind them, on their cuffed, chained wrists.
“What about it?” asked the girl at the end of the chain, belligerently.
“Do you think it would be difficult to open?” asked the dark
-haired girl.
“They wouldn’t dare!” said the blond girl.
The dark-haired girl did not respond to her.
“You think you are so clever because you are rich!” hissed the blond.
“Do you think any of us have anything now?” demanded the dark-haired girl, angrily. “Do you think we own even the chains we wear?”
“I do not understand what you are saying!” said the girl, angrily, at the end of the line.
The dark-haired girl did not respond to her.
“What sort of place is this!” cried out the girl on the end. She jerked her cuffed wrists futilely. She could bring one of them to a position behind her left hip or her right hip, but could not bring either before her body.
“Struggle if you will,” said the dark-haired girl. “It is not the intention of the men that you escape.” She smiled. “Therefore you will not escape.” The dark-haired girl looked out, over the crowds. “Besides, where would you escape to?” she asked. ‘There is nowhere to escape to,” she said.
“I hate you!” said the girl who had struggled. The dark-haired girl shrugged.
Two more men walked by, casually casting a glance upon the confined goods.
The girls were silent, and knelt back, small.
The men saw nothing of interest in them. There were many beauties on display.
“I cannot stand the way they look at us,” said the blond.
“What does it mean?” asked the third girl on the chain.
“Masters!” called a girl, in Gorean, some yards down the platform, accosting the two men who were passing. She knelt on one knee, and flexed and extended her other leg, beautifully, touching the boards of the platform with her toes. She lifted her body and thrust forth her lovely breasts to them. “Masters,” she whimpered, “take me home with you!”
“Do you beg to be purchased?” asked one of the men.
“Yes, Master!” she said.
“Slave,” said he, scornfully.
“Yes, Master!” she said.
“Do you find her of interest?” asked the first man, he who had questioned her, to his fellow.
“Stand, Slave,” said the second man.
She stood before them, beautifully, almost nude in the platform tunic.
A slaver’s man, seeing their interest, came to where they stood.
“Would you care to see the pretty little slut?” he asked.
The four Earth girls, though they could not speak Gorean, watched, horrified, the enactment of a common Gorean episode, the attempt on the part of a slave to interest masters in her purchase.
The blond girl gasped and shrank back when the slaver’s man, joining the girl on the platform, jerked loose the cord at her right hip and, with two hands, standing behind the girl, held back the tunic, well displaying her to the gaze of the inquirers.
They could not, of course follow the conversation, but it was clearly one of appraisal, and of commerce.
Then the Earth girls, with the exception of the dark-haired girl, who watched, fascinated, eyes shining, turned their eyes away, shuddering. One of the men had joined the slaver’s man and the girl on the platform. The girl cried out, startled, being ruthlessly appraised. Then she writhed on the platform, obedient to the touch of the masters.
“Look!” said the dark-haired girl.
The other three girls then looked too, in horror and fascination.
They saw the beauty being swiftly put through slave paces.
Then they saw her sold. There was a clear exchange of money. The girl was released from her chains and braceleted by one of the men. She was put in a collar and leash and led from the platform. Behind then was left only the discarded chains and a discarded, crumpled tunic. The girl was gone.
“Do you still ask what manner of place this is?” asked the dark-haired girl bitterly of the girl at the chain’s end.
That girl, dark-haired, too, shook her head with horror. “It cannot be,” she whispered.
The dark-haired girl, who had worn the pull-over, turned angrily to the blond, at the other end of the chain. “Do you still think,” she asked, “they will not ‘dare’ to look at your precious body?”
The blond shrank back, terrified in the chains.
“Do you truly think now,” pressed the dark-haired girl, furiously, “that you have rights, you foolish little thing? Do you think before such men you would have rights? These are not men of Earth!”
The blond girl looked at her with horror.
“These men will have their way with women,” she said. “Can you not see it in their eyes? They will have what they want from women.” And she laughed bitterly, “And we are women,” she said.
“This place then—” stammered the girl at the end of the chain.
“Yes,” said the dark-haired girl. Then she looked at the blond. “Do you still think,” she asked, “that we are merely some sort of prisoners?”
“No, no,” wept the blond girl.
“This is a slave market,” said the dark-haired girl, “and we are slaves.”
The blond girl moaned and threw her head back. The third and fourth girl began to sob.
“Accept it, my dear,” said the dark-haired girl, “our reality is now transformed.”
They looked at her.
“We are now slave girls on a strange world.”
“No,” whispered the girl on the end.
“I am for sale,” said the dark-haired girl, “and so, too, are you, and the rest of us.”
“Yes,” whispered the blond, suddenly shuddering, “I—I am for sale.”
“As are the rest of us,” said the dark-haired girl.
The girls then subsided, and were quiet.
After a time the dark-haired girl spoke. “I wonder,” she said, “what it will be like, being a slave girl.”
“I cannot even think of it,” said the blond-haired girl.
“I wonder what it will be like, being owned by a man,” mused the dark-haired girl.
“Perhaps a woman will buy us,” said the girl on the end.
The blond girl, and the dark-haired girl, looked at her, apprehensively.
“We would have less to fear from a woman,” said the girl on the end.
“Do you want to be owned by a woman?” asked the dark-haired girl.
“No,” said the girl on the end.
“Nor would I,” said the third girl.
“Nor would I,” said the dark-haired girl.
“—Nor would I,” said the blond.
“That is interesting, is it not?” asked the dark-haired girl, thoughtfully. She looked out at the crowd. “Have you ever seen such men?” she asked. “I had never dreamed such men could exist.”
“No,” whispered the blond girl.
“Do you not find them disturbing?” asked the dark-haired girl.
“Wicked girl!” cried the girl on the end.
“I will tell you something,” said the dark-haired girl. “They make me feel warm inside, and hot and wet.”
“Wicked girl! Wicked girl!” cried the girl on the end.
“I have never felt feelings like this before,” said the dark-haired girl. “I do not know what I would do if one of them touched me.”
“Feminine! Feminine!” scolded the girl on the end, who had worn the beige flannel shirt.
The dark-haired girl in the brief platform tunic, who had worn the red pull-over, knelt back. “Yes,” she said, “feminine.”
“If they so much as touch me, I’ll scream,” said the blond.
But there seemed little chance of this for there appeared to be much more choice merchandise for sale upon those long, darkly varnished, slatted platforms. I had stood back in the crowd, interested to hear them speak. But now I would move on. It was nearly time to go to the pavillion. I did see in the crowd, some platforms away, the fellow from the polar basin. He was looking at women. The rawhide rope was looped about his shoulder.
“Look,” I heard a fellow say, “it is Tabron of Ar.�
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I turned about. A tarnsman, in the scarlet leather of his war rights, tall, was moving through the crowd. He casually stopped before the four girls.
The blond shrank back as his eyes examined her in the collar, chains and platform tunic.
He looked upon the dark-haired girl. To my surprise and pleasure I saw her kneel very straight and lift her body before him. Then he looked past her to the other two, girls and continued on his way. She knelt back in her chains.
“I saw you!” said the girl on the end, who had worn the beige flannel shirt.
“He was very handsome,” said the dark-haired girl. “—And I am a slave.”
“He didn’t buy you,” sneered the third girl, who had worn the plaid flannel shirt, “you rich tart!”
“He didn’t buy you either,” retorted the dark-haired girl, “you low-class idiot.”
I smiled. They were both only slaves.
“I am more beautiful than you,” said the third girl.
I was pleased to see that the third girl seemed now much more sensitive to her femaleness than earlier. Perhaps she would not take as long as I had thought to discover her womanhood. Gorean males, I conjectured, might teach it to her quickly. She would look lovely, I thought, crawling to her master, his sandals in her teeth.
“If we must discuss that sordid sort of thing,” said the girl on the end, who had worn the beige flannel shirt, “I am the most beautiful of us four.”
“I am,” said the dark-haired girl, angrily, indignantly.
“No,” said the blond. “I am surely the most beautiful!”
“You do not even want a man to touch you,” said the dark-haired girl.
“No,” said the blond. “But I am still the most beautiful.”
The dark-haired girl looked out over the crowd. “They will decide who is most beautiful,” she said.
“They?” asked the blond.
“The masters,” said the dark-haired girl.
“Masters?” stammered the blond.
“Yes,” said the dark-haired girl, “the masters, those men out there, those who will buy us, our masters, they will decide who is most beautiful.”
The girls knelt back in their chains. They knelt back easily, on their heels.
