John Norman

by Time Slave

  “But is there any way to adjudicate among criteria?” asked William.

  “In virtue of other criteria,” smiled Gunther.

  “But ultimately?” asked William.

  “No,” said Gunther.

  “Then there is no morality?” asked William.

  “No,” said Gunther. “There must be a morality. It is a necessary condition of social order.”

  “But there is no ultimate, rational vindication of a morality, and there can always be, at least logically, competitive moralities?”

  “Yes,” said Gunther. “You see, William, a choice must be made. There must be a commitment. There must be a decision. You must choose your morality. And, if you are wise, you will choose, or pretend to choose, the morality of your time and place, or an approximation to it.”

  “If one were wise,” said William, “one would not have looked into these issues.”

  “The earth shakes beneath your feet?” asked Gunther.

  “Yes,” said William.

  “I shall tell you what my criteria are,” said Gunther, “though they are only one set among a possibly infinite number of alternative sets of criteria. I ask two questions of a morality. First, is it natural truly natural, compatible with and answering to the full needs of human animals, an animal genetically coded for the hunt, and, second, does it produce excitement, meaning, greatness, the swiftness of the blood, the brightest and fiercest fires of the glands and the intellect?”

  “Your morality,” said William, “is dangerous; it is not one of pretense and leveling; it is a recipe for human greatness, an incitement to triumphs.”

  “No other will lead to the stars,” said Gunther.

  “What do you think of this, Hamilton?” asked William.

  She trembled, her head down. A slave fears to enter into the conversation of free men. “Perhaps men are not meant for the stars,” whispered Hamilton.

  Gunther seized her hair, jerked her forward and turned her body, exposing it to William. “Here is the enemy,” he said. “The female. If she can, she will defeat you; if she can she will reduce and destroy your dreams; when the mountains call it is she who will remind you of pressing duties; it is she who will keep you in the field with your hoe; should you stand on the beach, and be seen looking to sea, it is she who will recall you to your hearth; security and comfort to her exceed adventure, the chance of touching grandeur; she is ignorant of adventure, the meaning of man; her ears cannot hear the cry of a man’s heart!”

  Hamilton twisted. Gunther’s hand was cruel in her hair. “Here, William,” said Gunther, “is the fair enemy. Behold her, your beautiful foe. Should she conquer, the adventure is done, grandeur lost, man fallen, not risen, the arrow of promise broken, the ships left rotting on the beach.”

  “Please, Gunther,” wept Hamilton.

  “And Herjellsen told her to turn their eyes to the stars!” scoffed William.

  “Herjellsen was insane,” said Gunther.

  “But she need not conquer,” said William.

  Gunther’s hand tightened in her hair, and Hamilton winced. “No, my dear,” said Gunther, “you will not conquer. You will be ruthlessly dominated. You will not keep us, and others, from the stars. We will take you to them, following us, carrying our burdens. No, my dear, you will come with us to the stars, if necessary in chains.”

  “Yes, Gunther,” wept Hamilton.

  He threw her back, and she wept. Flower, lying on her stomach, William’s hand on her neck, was frightened.

  “Kneel as you were before,” said Gunther. Hamilton did so, head to the stone.

  Gunther regarded her.

  “It is natural, and wise,” said Gunther, “for a man to control such desirable creatures. They are by nature his enemy, he by nature their master. Freed they are petty and dangerous; enslaved they are delicious and useful.”

  Flower whimpered. William silenced her, by tightening his fingers on the back of her neck.

  “You see, William,” said Gunther, “you need not be ashamed of your desire to dominate a woman. It is an expression of your manhood. She who tells you otherwise lies. Regard the hunters. Listen to the song of your blood. Furthermore, if you do not dominate her, she will own and rule you, inch by inch, until, like a bled, drugged, tethered lion, you lie at her mercy, helpless. One or the other must be master. The right by nature is yours. Will you take it or will you ask the advice of the slave?”

  “But what of her?” asked William. “What of the woman?” “What of her?” asked Gunther.

  “I see,” said William.

  Hamilton trembled.

  “Slave,” said Gunther.

  “Yes, Master,” said Hamilton.

  “Are you the enemy of your precious hunter?”

  “No,” said Hamilton. “I am his slave. I love him!”

  “But he can buy and sell you as he pleases,” said Gunther. “Of course,” said Hamilton.

  “And yet you love him?” asked Gunther.

  “Yes,” said Hamilton.

  “How do you feel about your slavery?” asked Gunther. Hamilton’s shoulders shook. She dared not raise her head. For a long time she did not answer. Then she spoke softly. “It is indescribably thrilling,” she said.

  “Do you love your slavery?” asked Gunther.

  “Please, Gunther,” she wept.

  “Do you love your slavery?” asked Gunther.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Slut,” said Gunther. Then he turned to William. “You see, William,” said he, “in the depth of the brain of the female, as old as the genes selected for in the time of the hunters, lies a desire to submit, to belong. These are complementary natures formed in man’s dawn by laws more harsh and terrible than we can conjecture, laws that formed the flank of the antelope, the teeth of the tiger. Just as it is your nature to hold it is hers to be held; just as it is your nature to own, it is hers to be owned; just as it is yours to be master so it is hers to be slave.”

  Gunther regarded Hamilton again. “Do you love slavery?” he asked.

  “Yes!” she cried.

  “Serve me, Slave,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she whispered. ‘

  Hamilton heard Flower cry out as William drew her to him. Then she felt her own shoulder blades forced back against the stone of the floor of the cave. Her left shoulder lay in warm ashes. She thought of Tree. Then helplessly, a slave, she began, unable to help herself, to respond to Gunther’s touch. She knew he would force her to yield fully to him.

  21

  “I will cut meat first,” said Knife.

  He stared across the roast carcass of deer, hot and glistening. The group fell silent. Even William and Gunther, who knew little of the language of the men, sensed the sudden stillness. Hamilton, kneeling behind Gunther, held her breath.

  It had come.

  Spear did not seem surprised. He had expected this for more than a year.

  “I will cut meat first,” said Spear. Hamilton watched them, crouching across from one another, over the meat.

  Stone puzzled as to why Spear, in the last years, had not killed Knife. There were none in the group who did not know that Knife wished to be first. Tree thought he knew why Spear had not done this thing. Had Tree been Spear, he, too, would not have wanted to do this thing. The two men, Knife and Spear, stared at one another over the carcass of the deer. Short Leg, behind Spear, wondered why Spear did not strike. The two men, in many ways, seemed not unlike. There was a heaviness about the jaw of each, like rock, the same narrow eyes. Yet there seemed in Spear a heaviness, a weightiness, that was not in the younger man, Knife. Spear’s eyes, too, were quicker. Tree knew that he himself would not have wished to fight Spear. He knew that Spear, the leader, would have had little compunction in killing him. But with Knife, it was different. Knife had walked before Spear once in the last month, entering the camp first; he had said once, in the men’s hut, that Spear was old, that he could not hunt as well as Knife; then, ten days ago, he had taken
meat from one of Spear’s women and given it to Flower. But Spear had not killed him for these things. Tree had little doubt that Spear would have killed any other in the group who had done these things. But he did not kill Knife. He did not seem to notice.

  “No,” said Knife.

  Seeming to pay Knife no attention, Spear thrust the flint blade into the cooked meat.

  With a cry Knife, his own flint blade in his fist, leaped across the meat.

  With one arm Spear struck him to the side and stood up. The women screamed. William and Gunther leaped to their feet. The men remained sitting, watching. Knife rolled twice and seized up his flint ax. Spear, standing by the fire, over the meat, did not move. His eyes, strange for Spear, who had often killed with equanimity, seemed agonized. “Kill him,” said Stone to Spear. Spear did not move.

  Many times, subtly, then brazenly, had Knife challenged Spear, and sought to undermine his authority. He had interpreted Spear’s patience, his unwillingness to take action, as weakness.

  There were few in the group who understood Spear’s unwillingness to slay Knife. Tree thought he understood, and perhaps Arrow Maker knew, and Old Woman.

  Tree wondered if Spear were too old to be first. Perhaps, after all, that was why he had not killed Knife. Perhaps Spear was after all, afraid of Knife.

  Knife raised the ax. Spear stood there, like rock.

  “I am first,” said Knife.

  “No,” said Spear.

  “Take your ax,” said Knife.

  “I do not want to fight you,” said Spear.

  “I am first,” said Knife.

  “No,” said Spear.

  Brenda screamed as the ax struck down. It hit Spear on the upper left shoulder. Spear’s body shook with the impact but he remained standing. Almost immediately the shoulder was covered with blood. “That is not how one kills with an ax,” said Spear.

  “Show him,” said Stone. He thrust an ax into Spear’s hands.

  Again Knife struck, his two hands on the handle of the ax, but this time Spear, with the ax handed to him by Stone, blocked the blow.

  “That is better,” said Spear. “Strike always for the head, above the eyes, or at the back of the neck.”

  Knife drew back two paces, breathing heavily, holding the ax.

  “I do not want to fight you,” said Spear.

  “I am first,” said Knife.

  “No,” said Spear. Then he turned away. He dropped the ax to one side and crouched again beside the meat. He gripped the flint knife to again begin the cutting. His head was down.

  Brenda screamed.

  Again the ax fell, without warning. Spear looked up only in time to move his head to one side. The blow of the stone tore downward at the side of his head, stopped in the shoulder; Brenda saw, sickeningly, in that instant, skin sheared to the bone at the side of Spear’s head, bone at the side of his jaw; then there was only blood at the side of his face, and his eyes, suddenly like those of the maddened cave bear, burned and prodded, and be cried out, leaping across the meat and seized Knife, throwing him a dozen feet away against the stone, wrenching away the ax; four times he struck the dazed, reeling Knife, twice in the back, once on the left arm, once on the leg, until Knife screamed and tore at the dirt, unable to run or lift himself. The men sat impassive, watching. William and Gunther stood to one side. The women, crouching, some standing, alert, frightened, too, watched.

  Spear stood over the fallen Knife. His eyes were red with the madness of beasts. He was covered with his own blood, and the ax he lifted was stained with both that of himself and Knife. The handle of the ax was as thick as a girl’s ankle; its head was as large as the doubled fists of a large man; it was fastened to the haft by strips of rawhide more than an inch in width; the ax was more than a yard in length; it was a hunting and killing ax; not a simple tool.

  Knife looked up. His left arm and leg were broken. He tried to shield himself with his right arm.

  “Kill him,” said Short Leg.

  But then Spear lowered his ax, and dropped it to one side. “I am first,” he said to Knife.

  “Yes,” said Knife. “You are first.”

  “I do not want to fight you,” said Spear. He went then to the meat and, with his own blood running down his shoulder and arm, cut the meat, throwing the first pieces to the children. There was no word in the language of the men for a man’s son, though there was a word for the child of a woman. If there had been such a word, Spear would have said to Knife, “You are my son.”

  Spear was still cutting meat when Brenda saw Gunther lift his rifle and point it at him.

  “Do not shoot,” cried Brenda.

  Spear looked up, his face bloody and terrible. He regarded the weapon with equanimity. But he knew its power. Gunther had seen to that. It had been Gunther who had, yesterday, felled a deer on which the Men had made feast, a clean shot, dropping the animal to its knees and side, from more than three hundred yards.

  “Tell him,” said Gunther, “that I am now, leader here.”

  Brenda turned white. “No,” she said. Then she translated his words into the language of the Men.

  The Men did not seem surprised.

  “Tell them there is no meat for them,” said Spear.

  Brenda translated.

  Annoyance crossed Gunther’s features. “He does not understand,” said he to Hamilton. “Make it clear to him that I, and William, are now leaders here.” His gun was leveled at Spear.

  “He has much power,” said Brenda to Spear. “We know his bow is very powerful. He claims leadership. If you resist, he may kill.” Then she said to Gunther. “You are a fool. These men could kill you. You need them. You cannot watch all the time. Do not repay their hospitality with treachery. You cannot be successful.”

  “This is obviously the time for us to assume leadership,” said Gunther. “I gather a struggle for dominance has just occurred. This savage at the meat is clearly leader. It now remains only to depose him. I have no wish to kill him. He might. be useful. Tell him that if he cooperates no one will come to harm.” Gunther smiled. “It is all very simple.”

  “Beware, Spear,” said Brenda. “His weapon is powerful. He does not wish to kill, only to rule. He is dangerous. He says that if we do as he says, no one will come to harm.”

  “I cut meat first,” said Spear.

  “He says it is he who is leader here,” said Brenda.

  “I am leader,” said Gunther.

  “He says,” said Hamilton, “it is he who cuts meat first.”

  “Go,” said Spear to William and Gunther. Hamilton translated.

  Gunther, furious, stood up, the rifle leveled at Spear. He moved the hammer back.

  “Yield to him!” cried out Hamilton to Spear. She looked from face to face. The Men did not seem perturbed. “Do you not understand?” asked Hamilton. “He can kill. His bow can kill! Yield, or he will kill you!”

  “Tell them to leave our camp,” said Spear.

  Hamilton, in tears, translated. “I gather,” said Gunther, “it will be necessary to kill one man. It is unfortunate, but these are harsh times. I had thought his intelligence greater than it apparently is. He saw the gun kill yesterday. Surely he understands it can kill today as well. He is either stupid, or deficient in his fondness for life.”

  Suddenly Hamilton was startled. Suddenly she understood. It had been Gunther’s mistake to show the Men the power of his weapon. The men were not fools. Slowly she said, “Gunther, this man who cuts meat first is neither stupid nor is he deficient in his fondness for life.”

  “Go,” said Spear to Gunther and William.

  Gunther looked puzzled. Then his face turned white. Swiftly he jerked the weapon open. “Wilhelm!” he said.

  William examined his weapon.

  “Go,” said Spear, in the language of the Men. “There is no meat for you.”

  Hamilton translated. Then she added, “Take your lives and go!,.

  Gunther examined the Luger swiftly. Angrily he thrust i
t back in his holster. He looked at William. William dropped his own pistol back in its holster. He shook his head. He seemed numb. Gunther’s eyes were terrible upon Hamilton.

  “I know nothing!” wept Hamilton. “I know nothing!”

  “Traitress!” cried Gunther.

  “We will die without ammunition,” said William, numbly.

  “I know nothing of it!” wept Hamilton.

  The Men rose to their feet. Gunther and William backed away. “We will die without ammunition,” said William.

  “Go back to your own time!” said Hamilton. “Go back!”

  William looked at her. “We can’t,” he said. “It is not an experiment! Retrieval is impossible! Herjellsen forced us into the chamber, at gunpoint! It was a misunderstanding! He overheard Gunther speaking to me of political and military applications of the translation device: It was only speculative, theoretical. We had no intention of exploiting the device! Herjellsen didn’t understand. He has exiled us, Brenda, as much as you! He transmitted our gear and weapons after us! We are prisoners here as much as you, marooned, banished, as you are!”

  Hamilton was stunned.

  “Herjellsen is insane!” moaned William.

  “There are clear political and military applications of the technique,” said Gunther. “Herjellsen is not insane. He is only a fool. With the device he could command the world.”

  Cloud brought forth the gear of William and Gunther, and threw it to their feet. They looked down at it.

  “You must go,” said Brenda.

  They did not omit to notice that it was a female who had brought their things, and threw them to their feet.

  “Tell him,” said Gunther, nodding at Spear, “that we will take two females with us.” He gestured at Flower and herself.

  “He says,” said Hamilton to Spear, “that he will take Flower and Turtle with him when he goes.”

  Spear responded. Hamilton, shoulders back, faced Gunther. Her head was high. “Flower and I,” she said, “belong to the Men. We are theirs, not yours.”

  “Give us our bullets,” said Gunther. “We will go.”

  Hamilton said, “He said, give us our arrows. We will go.” She then translated Spear’s reply. “You will be put in skirts and made the slaves of women,” she said.