Prize of Gor

by John Norman

  “Targo will be returning from his tea,” said the girl to her left. “I do not know where Barzak is. I think you had better be displaying yourself, and calling to buyers by then.”

  “No, no!” said Ellen.

  She lay then on her stomach, rather as she had slept. Perhaps then, she thought, that would conceal most of her. To be sure, then the loveliness of her figure, so extended, would be revealed in other dimensions, the tininess of her feet, the slimness of her ankles, which took shackles so nicely, the swelling of her calves, her thighs, one bearing a slave brand, the curves, now so beautifully and subtly interrelated, of her new figure, of her fundament, her waist and bosom, her white shoulders, the slim neck, the well-shaped head, the lustrous dark hair strewn on the sunlit cement, the small, rounded forearms, the tiny wrists, seeming to call for slave bracelets, the small hands and delicate fingers, which might bring such joy to a master, in such dimensions, and in a thousand others, as small as the subtlety of her diaphragm as she breathed, the trembling of a lip, the timidity of a glance, the tense way in which the merest tip of a finger might touch a metal collar, would she be revealed, in all these ways and others would she be revealed. How could she, a beautiful stripped slave girl, not be revealed, and as the delight she was?

  She covered her head with her hands.

  “Targo is coming,” whispered one of the girls, she closest on the left.

  Ellen kept her head down, pretending to be asleep.

  “Man!” suddenly said the girl to her right.

  Instantly, without really thinking, and not really understanding, at least for the first instant, why she did what she did, Ellen went to the first obeisance position. It was, you see, a matter of an instant response, one consequent on her training. She heard the girl to her right laugh. Ellen was going to break position angrily, and speak crossly to the girl, thinking herself the victim of a joke, when it occurred to her that the “Man” command might have been appropriately motivated. She looked, subtly, to her right and left and found the others girls, too, in first obeisance position.

  She therefore remained as she was.

  Perhaps the girl to her right had had her joke, but, too, it was not impossible that, in the joke, the girl had had her best interests in mind. Perhaps the girl had saved her a beating, or at least a tense moment. She had not really been asleep, and a master might have understood that. There were probably differences in the rhythms of breathing, and such. She had not really wanted to deceive anyone, so much as she had been afraid. Perhaps a master might have understood that, and been forgiving, but then again he might have understood it and, nonetheless, saw fit to correct her behavior, admonishing her with the leather.

  She heard someone mount the cement steps to her right.

  “Kneel up,” said a voice.

  Instantly the chained slaves, including Ellen, went to first position.

  “New girl,” said a voice, “remain as you are. The rest of you worthless she-urts may be as you wish.”

  There was the sound of various chains moving, as the other girls broke position.

  Steps approached Ellen, who had, of course, supposing herself the “new girl,” remained in position.

  The steps seemed short, and a bit ponderous.

  Then she was aware of someone standing near her, perhaps a short, heavy man. She had a glimpse of blue and yellow robes.

  She was frightened for she knew herself a slave girl who was now doubtless in the presence of a free man.

  He might not be a formidable man, as so many of those she had encountered on this world, but he was a man and she was a woman, and a slave.

  She kept her eyes straight ahead, looking out on the crowds about. The shelf was hot, and she had moved, so her knees and toes were now muchly aware of the temperature of the cement. She hoped that she would not be burned.

  “It is certainly a hot day,” he said, puffing a little. “How fortunate you all are, not to be robed.”

  Ellen knelt straightly.

  “Where is Barzak?” he asked someone.

  “I do not know, Master,” said a girl.

  “In some paga tavern,” he speculated. “I trust that you have all been presenting yourselves well.”

  It was Ellen’s impression that the girls had called out only when interesting, handsome men had passed, or loitered in the vicinity of the shelf. But then the master had not been present, or Barzak, whoever he might be.

  “You had been given tassa powder,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” said Ellen.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “Well, Master,” she said.

  “Good,” he said. “There are usually few, if any, aftereffects. Are you hungry?”

  “Yes, Master,” said Ellen, after a moment. It was only as he had asked that she had realized that she was hungry. Misery and concern had been on her mind, overwhelming it, not food. Before she had been called for, to be taken to the Chamber of Preparation, to be readied for presentation to her Master at the eighteenth Ahn, she had been fed and watered in her bin. She had been chained by the neck there, as usual, and given her two pans, one containing water, the other slave gruel. She was not permitted to use her hands in drinking and feeding from the pans. She must be on all fours or on her belly. She need not finish the water but the slave gruel must be finished, even to the delicate licking out of the pan. If the guards were not pleased she would be beaten. Having been chained, she had feared that she had been forgotten, but the two instructrices called for her, shortly before the sixteenth Ahn, and the guard had freed her, that she might be taken, hands bound behind her, hooded and leashed, to the Chamber of Preparation. There were many parts of the house, which in some respects seemed almost labyrinthine, with which she was unfamiliar. She did not know for certain how long it had been since she had last eaten, presumably the preceding evening, but possibly the evening before last.

  “After tassa powder,” said the man, “a girl is often ravenously hungry. But when the girl awakens in ropes, or chains, she must wait to find out if she is to be fed or not.”

  Ellen sensed that the man might be holding something in his hands, something in each hand.

  “Look up,” he said.

  She looked up, frightened.

  “Here is some bread,” he said. “Keep position,” he said, for she had begun to lift her hands from her thighs.

  And so she fed, delicately, in position, from his hand.

  In his other hand he held a small metal bowl.

  When she had finished the bread, he put one hand behind the back of her head and held the small bowl to her lips. “This is Bazi tea,” he said.

  He helped her to drink. The tea was not hot, but it was strong, and flavorful.

  “Thank you, Master,” she said.

  “What a day,” he said. “You will all be browned as a prairie toad, for which I could probably get more money. It is hot enough to burn the turban of a Priest-King.”

  He put the cup in a pouch, slung at his belt. Most Gorean garments do not have pockets. Goods which would be normally carried in pockets are usually kept in wallets, or pouches. On the other hand, the garbs of certain artisans often have pockets, for tools, pegs, nails, fasteners, such things.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “‘Ellen’,” she said, “— if it pleases Master.”

  “That is a pretty name,” he said. “To be sure, it is a barbarian name. You are a barbarian, are you not?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  One of the girls nearby laughed.

  It suddenly occurred to Ellen, that this might be a test, administered by her master, Mirus of Ar. Perhaps it was a joke on his part.

  This man did not seem unkind.

  He had fed her, and given her tea.

  Surely Mirus of Ar, her master, would never let her out of his collar, really! Surely somehow he would keep her as his forever! Had he not remembered her? Had he not brought her to this world? Had he not restored her youth and comel
iness? Had he not given her a beautiful name? Had he not put her in the iron belt? Had it not been he who had first put her to the imperious uses of men?

  “We will keep that name, at least for the time,” he said. “It should improve your price. It will be one of the few things that would.”

  “Master?” asked Ellen.

  “You are too youthful,” he said. “Little more than a pretty girl.”

  Ellen bit her lip. Mirus of Ar, her master, she believed, in his arrogance, had done that to her.

  “What is the forty-third position of joy?” asked the man.

  “I do not know, Master,” she said.

  “What is the sixth delight of the hair of a female slave?” he asked.

  “I have no idea, Master,” she said.

  “What is the title of the eighteenth love song of Dina, the slave poetess?” he asked.

  “I do not know, Master,” she said.

  “Do you know anything?” he asked.

  “Very little, Master,” she said.

  “And neither do these others, either, know anything,” he said. “Pot girls, kettle-and-mat girls, worthless she-urts, all of you! Some slaves are worth a Ubara’s ransom. Others such as you I should pay unwary buyers to take off my hands. Perhaps I could bribe the cleaners of streets to take you from my shelf, to throw into the pits, to dispose of you as refuse, as flesh-garbage! Do you know what it costs to rent this space, even without an awning!”

  “No, Master,” said more than one of the girls.

  “It is none of your business,” he said. “But it is exorbitant. I am destitute! How can I feed you? I shall have to put you on leashes and take you to garbage bins! And where have you been?”

  A brawny fellow, in a short tunic, with leather on his wrists, had approached. He was grizzled, slovenly, and, apparently, had lost an eye.

  This, Ellen supposed, was Barzak.

  “The Iron Collar,” responded the fellow.

  “I was having tea!” said the portly fellow in blue and yellow robes, Targo, who seemed to be Master.

  “And I paga,” said the grizzled fellow.

  “Unwatched, unguarded, I could have lost my entire stock!” said Targo.

  “Nonsense,” said Barzak. “They are chained, and, besides, who would want them?”

  “You could keep a bota of paga here,” said Targo.

  “One wants both meat and drink,” said Barzak.

  Most owners of paga taverns are reluctant to let the girls out of the tavern, unless suitably chained and supervised. To be sure, some send them, usually back-braceleted, about the city, soliciting trade. In the taverns the girls normally come with the price of the drink. There may be an extra charge for dancers.

  “You have your pick of any of these!” expostulated Targo, waving his arms about, indicating the occupants of the shelf. Ellen realized, uneasily, that she might be included in the width of this sweeping reference. Certainly she had not been explicitly excluded.

  “Ho!” snorted Barzak. “I wanted a real slave.”

  Some of the girls on the shelf moved angrily in their chains.

  “So,” said Barzak, “the little sleeping she-urt is awake. Widen those knees, girl!”

  Ellen, in position, instantly complied.

  He put out his right hand and laid it, thoughtlessly, possessively, on her left knee. “Oh!” she cried, and shrank back.

  “What is wrong?” asked Barzak, withdrawing his hand.

  Ellen could not even speak.

  “Nothing,” said Targo. Then he turned to Ellen, reprovingly. “You must accustom yourself to being handled, and in any fashion that men please,” he said.

  “Master?” she asked, looking up at him. Then she put down her head. “Yes, Master,” she whispered.

  “I am going inside,” said Barzak. “It is hot here.” He went to the left of the platform as one would face it, and entered the building.

  “How is it that I put up with him?” asked Targo. “It is indeed hot here,” he observed.

  “We will burn and peel, Master,” said one of the girls.

  Ellen gathered that Targo might be such that one might, with relative impunity, speak to him. She did not think it would be the same with Barzak. Barzak seemed to be one of those men who might as soon cuff a woman or put her to his pleasure as look at her.

  “What does it matter?” asked Targo. “How could you be more worthless than you are? Do you have the coins to rent an awning?”

  The woman shrank back in misery. Slaves do not even own their collars, or the chains that confine them.

  “How many masters have you had?” asked Targo.

  “Only one,” said Ellen.

  “Can you read?”

  “No.”

  “You are illiterate.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you not forgetting something in your responses?” he asked.

  “Forgive me, Master,” she said.

  “Not all men are as forgiving, as understanding, as patient, as long-suffering, as kind, as Targo the Benevolent,” he said.

  “No, Master,” she said. She cringed, thinking of most of the Gorean men she had met, how fearful she was of them, how uncompromisingly and perfectly she would be owned by them.

  They seemed to be born masters of women.

  “Are you red silk?” he asked.

  She looked down at her bared body, in consternation, startled, caught off guard, suddenly distraught, suddenly seeming to understand almost nothing. Obviously she was unclothed, completely, utterly, let alone clothed in silk, of any color. She was naked, slave naked, in her chains, uncomfortable on the hot shelf. What could he have been asking?

  “Are you red silk?” he repeated.

  “I do not know,” she said.

  Or was it that, on some level, she refused to understand his question, or, more likely, feared to respond to it.

  There was laughter from the slaves about.

  “You must indeed be a little sleepyhead,” he said.

  There was more laughter.

  She reddened. “Forgive me, Master,” she said. “I was confused. For the moment I did not understand the words in the sense you meant. In my native language, we do not speak of such things in that way. We have other words.”

  “We speak of them that way in Gorean,” he said, “and particularly in the case of female slaves.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “You are a slave,” he said. “You must learn the language of your masters.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “Quickly, and well!”

  “Yes, Master!”

  “Perfectly!”

  “Yes, Master!”

  To be sure, she doubted that she would ever speak this language perfectly. Who, even among native speakers, speaks any language perfectly? And she supposed that she might forever carry an accent in Gorean, at least a subtle accent, and that this, like fillings in her teeth, and a tiny vaccination mark, would continue, for better or for worse, to betray her barbarian origin. Fortunately few Gorean masters objected to such accents in their slaves. Perhaps they relish this tincture or soupçon of foreign flavor in the speech of their chattels, finding it charming. Too, it tended to mark them out and set them apart from native Gorean speakers. But she was certain she would soon achieve a considerable fluency in the language. This was important. It was the language of her masters, and she must learn it quickly and well. Already she often dreamed and thought in Gorean. There are, of course, a large variety of diverse accents on Gor, even among native speakers of the language. For example, the Gorean of Ar is not that of Cos, and both are clearly distinguishable from that of Turia, far to the south, and so on. One might note, in passing, however, an alleged oddity in the teaching of Gorean to barbarians in certain cities. Several words, and many of these not all that common among native speakers, are supposedly taught to the barbarians with pronunciations which are subtly different from the usual pronunciations of these words. This is sometimes spoken of
as “Slave Gorean.” The girls, of course, are unaware of these differences, and, usually, that there even are any differences. Most suppose themselves to be being taught normal Gorean. Now let us suppose a girl, attempting to escape, has dared to disguise herself as a free woman, a most unwise thing to do, and is questioned. It is likely that, judiciously questioned, she would almost instantly, unwittingly, identify herself as bond, with immediate consequences as to her fate. And even if a girl knows, or suspects, that she is not being taught normal Gorean, she is unlikely to know precisely in what subtle and numerous ways her speech will betray her as slave. Similarly, a girl is sometimes taught “slave names” for objects, without being informed that these are slave names. Thus, in the most innocent and natural discourse, speaking of this or that, she is likely to show herself a slave, because that is a slave’s word, or name, for such and such an object. Ellen has asked her master if her Gorean, that taught to her in Ar, might evince such peculiarities, but he only smiled and informed her that curiosity is not becoming in a kajira. Thus she does not know. Needless to say these possible linguistic precautions and subtleties would not be effective with native Gorean women, should they find themselves put to the collar. On the other hand, once they have been embonded, slavery will inevitably work its subtle effects on them, as it does on all women, and, after a time, they, too, in glances, mannerisms, phrasings, tones of voice, tiny movements, and such, will reveal themselves slave. It is not hard to find a word in English for the difference between the free woman and the slave; the slave is extremely feminine. Sometimes a slave attempts to imitate the assertive stridencies, the masculine movements, the attitudes and gestures, the haughtiness, the mien, of a free woman, but the results are commonly, as on Earth, no more than a farcical caricature of a male. On Earth, of course, no deleterious consequences of such charades and antics are likely to occur; indeed, they may earn their practitioners commendations from pathological quarters in which it is not permitted to so much as whisper of nature and the biotruths of a species; indeed, further, such expostulations and pretenses may have actual value, as in earning their thespic practitioners a number of political and economic rewards. On Gor, of course, the situation is quite different. A woman behaving in this fashion and accordingly being suspected of the collar, of trying desperately to conceal her femininity by this ruse, may be remanded to free women for an examination. If a brand is found the woman will be stripped and bound by the free women, switched liberally, for there is little love lost between free women and slaves, and then turned over to magistrates, to be returned to the mercies of her master.