Authors: John Norman
“I see,” she smiled.
“I thought you might look well in a slave collar, stripped, cringing beneath a man's whip, pleading to serve well, and not be struck.”
“I see,” she said.
“You had lessons to be learned, at the feet of men.”
“I see,” she said.
“Was it you who first saw me?” she asked.
“Yes, as it happened,” he said.
“And I gather that you found me of some interest?”
“You are a vain little thing, aren't you?” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she smiled.
“Good,” he said. “A girl should be vain, and think well of herself, and take genuine pleasure in realizing she is special, and precious and desirable, and worth coins, and that she is of interest to men, and of the greatest interest possible to men, of slave interest. What girl does not want to know that men find her so desirable that they contemplate her in terms of collars, slave bracelets, and ropes?”
“You did find me of interest!” she laughed.
“Certainly, I found you of interest,” he said. “It was easy to imagine you stripped, and bound hand and foot, on a deep, scarlet rug, at a master's feet.”
“Of course!” she said.
How flattering it is to a woman, to know that a man so envisions her, that he sees her in terms of such desire, that he regards her as worthy of binding and having, and perhaps collaring and keeping.
“But understand,” said he, “that you were merely one of dozens, by several agents, to be considered, to be appraised, and assessed.”
“Only one?” she said,
“Yes,” he said.
“I do not like that,” she said.
“It does not matter what you like,” he said.
“Appraised and assessed!” she said. “It is as though we were dogs, or horses!”
“You were less,” said he. “You were slaves.”
“Animals!” she protested.
“Of course,” he said.
“Gorean men!” she said. “How they see us!”
“They see you as you are,” he said.
“As animals, as slave stock?” she said.
“Certainly,” he said.
“You think poorly of the women of Earth,” she said.
“Not at all,” he said. “I think extremely highly of them. Some I would put at even a tarn disk.”
“You see us as slaves!” she exclaimed.
“Improperly?” he inquired.
“No, Master,” she whispered, lowering her eyes, “âproperly.”
“But in this,” said he, “you are no different from Gorean women.”
“We are all women,” she said.
“You may break position,” he said.
“Master!” she called out.
But he had left the alcove, and drawn the curtains shut behind him. The tharlarion-oil lamp wavered, and went out, leaving her in the darkness. She lay on her side, her legs drawn up.
In a few Ehn the taverner's man, she saw him approaching, visible through the parted curtains, bending down, entered the alcove, at which time she went to first obeisance position, kneeling with her head to the furs, her hands down, beside her head. Shortly thereafter she was freed of her tether and, bent over in common leading position, held tightly, but not cruelly, by the hair, was conducted to her cage.
Perhaps a last remark or two might be in order.
He did not return to the tavern, for she was a mere slave, and, as such, of little interest to a free man, but one hears things. As he had supposed, the taverner found his slave much improved, and was satisfied the next evening with his use of her, though she still had much to learn. She was now piteously solicitous to be pleasing to her master. It would not now be necessary to sell her for sleen feed, nor to make an example of her, before the other girls, casting her alive, bound hand and foot, amongst thirsting, ravenous leech plants. She became eager to be used, and to please, and even began to provoke the jealously, and the antipathy, of her sisters on the floor. They wondered what had been done to her, in so short a time, to turn her into such a slave. Within days men, even some who had been disappointed earlier, were summoning their paga from her. She had learned to move well in silk, and bells, gracefully and seductively, and her eyes, over the rim of the paga goblet, as she knelt and pressed her lips to it, bespoke the deference of a slave, and her needs, and her hope to be found worthy of a master's caress, before she humbly lowered her head between her extended arms, and proffered the goblet. And many was the fellow who fastened her small wrists behind her back with a lace, and sent her hurrying to an alcove, to wait there, however long, upon his pleasure. Rumor has it that she soon became one of her master's most popular girls. “She is an Earth slut!” men laughed, explaining to their satisfaction her helplessness, and her needs. “They are all the same,” would say another. “That is why they sell so well,” said another. In any event, the small slave survived. One supposes the fellow who had spoken to her at such length had had some role in bringing her to Gor. Perhaps he wished to vindicate his judgment of her worthiness for a Gorean slave block, despite the dismal, unnatural world of her origin. Or perhaps he was merely doing the taverner, his friend, it seems, a favor.
Surely it could not have been a simple act of kindness, merely taking pity on a beautiful, imperiled, frightened slave.
The girl was given a name, and later, another name, a better name. But we do not report the masters' choices in these particulars, in conformity with the intention to obscure the name of the owner, the tavern, the city, the girl.
It could be almost anywhere, couldn't it?
Let the enemy ponder that.
Lastly one might mention that, not unpredictably, the taverner soon received many offers for his luscious Earth-girl slave. Some may think it is cruel to kindle the slave fires in the belly of a woman, thusly so enslaving her and making her so much the victim of her own needs. I do not think so. Too, we must keep in mind that she is only a slave.
It seems but a matter of time until the taverner will part with her, for an excellent offer, and that she will become the slave of a private master.
I think that is best for her.
She is a lovely piece of collar meat.
I wonder if she is unusual amongst the women of Earth. Presumably, as it is a dismal, unnatural world.
But perhaps not.
Perhaps there are many women there, who long for their collars.
But, enough, I turn aside now, to attend to the petitions, and needs, of my charming amanuensis.
She crawls to my feet.
She is pretty on her leash.
She, too, incidentally, was once from Earth.
I thought little of it at first.
It was a coincidence, surely.
Let me introduce myself. However, in order to diminish the likelihood of personal jeopardy, and to minimize the possibility of retaliations on the part of a powerful, arrogant, and unaccountable industry, let me tell you that my name is not really Bill Smith, and that I do not work for a major metropolitan newspaper whose unabashed liberal views and links to vast advertising revenues are unquestioned. Furthermore, I was not born in Peoria, Illinois, in 1981, the fourth son of immigrant parents from Norway. I am, however, an investigative reporter of unusual probity, tenacity, and vigor. I say this not in vanity, but in all candidness, a virtue which in my view might be more assiduously cultivated by others in my profession, for it has a bearing on this article. More than once I received journalism's coveted, though informally conferred, Nuisance of the Year Award, and was thrice voted a certain industry's annually, if secretly, bestowed Annoyance Prize. I dare not supply more detail lest my identity be suspected.
My name is Bill Smith, and I work for a major metropolitan newspaper whose unabashed liberal views and links to vast advertising revenues are unquestioned, save perhaps by benighted conservatives. I was born in Peoria, Illinois, in 1981, the fourth son of immigrant parents, a man and a woman, from Norway. I first committed myself to a career in investigative journalism at the age of nine when I discovered the rewards which might accrue from such inquiries as ascertaining the simultaneous and surprising whereabouts of my missing grade-school principal and our local guidance counselor, Miss, we shall say, X. I soon sensed
in ovo
the promise of a fascinating and lucrative career. My sobriquets are numerous, but I prefer Tiger Mouse, a flattering diminutive first ascribed to me by the disgruntled Mr. Wu Chang of San Francisco, supposedly the notorious blood-thirsty mastermind of a callous, lethal, many-tentacled Tong organization in the area, with at least one tentacle in Berkeley. My investigative work revealed conclusively that he was actually an honest, mild-mannered typewriter salesman near Fisherman's Wharf, not far from the submarine there, with no connections whatsoever to crime, organized, or disorganized. Many Han names, you see, are similar, and the Wu Chang of Tong fame was actually another fellow, seemingly residing at the time in Cleveland, a lead I granted to another reporter, not heard from since. My Mr. Wu Chang, capitalizing on the similar name, had been selling typewriters, an obsolete instrument for printing letters and such on paper, to tourists and locals eager to do business with a supposed criminal mastermind. His business folded shortly after my exposé, and he was forced to found a large chain of retail outlets specializing in more technologically current devices, palmcorders, digital cameras, computers, and such. In deference to Mr. Wu Chang's request I withhold the name of the chain, but it is one which is well known and would be instantly recognized by aficionados of gadgetry, in particular, that of an expensive and technologically advanced nature. He declined to accept the publicity which I was prepared to offer at little or no charge. We remain friends, and exchange gifts on our birthdays. I most recently received a hatchet, with several notches carved on the handle. Tiger Mouse, as he called me, clearly calls attention to my aggressive investigatory prowess, and, I suppose, to my fondness for cheese. But enough of me. What of Olaf? His name, of course, is not really Olaf. I refer to him by that name in order to supply him with all the protection morally compatible with honest reporting, whose chips may fall where they may, and sometimes sink.
Olaf was recruited for his unusual, deceitful, and foul work in Forest Hills, in Queens. a borough of New York City. Forest Hills is, as is privately well-known to various state and federal law-enforcement agencies, a notorious recruiting center for polar bear impostors.
Let me explain how this assignment came about.
“Bill, Tiger Mouse,” one day said my editor to me, “our circulation is lagging, and lawsuits abound, for example, this last one, brought by a Mr. Wu Chang. I have spoken to my father-in-law, your uncle, who owns the paper, and we feel you are owed a vacation, at least until the consequences of your recent set of articles blow over.”
I knew my uncle owned the paper, and so failed to see the purport of my editor's remark, calling this to my attention. I had not forgotten it. For those of you who might mistakenly and invidiously suspect that my post at the paper was due to sordid nepotism, I must remind you that I began work at the paper before I realized the connection. After ascertaining it, to my consternation, it did not seem fair to Uncle Harold for me to resign, and cost him his finest reporter, Tiger Mouse. We would both have to make the best of this embarrassing coincidence. (Harold, incidentally, like Olaf, are names I am using to protect identities.)
My most recent set of articles constituted a detailed and forceful indictment of the Society of Friends, the Quakers, for their role in brokering deals amongst rogue nations in armaments, in particular, weapons of mass destruction. Earlier articles had revealed the links between the AAA, the American Automobile Association, and concealed chop shops across the nation supplying automotive contraband to intercontinental auto-theft rings, the involvement of Alcoholics Anonymous in bootlegging in Peru and Bolivia, the scandalous relationship of the BSA, the Boy Scouts of America, to Colombian drug trafficking, and so on.
It was not surprising that some fallout might attend such revelations. I had expected as much when the stories went to press. My discoveries were vehemently denied, when noticed, but that was only to be expected in such cases.
An investigative reporter must follow the story and go doggedly where it leads.
Courage is a virtue which I do not lack.
“I am grateful, Chief,” I said, “but I do not want to take a vacation. I do not have time to take a vacation. I am working. I am hot on a lead, as usual. Do you know what the Red Cross and the Veterans of Foreign Wars are really up to?”
“That will have to wait, Bill,” said he. Then he winked. “You do not think this is a normal vacation, do you?”
“Oh?” I said.
“Not at all,” he said, rather conspiratorially, which intrigued me.
“I just had a vacation last month,” I said.
“Don't think of this as a vacation,” he whispered.
“Where am I going?” I asked.
“To the Arctic Circle,” he said.
“That is pretty far away, isn't it?” I asked.
“Far enough,” he said, “I think.”
“There isn't much up there but ice, is there?” I asked.
“That's what people think,” he said.
“I see,” I said.
“I have your tickets here,” he said. “You are leaving for London tonight.”
From London I flew to Oslo, and from Oslo to Longyearbyen. I had mixed feelings about this assignment. Indeed, I did not even know what the assignment was. I began, bitterly, at length, to suspect that my editor had perhaps wished merely to remove me from the vicinity of the paper before the next wave of subpoenas might arrive. Or, perhaps, he thought I had been working too hard, and might profit from a vacation. This solicitude had been manifested several times in the past, even in the recent past.
But an investigative reporter is restless, and alert.
I had been booked on one of the more exotic cruises organized by the fabulous Linkblott line, associated with the great Linkblott magnates of Scandinavia, a polar bear spotting cruise.
That was the main point of the cruise, to spot polar bears, and when the announcements would come over the sound system, at any time of the day or night, we would all rush up on deck, with our cameras, binoculars, and such, to spot the polar bears, who, by that time, would probably have jumped off their ice floes and be submerged. I suspect the bears kept track of the number of ship sightings, and compared and exchanged scores on the matter. There was no problem at spotting the bears at night, of course, given the latitude. Indeed, night would not show up for several months.
We did, of course, spot some polar bears. In fact, we spotted twenty-eight of them. To be sure, they were usually several hundred yards away. One might think that a polar bear sighting would be the occasion for launching the zodiacs and rushing up for a closer view, but landings or close approaches would not be made in the wake of an actual sighting for reasons of safety. The polar bear as you may know is one of the largest and most dangerous predatory animals on the planet. Indeed, when landings were made, no polar bears being about as far as one could tell, our leaders were always armed. Sometimes, you see, seals are scarce. A consequence of this precaution of course, and the bears' seeming concern for privacy, perhaps being miffed at having discovered that large, floating steel objects are not edible, was that we never saw one of these beasts at close range. Indeed, they were usually several hundred yards away. Still, we did have twenty-eight sightings, which, I gathered, was good, even typical. In the thrill of attempting to discern through my binoculars small white dots on ice floes far away, I forgot about investigative reporting. Too, the Linkblott line is famous for its cuisine and wine cellar, or wine hold, I suppose. There were also numerous lectures, mostly about the planet's being doomed, and parties, and fun events on shipboard, by means of which the time was pleasurably whiled away between summons to the decks to attempt to distinguish between polar bears and pieces of ice. The pieces of ice did not scratch themselves.
So I supposed, it was indeed merely a jolly, and perhaps well-earned, vacation, a respite from the ardors of investigative reporting, a welcome and profitable recharging of the batteries of journalistic inquiry, following which one might once again plunge into the exhilarating, invigorating maelstrom of society's iniquity, mismanagement, and deceit.
I might have mentioned, but in rereading this account realize I did not, that when we deplaned in Longyearbyen, another group of tourists, if I may use such an unkind word of polar bear spotters, were waiting to plane, or enplane, or whatever the word of choice might be. In short, they would leave on the same plane on which we had arrived. This arrangement demonstrated the sound thinking, and keen awareness of economics, which abounds amongst European airlines.
“Did you see any polar bears?” we new arrivals asked our predecessors as they filed past, with sweaters, parkas, posters, statuary, models of zodiacs, and such. “Yes,” we heard. “We had twenty-eight sightings. We saw twenty-eight polar bears.”
We whistled in astonishment, rejoiced in their good fortune, and hoped our efforts in this area would be crowned with similar success.
As a matter of fact, they were.
As our ship returned to the harbor at Longyearbyen, I recalled that intelligence. That was interesting, I thought.
I thought little of it at first.
It was a coincidence, surely.
Still, it was an interesting coincidence.
We, too, had seen twenty-eight polar bears, precisely twenty-eight polar bears.
You must understand, of course, that the travel industry is intensely competitive. Like life, the travel industry seems to flow into any available niche. As life can exist in the stratosphere, in polar ice, in sulfur springs, without oxygen, in the depths of the sea without light, deriving its energy from submerged volcanoes, and such, so, too, the travel industry seems to locate itself in any economically viable habitat. How else explain an interesting voyage with the primary intent of spotting polar bears? To be sure, are there not trips thinking about whales, about exotic birds, about deserts, about jungles, and so on? Once you have seen eight thousand cathedrals and six thousand castles, and eleven thousand aqueducts, bridges, walls and temples, and three pyramids, it is natural, I suppose, to think about polar bears. You are perhaps aware of aardvark expeditions, expeditions with python sightings in mind, and, in the southwest of the United States, gaining in popularity every season, trips for Gila monster spotting, and such.
In such a competitive industry, I thought, would there not be almost irresistible temptations to cut corners, to practice chicanery, perhaps even to admit, where necessary, fraud. Would such an industry not be tempted to guarantee results, and see to it that these results materialized?
I was struck with horror at the ignominy of such a suspicion, and banished it instantly from my mind.
Back, I thought, to the Red Cross and the Veterans of Foreign Wars.
Before taking the plane back to Oslo, and thence to London, and thence to New York, we were to have a farewell lunch at the lovely, local hotel in Longyearbyen. I would certainly, personally, give it several stars, and even a planet or two, or such, and, if you are ever in Longyearbyen, I would recommend it highly. Longyearbyen, incidentally, is itself a small, beautiful city, with the harbor, the mountains, the “watch out for polar bears” signs, and such. It used to mine coal, but, today, I think most of its wealth comes from the tourist trade, or more kindly, the polar bear spotting trade, for it is not only the ships of the redoubtable Linkblott line which venturously ply the icy waters of the north, but those of many other lines, and nations, as well. There seem to be enough polar bears to go around. Many are the shops, and businesses, thriving, too, in this small, lovely city, seemingly muchly dependent on the tourist trade, so to speak, and the polar bears.
During lunch I sat across from, we shall say, X, who was a typically tastefully grizzled professional photographer. He seemed troubled. I did not understand this, for he could doubtless charge this trip off his income tax; yet he seemed troubled. X had had a cabin to himself, in which he had constructed himself a makeshift darkroom. Too, many of us had admired his extensive paraphernalia and supplies. He seemed a veritable human baggage train, as many in his profession. The zoom lens on certain of his cameras might have noted a dropped lens cap in a lunar crater.