Fighting Slave of Gor coc-14 Read online

  "That you might be in your heart a female slave is not even a possibility that you can admit," I said.

  "Of course not," she said.

  "It is politically inadmissible," I said.

  "Yes," she said, "but beyond that it cannot be true. It must not be true! I cannot even dare to think that it might be true!"

  "But you are very beautiful, and very feminine," I said.

  "I do not even believe in femininity," she said.

  "Have you told it to your hormones," I asked, "so abundant and luxuriously rich in your beautiful little body?"

  "I know I'm feminine," she said, suddenly. "I cannot help myself. I simply cannot help it. You must believe that. I know it is wrong and despicable, but I cannot help it. I am so ashamed. I want to be a true woman, but I am too weak, too feminine."

  "It is not wrong to be yourself," I said.

  "Too," she said, "I'm frightened. Last summer I did not even take a pleasure cruise in the Carribean."

  "You feared the famed Bermuda Triangle?" I asked.

  "Yes," she said. "I did not want to disappear. I did not want to be taken away, to be made a slave girl on another planet."

  "Thousands of planes and ships, year in and year out, safely traverse the Bermuda Triangle," I said.

  "I know," she said.

  "You see, you are being silly," I said.

  "Yes," she said. Then she asked me, "Have you ever heard of the planet Gor?"

  "Certainly," I said, "it is a reasonably well-known fictional world." I laughed, suddenly. "The Bermuda Triangle and Gor," I said, "have, as far as I know, absolutely nothing to do with one another." I smiled at her. "If the slavers of Gor have decided to take you, my dear," I said, "they certainly will not sit about waiting for you to take a trip to the Carribean."

  I looked at her carefully. She was beautiful. I wondered, if there were Gorean slavers, if she might indeed not be the sort of woman they regard as suitable for their chains. Then again I tensed myself, scarcely daring to move. The thought of the lovely Miss Henderson as a helpless Gorean slave girl, at the mercy of a man, so aroused my passion that I could scarcely dare to breathe. I held myself perfectly still.

  "You are right," she said. "Gor and the Bermuda Triangle have presumably nothing to do with one another."

  "I think not," I said.

  "You are comforting, Jason," she said, gratefully.

  "Besides," I smiled, "if the slavers swoop down and carry you off, perhaps you will eventually, sometime, find a master who will be kind to you."

  "Gorean men," she said, shuddering, "are strict with their slaves."

  "So I have heard," I said.

  "I am afraid," she said.

  "It is silly," I said. "Do not be afraid."

  "Do you believe Gor exists?" she asked.

  "Of course not," I said. "It is an interesting fictional creation. No one believes it truly exists."

  "I have done some research," she said. "There are too many things, too much that is unexplained. I think a pattern is forming. Could it not be that the Gorean books are, in effect, a way of preparing the Earth and its peoples for the revelation of the true existence of a Counter-Earth, should it sometime be expedient to make its presence known?"

  "Of course not," I said. "Do not be absurd."

  "There are too many details, too," she said, "small things that would not occur to a fictional writer to include, pointless things like the construction of a saddle and the method of minting coins. They are not things one would include who was concerned to construct spare, well-made pieces of fiction."

  "They are more like the little things that might occur to one, not a writer, who had found them of interest, and wished to mention them."

  "Yes," she said.

  "Put it from your mind," I said. "Gor is fictional."

  "I do not believe John Norman is the author of the Gor books," she said.

  "Why not?" I asked.

  "I have been frightened about this sort of thing," she said. "I have met him, and talked with him. It seems his way of speaking, and his prose style, may not be that of the books."

  "He has never claimed," I said, "to be more than the editor of the books. They purport, as I understand it, to be generally the work of others, usually of an individual called Tarl Cabot."

  "There was a Cabot," she said, "who disappeared."

  "Norman receives the manuscripts, does he not, from someone called Harrison Smith. He is probably the true author."

  "Harrison Smith is not his true name," she said. "It was changed by Norman to protect his friend. But I have spoken with this 'Harrison Smith'. He receives the manuscripts, but he apparently knows as little as anyone else about their origin."

  "I think you are taking this sort of thing too seriously," I said. "Surely Norman himself believes the manuscripts to be fiction."

  "Yes," she said. "I am convinced of that."

  "If he, who is their author or editor, believes them to be fiction, you should feel perfectly free, it seems to me, to do likewise."

  "May I tell you something which happened to me, Jason?" she asked.

  Suddenly I felt uneasy. "Surely," I said. I smiled. "Did you see a Gorean slaver?" I asked.

  "Perhaps," she said.

  I looked at her.

  "I knew you would think me mad," she said.

  "Go ahead," I said.

  "Perhaps foolishly," she said, "I made no secret of my inquiry into these matters. Dozens of people, in one way or another, must have learned of my interest."

  "Go on," I said.

  "That explains, accordingly, the phone call I received," she said. "It was a man's voice. He told me to visit a certain address if I were interested in Gorean matters. I have the address here." She opened her purse and showed me an address. It was on 55th Street, on the East Side.

  "Did you go to the address?" I asked.

  "Yes," she said.

  "That was foolish," I said. "What happened?"

  "I knocked on the apartment door," she said.

  "It was on the fifth floor," I said, noting the apartment number.

  "Yes," she said. "I was told to enter. The apartment was well furnished. In it there was a large man, seated on a sofa, behind a coffee table. He was heavy, large handed, balding, virile. 'Come in,' he said. 'Do not be afraid.' He smiled at me. 'You are in absolutely no danger at the present moment, my dear,' he said."

  "'At the present moment'?" I asked.

  "Those were his words."

  "Weren't you frightened?" I asked.

  "Yes," she said.

  "Then what happened?" I asked.

  "He said to me, 'Come closer. Stand before the coffee table.' I did that. 'You are a pretty one,' he said. 'Perhaps you have possibilities.'"

  "What did he mean by that?" I asked.

  "I don't know," she said. "I started to tell him my name, but he lifted his hand, and told me that he knew my name. I looked at him, frightened. On the coffee table, before him, there was a decanter of wine and a heavy, ornate metal goblet. I had never seen a goblet of that sort. It was so primitive and barbaric. 'I understand,' I said to him, 'that you may know something of Gor.' 'Kneel down before the coffee table, my dear,' he said."

  "What did you do then?" I asked.

  "I knelt down," she said, blushing. Suddenly I envied, hotly, the power of that man over the beautiful Miss Henderson.

  "He then said to me," she said, "'Pour wine into the goblet. Fill it precisely to the second ring.' There were five rings on the outside of the goblet. I poured the wine, as he had asked, and then placed the goblet on the coffee table. 'Now unbutton your blouse,' he said, 'completely."'

  "You then cried out with fury and fled from the apartment?" I asked.

  "I unbuttoned my blouse," she said, "Completely. 'Now open your slacks,' he said."

  "Did you do this?" I asked.

  "Yes," she said. "'Now remove your blouse, and thrust your slacks down about your calves,' he said."

  "Did you do this?"
I asked.

  "Yes," she said. " 'Now thrust your panties down about your hips,' he said, 'until your navel is revealed.' I did this, too. I then knelt there before him in my panties, thrust down upon my hips, that my navel be revealed, my slacks down about my legs, and in my brassiere, my blouse discarded, placed on the rug beside me."

  I could scarcely believe what I was hearing.

  "Do you understand the significance of the revealing of the navel?" she asked me.

  "I believe on Gor," I said, "it is called 'the slave belly'."

  "It is," she said. "But Gor, of course, does not exist."

  "Of course not," I said.

  "'Now take the goblet,' he said, 'and hold the metal against your body, pushing inward.' I took the goblet and held it, tightly, to my body. I held the round, heavy metal against me, below my brassiere. 'Lower,' he said, 'against your belly.' I then held the goblet lower. 'Press it more inward,' he said. I did so. I can still feel the cold metal against me, firmly, partly against the silk of my undergarment, partly against my belly. 'Now,' said he, 'lift the goblet to your lips and kiss it lingeringly, then proffer it to me, arms extended, head down.'"

  "Did you do that?" I asked.

  "Yes," she said.

  "Why?" I asked.

  "I do not know," she said, angrily. "I had never met a man like him. There seemed some kind of strength about him, such as I had never met in another man. It is hard to explain. But I felt that I must obey him, and perfectly, that there were no two ways about it."

  "Interesting," I said.

  "When he had finished the wine," she said, "he replaced the goblet on the table. He then said, 'You are clumsy and untrained, but you are pretty and perhaps you could be taught. You may stand now, and dress. You may then leave.'"

  "What did you do then?" I asked.

  "I stood up, and dressed," she said. "Then I said to him, 'I am Beverly Henderson.' I felt, I suppose, I wished to assert my identity. 'Your name is known to me,' he said. 'Are you fond of your name?' he asked. 'Yes,' I said to him. 'Relish it while you can,' he said. 'You may not have it long.'"

  "What did he mean by that?" I asked.

  "I do not know," she said. "I demanded, too, to know. But he said to me merely that I might then leave. I was then angry. 'What have you to tell me of Gor?' I asked. 'Surely you have learned something of Gor this afternoon,' he said. 'I do not understand,' I said. 'It is a pity that you are so stupid,' he said, 'else you might bring a higher price.' 'Price!" I cried. 'Yes, price,' he said, smiling. 'Surely you know that there are men who will pay for your beauty.'"

  "Go on," I said.

  "I was terribly angry," she said. " 'Never have I been so insulted!" I said to him. 'I hate you!" I cried. He smiled at me. 'Being troublesome and displeasing is acceptable in a free woman,' he said. 'Be troublesome and displeasing while you may. It will not be permitted to you later.' I turned then and went to the door. At the door I turned. 'Have no fear, Miss Henderson,' he said, 'we always save one or two capsules, aside from those allotted to our regular requisitions, in case something worthwhile shows up.' He then grinned at me. 'And you, I think,' he said, 'with the proper training, exercise and diet, will prove quite worthwhile. You may go now.' I then wept and ran out the door."

  "When did this happen?" I asked.

  "Two days ago," she said. "What do you think it means?"

  "I think, obviously," I said, "it is a cruel joke, and it could have been a dangerous joke. I would advise you never to enter into such a rendezvous again."

  "I have no intention of doing so," she said, shuddering.

  "It is over now, and there is nothing to worry about," I said.

  "Thank you, Jason," she said.

  "Did you inform the police?" I asked.

  "I did," she said, "but not until the next day. No crime, of course, had been committed. There was nothing I could prove. Still it seemed to warrant an investigation."

  "I agree completely," I said.

  "Two officers and I went to the same address," she said.

  "What occurred in the confrontation?" I asked.

  "There was no confrontation," she said. "The apartment was empty. It was not even furnished. There were no drapes, nothing. The superintendent claimed it had been empty for a week. There was no reason for the officers to disbelieve him. Perhaps he was paid off. Perhaps he was in league with the heavy man. I do not know. The officers, angry, gave me a stern warning about such pranks and let me go. The entire matter has been a pain and an embarrassment to me."

  "It certainly seems an elaborate hoax," I said.

  "Why would anyone go to such trouble?" she asked.

  "I do not know," I said.

  "Do you think I have anything to fear?" she asked.

  "No," I said, "certainly not." Then I lifted my hand, to call the waiter.

  "I must pay half the check and leave half the tip," she said.

  "I'll take care of it," I said.

  "No," she said, suddenly, irritably. "I will be dependent on a man for nothing."

  "Very well," I said. I saw that Miss Henderson had a sharp edge to her. I supposed that a Gorean slave whip, if there were a Gor, would quickly take that out of her.

  We then, at the hat-check counter, secured our wraps. The girl behind the counter was blond. She wore a white blouse and a brief, black skirt; her legs, well revealed, were clad in clinging black netting. Miss Henderson received her light cape. She placed a quarter in the small wooden bowl on the counter. I received my coat. I gave the girl a dollar. She had lovely legs. She had a pretty smile. She pleased me. "Thank you, Sir," she said. "You're welcome," I said.

  "Scandalous how some women exploit their bodies," said Beverly, when we had stepped away from the counter.

  "She was very pretty," I said.

  "I suppose you would not mind owning her," said Beverly.

  "No," I said, "I wouldn't mind owning her at all. She might be very pleasant to own."

  "All men are monsters," said Beverly.

  I donned my coat. She held her wrap.

  "Why are you dressed as you are tonight?" I asked. "Are you not frightened that some of your "sisters" in your department will see you? Can you afford the risk?"

  She seemed momentarily apprehensive. I had been joking. Then I saw that it was not truly a joke. One student can, subtly, belittle and undermine another student in the eyes of her peers and in the eyes of the faculty. It can be done with apparent innocence in the dialogue in a seminar, by an apparently chance remark at a coffee or tea, even by an expression or a movement of the body in a classroom or a hall. The rules for conformance and the sanctions against difference are seldom explicit; indeed, it is commonly denied that there are such rules and sanctions. They are reasonably obvious, however, to those familiar with the psychology of groups. Such things, unfortunately, can ruin graduate careers. Most obviously they can be reflected in the evaluations of the student's work and in his letters of recommendation, particularly those written by strict professors of the correct political persuasions, whatever they happen to be at the particular institution in question.

  "Surely it is all right," she said, "for a woman, sometimes, to be a little feminine."

  "Perhaps," I said. "The question is indeed a thorny one."

  "I have heard it debated," she said.

  "Are you joking?" I asked. I had thought I had been joking.

  "No," she said.

  "I see," I said.

  "In my view," she said, "it is all right for a woman, once in a while, to be feminine, if just a little bit."

  "I see," I said. I wondered if there were a world anywhere where women, or at least a certain sort of woman, would have no choice but to be totally feminine, and all the time. I smiled to myself. I thought of the fictional world of Gor, which obviously did not exist. Gorean men, as I understood it, did not accept pseudomasculinity in their female slaves; this, then, left the female slaves no alternative but to be true women.

  "But you are not just a little fe
minine tonight," I said. "You are deliciously feminine."

  "Do not speak to me in that fashion," she said.

  "Even if it is true?" I asked.

  "Particularly if it is true," she said.

  "Why?" I asked.

  "Because I am a person," she said.

  "Would you settle for a 'deliciously feminine person'?" I inquired.

  "Do not demean my personhood," she said.

  "What about 'deliciously feminine little female animal'?" I asked.

  "What a beast you are," she said. "It sounds like you want to put a collar on me and lead me away to your bed."

  "That would be pleasant," I said.

  "You think I'm sexually attractive, don't you?" she asked. "Yes," I said. "Does that disturb you?"

  "No," she said, "not really. I am aware that some men have found me sexually attractive. Some have even tried to take me in their arms and kiss me."

  "Horrifying," I said.

  "I did not permit them to be successful," she said.

  "Good for you," I said.

  "I insist on being totally respected," she said.

  "Have you ever considered," I asked, "that your desire to be respected may interfere with the development of your sexuality?"

  "Sex," she said, "is only a tiny and unimportant part of life. It must be seen in its proper perspective."

  "Sexuality," I said, "is radically central to the human phenomenon."

  "No, no," she said. "Sex is unimportant, irrelevant and immaterial. Better put, it must be placed in its proper perspective. This is something which is understood by all politically enlightened persons, both men and women. Indeed, sexuality is a threat and a handicap to the achievement of a true civilization. It must be ruthlessly curbed and controlled."

  "Nonsense," I said.

  "Nonsense?" she asked.

  "Yes, nonsense," I said. "Sex may be a handicap to the achievement of a certain sort of civilization," I admitted, "but I do not think I would relish that sort of civilization in which it would be a handicap. Surely it is possible to at least consider a civilization which would not be inimical to the nature of human beings but compatible with their desires and needs. Perhaps in such a society, sexuality would not need to be suppressed but might be permitted to flower."