"You are a woman," I said.
I regarded her. She wore trousers and a jacket of whitish fur, of the sea sleen; the jacket had a hood, thrown back, rimmed with lart fur, on which human breath does not freeze. Her boots were of the fur of sea sleen, trimmed, too, with lart fur. The jacket was held about her waist, closely, by a narrow belt, black, and shining, with a golden catch. To this belt, on two small straps, hung a dagger sheath; the handle of the weapon was ornamented with reds and yellow swirls. Over her shoulder, across her body, was a second belt, from which hung, at her right hip, a pouch and, on a ring, a slave whip, its blades folded, and four coils of narrow, rawhide rope.
"You are perceptive," she said.
"And one who is perhaps beautiful," I said. Surely her face was beautiful. It was one which, like that of Constance, was very feminine and delicate. It did not comport well with what I took to be the harshness of her charge in the north. Her complexion was very fair; her eyes were softly blue; her hair, fallen about her shoulders, revealed by the thrown-back hood, was a soft, lush auburn in color.
"What do you mean 'one who is perhaps beautiful'?" she asked.
"The furs obscure my vision," I said. "Why do you not remove them?"
She strode toward me, angrily, and struck me across the mouth with her small hand.
She could not hit me hard, for she was too weak. I did not think she weighed more than one hundred and twenty Earth pounds. She was about five feet five inches in height.
I laughed. "I suppose you would bring something in the neighborhood of a silver tarsk in the market," I said.
She struck me again, and again. And then desisted, in fury.
"I will make you regret your insolence," she said.
"Do you know the dances of a Gorean slave girl?" I asked.
"Beast!" she screamed.
"You are of Earth," I said. "Your accent is not Gorean." I looked at her. "American, aren't you?" I asked her, in English.
"Yes," she hissed, in English.
"That explains," I said, "why you are unfamiliar with the dances of the Gorean slave girl."
She looked at me in fury.
"But you might be taught," I said.
She pulled the whip from her belt in a rage and hysterically, holding it with both hands, began to strike me with it. It was not pleasant, but she did not have the strength to make the blows tell. I had been whipped by men. Finally, angrily, she stepped back.
"You are too weak to hurt me," I said. "But I am not too weak to hurt you."
"I will have you whipped by my men," she said.
I shrugged.
"What is your name?" I asked.
"Sidney," she said.
"What is your first name?" I asked.
"That is my first name," she said, not pleasantly. "I am Sidney Anderson."
"'Sidney'," I said, "is a man's name."
"Some women have it," she said. "My parents gave it to me."
"Doubtless they wanted a boy," I said. Then I added, "They were fools."
"Do you think so," she asked.
"Certainly," I said, "both sexes are utterly splendid. One is fortunate to have either. Women are rich, and subtle and marvelous."
"I did not think you respected women," she said.
"I do not," I said.
"I do not understand," she said.
"The man who respects a woman does not know what else to do with her," I said. "I meant only to indicate that women are inordinately precious and desirable."
"We look well in collars," she said, acidly.
"You belong in collars," I said, "at the feet of men."
She turned away, angrily. I could not see her face.
"Are you still attempting to be the boy your parents wished?" I asked.
She spun about, in fury.
"In such a task," I said, "you will never be successful."
"You will be lengthily and sufficiently beaten," she said.
I looked away, at the room. It was high, and of wood, and with an arched roof. There was a dais at one end, on which, in a rough-hewn curule chair, she had sat. There was a rug of sleen skin beneath the chair, and another before the dais. A table was to one side, on which were some of my things. There was a hearth to one side, in which wood burned.
I turned my attention back to the auburn-haired girl.
"Are you well paid?" I asked.
"Yes," she said.
"Do you understand the nature of the cause in which you work?" I asked.
"Of course," she said. "I labor in the cause of Sidney Anderson."
"You are a true mercenary," I smiled.
"Yes," she said, proudly, "I am a mercenary." She looked at me. "Do you think a woman cannot be a mercenary?"
"No," I said, "I see no reason why a woman cannot be a mercenary."
She came over to me and touched me on the cheek with the whip.
"I will put you to work on the wall," she said.
"What wall?" I asked.
"You will see," she said.
"Are you a virgin?" I asked.
She struck me across the face with the whip. "Yes," she said.
"I shall be the first to have you," I told her.
She struck me again, savagely. "Be silent!" she said.
"Surely you are curious about your sexuality," I said.
"Do not use that word before me!" she said.
"It is obvious," I said. "Consider how closely you have fastened the belt on your furs. That is done, even if only unconsciously, to draw attention to your figure, accenting and emphasizing it."
"No!" she said.
"Have you never considered," I asked, watching her, "what it would be like to be naked on a slave block, being sold to men, what it would be like to be a nude slave, owned, at the command of a master?"
"No! No! No!" she cried.
"You have seen slaves," I said. "Surely you are curious what it would be like to be one."
"No!" she screamed.
The intensity of her responses had conveyed to me the in-formation in which I was interested.
"There is a slave in you," I said. "I will collar her."
I closed my eyes that I be not blinded by the blows of the whip.
Then she stopped and, angrily, fastened the whip at her belt.
"Sidney Anderson," she said, "will never be a man's slave. Never!"
"When I own you," I told her, "I will give you a girl's name, an Earth girl's name, a slave name."
"And what name would that be?" she asked, curious.
"Arlene," I said.
Momentarily she trembled. Then she said, "That is only a girl's name."
"And you are only a girl," I said.
"I see," she said. She backed away from me a few feet, and regarded me. "You are clever," she said. "You seek to anger me."
"No," I said, "I merely, in response to your request, informed you of the name I would give you, when I own you."
"You are my prisoner," she said.
"For the time," I said.
"I will teach you to fear me," she said.
"It is you who will be taught to fear me," I said, "when I am your master."
She threw back her head and laughed.
I saw that she, too, as had the Lady Tina of Lydius, knew too little of men to fear them. I supposed she had known only the men of Earth and, on Gor, those who were her subordinates in the discipline of the Kurii cause.
I saw the sense of the Kurii enlisting such women. They owed no Gorean allegiances. They possessed no Home Stones. They were aliens on this world.
Did they not know that they, not having a Home Stone, were subject to any man's collar?
She looked at me. She had laughed, but I saw that she seethed with fury. Too, in her eyes there was another emotion. I think she was wondering what it would be like to be owned by me. She would learn.
"The mighty Tarl Cabot," she said, "a manacled, kneeling prisoner."
Too, such women, in their frustrations, so desperately fighting their femininity, made excellent agents.