She looked at me, frightened.
"Do you not fear you will be slain?" I asked.
She glanced beyond me, across the cabin. I stepped back, that she might have free passage.
"But I do not object," I told her. "I did not order you to remain in the berth. I own you now."
I saw her tense her lovely body. I stepped further back. Then, suddenly, she darted past me, falling to her knees at the side of a great sea chest. She flung up its lid and, frantically, with two hands, rummaged in the chest.
I slipped my knife in my belt. I removed an object from the cabin wall.
Then she had leaped to her feet, wildly, clutching, holding over head, what appeared to he two, flat, rectangular sheets of lead, bound together. She ran to the windows of the cabin, those between and above the rudders, through which I, breaking the frames and glass inward; had entered. She drew back her arms, holding the bound lead sheets over her head, to hurl them into the Vosk.
The whip cracked forth, lashing, snapping, whipping about her startled wrists, binding them together, causing her, crying out with pain, to drop the leaden sheets. By her wrists, temporarily caught in the coils of the whip, I jerked her back and to the side, and she fell, stumbling, among the glass and wood, to my right. With my foot I spurned her to the side of the berth, on the cabin floor. The coil of the whip was then freed.
She whimpered.
I had gathered from the fact that the chest had not been locked, that it had been open to her, and that she had acted with such alacrity, that a charge had been placed upon her in the matter with which I was concerned. That charge, of course, could only have been to see to the immediate destruction of the documents in the event of an emergency. On shipboard, of course, it would be possible to immediately dispose of the documents only by casting them overboard. The lead weighting, of course, would carry them to the mud at the bottom of the Vosk. In a short time, then, the inks would run, and the papers held between the sheets, would disintegrate. My surmises in these matters had been correct. The girl had proved useful.
Whimpering, she was now on her hands and knees at the side of the berth. She extended her hand toward the leaden sheets. The whip clacked savagely and, quickly, she drew back her hand.
"I do not wish to become impatient with you," I told her.
"You do not own me," she said.
I smiled. I lifted the whip before her. "You are mistaken," I told her.
She eyed the leaden sheets. "Who are you?" she asked.
"Jason," I said, "of Victoria, your master."
"I am the woman of Reginald, captain of the _Tamira_," she said.
"No longer," I said.
She looked at me, angrily. "I am a captain's woman," she said.
"You are a mere slave," I said, "who must crawl to any man."
"No!" she said.
"Are you haughty?" I asked.
"If you like," she said.
I turned from her, to search for oiled cloth and wax, something, anything, with which to make a sealed packet.
I heard wood and glass suddenly move, as she scrambled across the cabin floor, on her hands and knees, toward the leaden sheets.
With a cry of rage I spun about and smote down with the whip. The stroke caught her across the back and buttocks and struck her to her stomach on the floor, amidst the wood and glass. Her extended hand was a foot from the leaden sheets. It had not occurred to me that she would attempt to reach the leaden sheets. Apparently she did not yet know who owned her.
I looked down upon her.
She lay there on her stomach, in the wood and glass, absolutely quietly. She did not move a muscle. She had felt the whip.
"I am not pleased," I told her.
"No," she cried. "No!"
I then, displeased, her Gorean master, savagely lashed the slave. She tried to crawl from the whip, but could not do so. Then she tried to crawl no more, but knelt, her head down, her head in her hands, weeping, at the side of the berth, a whipped slave.
"Forgive a slave for having been displeasing, my Master!" she begged.
She looked up, and I held the whip before her. Eagerly, crying, she took it in her hands and kissed it, fervently.
"Fetch oiled cloth, a lantern, sealing wax, a candle, such things," I said.
She hurried to obey, and I replaced the whip on the wall. In Gorean domiciles, wherein serve female slaves, it is common to find a whip prominently displayed. The girls see it. They know its meaning. Too, displayed so, it is readily available for us.
I went to the leaden sheets and, with my knife, cut away the binding holding the sheets together. I took the envelope from within, and opened it. I examined the papers which I had extracted from the envelope. I smiled. They contained what I had expected.
The girl, from a shelf to one side, fetched a large candle, some five inches in diameter. This candle was set in a shallow, silver bowl. She had lifted the bowl upward, off the shelf. In its bottom, protruding, was a spike. This spike had been sitting in an aperture cut in the shelf, that the bowl might sit evenly on the wood. There was a similar aperture, about a half of an inch in width, in the table. She set the spike into this hole and, again, the silver bowl rested evenly on wood. This prevents the movement of the candle in rough weather. The table, too, was bolted to the floor. For similar reasons ships' lanterns, in cabins or below decks, are usually hung from hooks overhead. Thus, in rough weather they may swing, but they are not likely to fall, scattering flaming oil about, with attendant dangers of fire. Most ships' furniture, of course, berths and such, are fixed in place. This prevents the shifting of position which, otherwise, of course, particularly in rough seas, would be inevitable.
She lit the candle. On the table, too, in a moment, she placed waxed paper, and an envelope of oil cloth. Such things are not uncommon on ships, to protect papers which might be carried in the spray or weather, for example, on a longboat between ships, or between ships and the shore. Sealing wax, too, in a rectangular bar, she placed on the table. She then knelt beside the table. She kept her head down, deferentially, not daring to meet my eyes.
"Head to the floor," I told her.
She obeyed, swiftly.
I replaced the papers in their envelope, from with I had withdrawn them to examine them. I then wrapped the envelope in several thicknesses of waxed paper. Then, with the sealing wax, melted by the candle, drop by drop, then smoothing the drops into rivulets of liquid wax, I seamed shut the waxed paper.
The girl trembled, to one side, kneeling, her blond hair forward, on the dark, polished floor of the cabin. The collar was clearly visible on her neck, and the small, heavy lock, by means of which it was secured upon her.
"What is your name?" I asked her, while working.
"Luta," she said.
"Oh?" I asked.
"Whatever Master wishes," she said, quickly. "Please do not whip me further, Master," she begged.
"Your name now," I said, seaming shut the last opening on the waxed paper, "is Shirley."
"'Shirley'!" she sobbed. "That is an Earth-girl name."
"Yes," I said.
Her shoulders shook with the indignity of what had been done to her.
"I was a captain's woman," she said.
"Do you not rejoice in your new name?" I asked.
"Yes, Master," she said, quickly, "I rejoice in my new name."
"Good," I said.
She began to sob.
I inserted the envelope, now enclosed in several thicknesses of sealed waxed paper, in the larger envelope of oil cloth.
"Master," she said.
"Yes," I said.
"Please do not whip me," she said.
"We shall see if you are sufficiently pleasing," I said.
"With such a name," she said, "will I be expected to be so abject, so low, as those hot, surrendered sluts of Earth, so obedient, so owned, so helpless, in the arms of their Gorean masters?"