The room had now been restored to its normal illumination. The candle, blown out, and the white cloth, too, had been removed. I saw that Florence, flushed, kneeling behind Miles of Vonda, was biting at the back of his tunic, and putting her hands on his hips. "Get back, Slave," he said to her. "Yes, Master," she sobbed, and knelt back. She had been aroused by the performance of the dark-haired slave. I saw that Peggy, too, in her white tunic, was flushed. She was breathing deeply. It seemed she could not take her eyes from Callimachus.
I looked down into the eyes of the little slave. She looked up at me, pleadingly. "Master," she whispered.
"It is time to serve the liqueurs, Slave," I told her.
"Yes, Master," she whispered. She then rose to her feet and hurried toward the kitchen.
"Slave," I called.
"Yes, Master," she said, stopping, turning, and falling to her knees.
"You will serve as you are," I told her.
"Yes, Master," she said, and then, rising up, turned and hurried to the kitchen, there to render aid to Lola and the slave of Aemilianus.
A small whimper escaped Florence.
"Be silent, Slave," said Miles of Vonda.
"Yes, Master," she said.
"She is not the only one," said Tasdron, jerking a thumb at Peggy, who, blushing crimson, put down her head, looking away from Callimachus.
"Ah," said Glyco. "The liqueurs!"
First from the kitchen, bearing her tray, came the voluptuous slave of Aemilianus. Behind her, too with her tray, came the little dark-haired slave. In a moment both were deferentially serving. The collared softness of the dark-haired girl well set off the metal of the tray, and the small, multicolored glasses and bottles upon it. It is not unusual, at a Gorean meal, where free women are not present, for one or more of the slaves to serve naked. At ruder meals, this makes it easier for one of the guests, should the urge strike him, to use them.
"A free woman!" suddenly exclaimed Glyco, startled.
I smiled.
From the kitchen there had emerged, in the robes of concealment, the figure of a woman.
The men, save I, rose as one to their feet, for Gorean men commonly stand when a free woman enters a room.
The voluptuous slave of Aemilianus swiftly knelt, making herself as small as possible, putting her head to the floor. The little dark-haired slave, too, swiftly knelt, also putting her head to the floor. Too, she shuddered, trying to cover her nakedness with her hands. Peggy and Florence, too, now had their heads to the floor. Slave girls, as I may have mentioned, fear free women, terribly.
The woman in the robes of concealment seemed timid, frightened. She approached the table hesitantly, diffidently. She did not understand, fully, what she was to do.
"A free woman is present," whispered Glyco to me.
But I did not get up.
"You!" she suddenly said, from behind her veils, seeing Calliodorus, of Port Cos, captain of the _Tais_. "You?"
He seemed startled. He leaned forward, as though he might peer through the veils themselves.
"You are Calliodorus," she said, "of Port Cos!" I had not told her, of course, that Calliodorus was to be a guest at our supper.
"You!" he cried, suddenly. "Can it be you? No! It cannot be you! It cannot! Not after all these years!"
"It is I," she said, trembling.
"Gentlemen," said Calliodorus, huskily, "this is the free woman, Lola, of Port Cos!"
Suddenly the girl, sobbing, wildly tore away her veils and the robes of concealment, revealing that she wore a slave tunic and collar. "I am not a free woman," she cried, throwing herself to the feet of Calliodorus, "I am a slave girl!"
"And she is yours!" I cried.
Calliodorus, stunned, looked down at the beauty at his feet.
I rose to my feet.
She looked around at me, wildly. "Master!" she cried.
"You are now his," I said, indicating Calliodorus.
"Thank you, Master!" she cried. "Thank you, Master!" She rose to her feet, and ran to me, falling to her knees before me and putting her head down to my feet. She kissed my feet in gratitude. "Thank you, Master," she sobbed. I was pleased with her pleasure. She was a superb slave, properly handled, and I was quite fond of her. She had served me well. I thought it not unfit that she be rewarded. Accordingly I had given her to Calliodorus.
She rose to her feet and ran to kneel before Calliodorus. She looked up at him, tears in her eyes, her hands on his legs. "Will you accept me, Master?" she asked.
"In Port Cos," said he, "long ago, I wooed you with all the honors and dignities to be accorded to the free woman. Well did we grow acquainted, and many were the long and intimate conversations in which we shared." His eyes then grew hard. "And in one of these," he said, "you uttered an unspeakable confession, acknowledging your slave needs."
"I was so ashamed," she said, turning her face away.
"How could I take to my bed in honor one who had dared to confess her slave needs? Such girls I could buy at the market. We parted, naturally. But our families, desiring the companionship, pressed us for explanations. That our honors might be protected, of course, yours that you had dared to confess your slave needs, and mine, that I had been the scandalized auditor of so shameful an admission, we remained silent."
"But," said she, moist-eyed, "that our courtship not appear to have failed, and that our families not be disgraced, you agreed to proceed with the companionship, this in accordance with your conception of your duty as an officer and a gentleman."
He looked down at her, not speaking.
"I did not wish to languish, scorned and neglected, in a cold bed, while you contented yourself with market girls. I fled the city."
"You are mistaken in at least one thing," he said. "I had not determined to proceed with the companionship because of family pressures. I am not so weak. Similarly, my duties as an officer and a gentleman were not implicated in the matter."
"But, why then?" she asked.
"I wanted you," he said.
"But I have slave needs," she said.
"I thought long after our conversation," he said. "You had dared to confess your slave needs, and this had shamed you, and it had scandalized me. But, why, I asked myself. Should not, rather, one be more ashamed by deceit than the truth? Can there truly be a greater honor in hypocrisy than in honesty? It does not seem so. I then realized how bravely you had trusted me and revealed this to me. My outrage gave way to gratitude and admiration. Similarly, I asked myself, why was I scandalized. Was this not connected with hidden fears of my own, that I might discover complementary needs within myself, the needs to own and be a master? Your confession, so expressive and poignant, tended to undermine a deceit of free persons. You had dared, it seemed, to break the code of hypocrisy. Had the gate to barbarism been left ajar? I regretted, for a time, the loss of the lie. We grow fond of our myths. Yet our myths are like walls of straw. Ultimately they cannot protect us. Ultimately they must perish in the flames of truth."
"You would have taken me," she asked, "knowing that I had slave needs?"
"Your slave needs," he said, "made you a thousand times more desirable. What man does not want a slave?"
She looked at him, startled.
"It was thus my intention to take you into honorable companionship," he said, "but, in the privacy of our quarters, away from the sight of the world, to put you in a collar, and keep you as a slave, even to the whip."
She looked up at him, disbelievingly.
"But," he said, "such a farce will not now be necessary."
"I do not understand," she said.
"Strip," he said.