I did not respond to him. In a way I felt sad, and helpless. In many ways I was an average man, if that. too, I have many lacks, and many faults. How ironic then it was, I thought, that among the few gifts which I might possess, those few things which might distinguish me among other men, were such as are commonly associated with destructiveness. Of what value is it, I asked myself, to have certain talents. Of what dreadful value are such skills? Of what value, really, is it to be able to bring down a running man with the great bow at two hundred yards, to throw the quiva into a two-hort circle at twenty paces, to wield a sword with an agility others might bring to the handling of a knife? Of what use are such dreadful skills? Then I reminded myself that such skills are often of great use and that culture, with its glories of art, and music and literature, can flourish only within the perimeters of their employments. Perhaps there is then a role for the lonely fellows on the wall, for the border guards, for the garrisons of far-flung outposts, for the guardsmen in the city treading their lonely rounds. All these, too, in their humble, unnoticed way, serve. Without them the glory is not possible. Without them even their critics could not exist. "Are you all right?" I asked.
"Yes," he said.
I recalled, too, the games of war. They, too, in their awesomeness, must not be forgotten. Why is it that some men seek wars, traveling to the ends of the earth to find them? It is because they have a taste for such things. It is because there, where others fear to tread, they find themselves most alive. He who has been on the field of battle knows the misery, the terror, the tenseness, the racing of the blood, the pounding of the heart, the exhilaration, the meaningfulness. In what other arena, and for what lesser stakes, can so much of man be summoned forth, man with his brutality, his cruelty, his mercilessness, his ruthlessness, his terribleness, these ancient virtues, and man with his devotion, his camaraderie, his fellowship, his courage, his discipline, his glory? In what other endeavor is man, in his frailty and strength, in his terribleness and nobility, so fully manifested? What is the meaning of war to the warrior? Surely it is not merely to be found in the beholding of flaming cities and the treading of bloody fields. Surely it is not merely to be found in silver plate and golden vessels, nor even in women lying naked in their chains, huddled together, trembling in the mud, knowing that they are now properties and must please. It is rather, I think, primarily, the contest, and that for which all is risked, victory. To be sure, this is a war of warriors, not of technicians and engineers, a war of men, not of machines, not of explosives, not of microscopic allies, not of poisoned atmospheres, wars in which the tiny, numerous meek, in their swarms, crawling on six legs, will inherit the earth.
"You are not of Ar," said the guardsman.
"No," I said.
"I did not think so," he said.
I shrugged.
"Cos," he said, "can use blades such as yours."
"I seek employment," I said.
"Go to the barracks of guardsmen," said he.
"Perhaps," I said.
"I would now leave this area," he said. "Too, I would not attempt to interfere with the work on the walls."
"I understand," I said.
"That is a pretty slave," he said.
"She belongs to my friend," I said. Phoebe shrank back a bit, closer to Marcus. Female slaves on Gor must grown used to being looked upon frankly by men, and assessed as the properties they are. They know they can be acquired, and disposed of, and bought and sold, and traded, and such, with ease, even at a moment's notice.
"Is she of Ar?" he asked.
"No," said Marcus.
"Are you sure?" asked the guardsmen.
"Yes," said Marcus.
"Many women of Ar look well in slave tunics, barefoot and collared," he said. "Undoubtedly," I said.
"They should all be slaves," he said.
"So should all women," I said.
"True," he said.
To be sure, it did amuse me to think of the proud women of Ar, of "Glorious Ar," as slaves. Such a fare seemed to me fully appropriate for them, and in particular for some of them.
"Let us return to our lodgings," I said to Marcus.
"I wish you well," said the guardsman.
"I, too, wish you well," I said.
"I must now put these tame cattle of Ar back to work," he said.
"One man alone?" I asked.
"No more are needed," he said.
Indeed, there were no guardsmen on the walls themselves. We had encountered one on the way to the wall, on Harness Street, who had detained us briefly, apparently primarily to determine whether or not we were of Ar.
"We shall leave now," said Marcus.
"Yes, Master," said Phoebe.
We then turned about, and left the vicinity of the Wall Road. Near the entrances to Harness Street, off the Wall Road, I turned about.
"Continue your work for peace!" called the guardsmen to those on the wall. The men on the wall then, and the youth, and women, returned to their labors. "Incredible," marveled Marcus.
"Master," moaned Phoebe.
Things were then much as they had been before. Nothing had changed. To be sure, the work was not now being performed to the music of flute girls. Tomorrow, however, I did not doubt but what the flute girls would be back, and numerous guards in attendance, at least on the street.
"Is your sword for hire?" I asked Marcus.
"It could be," he said.
"Good," I said.
"You have some plan?" he asked.
"Of course," I said.
"Master," whimpered Phoebe.
Marcus stopped and looked at her.
She, too, stopped, and looked up at him.
"Strip," he said.
She looked at him, suddenly, wildly, and then about herself. "This is a public street," she said.
He did not speak.
She squirmed. "Is there no doorway? No sheltered place?" she asked.
He did not respond to her.
"I was a woman of Cos," she said, tears springing to her eyes. "This is a public street in Ar!"
His expression remained impassive. He maintained his silence.
"Cos has defeated Ar!" she wept.
He did not speak.
"Am I to suffer because you are angry with the men of Ar?" she asked.
"Does the slave dally in her obedience?" he inquired.
"No, Master!" she said, frightened.
"Must a command be repeated?" he inquired.
"No, Master!" she cried. Her tiny fingers began to fumble with the knot of the slave girdle, on her left. Then she had the knot loose and pulled away the girdle. She then, hastily, struggling a little with it, pulled the tunic, a light pullover tunic, off, over her head. "The slave obeys her master!" she gasped, frightened, kneeling before him. He then tied her hands behind her back with the slave girdle and thrust the tiny tunic, folded, crosswise, in her mouth, so that she would bite on it. He then pushed her head down to the stones. "Are you now less angry with the men of Ar?" I asked him, in an Ehn or two. Marcus stood up, adjusting his tunic.
"Yes," he said.
Phoebe turned about, from her knees, the tunic between her teeth, and looked back at us.
"This had little to do with you," I told her. "Too, it is immaterial that you were once of Cos. A slave, you must understand, must sometimes serve such purposed." Her eyes were wide. But one of the utilities of a slave, of course, is to occasionally serve as the helpless object upon which the master may vent his dissatisfaction, his frustration or anger. Too, of course, they may serve many other related purposes, such as the relief of tensions, to relax oneself and even to calm oneself for clear thought.
"Do you understand?" I asked.
She nodded.
I regarded her.
She whimpered, once.
"Good," I said.
One whimper signifies "Yes," and two signifies "No." This arrangement, at any rate, was the one which Marcus had taught to Phoebe long ago, quite early in her slavery to him, at a time when she had been much more often kept bound and gagged then now.