"Of course," I said.
"Of course," she said, numbly. "Why not?" Then suddenly she jerked at the hobble but could not rise and nearly fell, and pounded her left fist into the dirt before her. "I don't want to be a slaver" she cried. "I don't want to be a slave!" "I'm sorry," I said.
She looked up at me. There were tears in her eyes. "He has no right!" she cried.
"He has the right," I said.
"Of course," she wept, putting her head down. "It is like a book, a chair, an animal. She is yours! Take her! Keep her until tomorrow! Return her in the morning when you are finished with her!"
Head down she laughed and sobbed.
"I thought you wished," I said, "that I might buy you." I thought it well to jest with her.
"Don't you understand?" she asked. "It could have been anyone to whom I was given, not just to you, but to anyone, anyone!"
"That is true," I said.
"To anyone!" she wept. "Anyone! Anyone!"
"Do not be distraught," I said.
She shook her head, and looked up at me, and through the tears smiled. It seems, Master," she said, "that for the hour I am yours." "It would appear so," I said.
"Will you carry me over your shoulder to the wagon;" she asked, lightly, "like Aphris of Turia?"
"I'm sorry," I said.
I bent to the girl's shackles and removed them.
She stood up and faced me. "What are you going to do with me?" she asked. She smiled. "Master?"
I smiled. "Nothing," I told her. "Do not fear."
"Oh?" she asked, one eyebrow rising skeptically. Then she dropped her head. "Am I truly so ugly?" she asked. "No," I said, "you are not ugly."
"But you do not want me?" she asked.
"No," I said.
She looked at me boldly, throwing back her head. "Why not?" she asked.
What could I tell her? She was lovely, but yet in her condition piteous. I felt moved on her behalf. The little secretary, I thought to myself, so far from her pencils, the typewriter, the desk calendars and steno pads so far from her world so helpless, so much at Kamchak's mercy and this night, should I choose, at mine.
"You are only a little barbarian," I said to her. Somehow I thought of her still as the frightened girl in the yellow shift caught up in games of war and intrigue beyond her comprehension and, to a great extent, mine. She was to be protected, sheltered, treated with kindness, reassured. I could not think of her in my arms nor of her ignorant, timid lips on mine for she was always and would remain only the unfortunate Elizabeth Cardwell, the innocent and unwitting victim of an inexplicable translocation and an unexpected, unjust reduction to shameful bondage. She was of Earth and knew not the flames which her words might have evoked in the breast of a Gorean warrior nor did she understand herself truly nor the relation in which she, slave girl, stood to — a free man to whom she had been for the hour given I could not tell her that another warrior might at her-very glance, have dragged her helpless to the darkness between the high wheels of the slave wagon itself. She was gentle, not understanding, naive, in her way foolish a girl of Earth but not on Earth not a woman of Gor female on her own barbaric world she would always be of Earth the bright, pretty girl with the stenographer's pad like many girls of Earth, not men but not yet daring to be woman. "But," I admitted to her, giving her head a shake, "you are a pretty little barbarian."
She looked into my eyes for a long moment and then suddenly dropped her head weeping. I gathered her into my arms to comfort her but she pushed me away, and turned and ran from the enclosure.
I looked after her, puzzled.
Then, shrugging, I too left the enclosure, thinking that perhaps I should wander among the wagons for a few hours, before returning.
I recalled Kamchak. I was happy for him. Never before had I seen him so pleased. I was, however, confused about Elizabeth, for it seemed to me she had behaved strangely this night. I supposed that, on the whole, she was perhaps dis- traught because she feared she might soon be supplanted as first girl in the wagon; indeed, that she might soon be sold. To be sure, having seen Kamchak with his Aphris, it did not seem to me that either of these possibilities were actually unlikely. Elizabeth had reason to fear. I might, of course, and would, encourage Kamchak to sell her to a good master, but Kamchak, cooperative to a point, would undoubtedly have his eye fixed most decisively on the price to be obtained. I might, of course, if I could find the money, buy her myself and attempt to find her a kind master. I thought perhaps Conrad of the Kassars might be a just Master.He had, however, I, knew recently won a Turian girl in the games. Moreover, not every man wants to own an untrained barbarian slave, for much, even if given to them, must be fed crawl under the rope that joined them, my assailant was gone. All I received for my trouble were the angry shouts of the man leading the kaiila string. Indeed, one of the vicious beasts even snapped at me, ripping the sleeve on my shoul- der.
Angry I returned to the wagon and drew the quiva from the boards. By this time the owner of the wagon, who was naturally curious about the matter, was beside me. He held a small torch, lit from the fire bowl within the wagon. He was examining, not happily, the cut in his planking. "A clumsy throw," he remarked, I thought a bit ill-humoredly. "Perhaps," I admitted.
"But," he added, turning and looking at me, "I suppose under the circumstances it was just as well."
"Yes," I said, "I think so."
I found the Paga bottle: and noted that there was a bit of liquid left in it, below the neck of the bottle. I wiped off the neck and handed it to the man. He took about half of it and then wiped his mouth and handed it back. I then finished the bottle. I flung it into a refuse hole, dug and periodically cleaned by male slaves.
"It is not bad Paga," said the man.
"No," I said, "I think it is pretty good."
"May I see the quiva?" asked the man.
"Yes," I said.
"Interesting," said he.
"What?" I asked.
"The quiva," said he.
"But what is interesting about it?" I asked.
"It is Paravaci," he said.
In the morning, to my dismay, Elizabeth Cardwell was not to be found.
Kamchak was beside himself with fury. Aphris, knowing the ways of Gor and the temper of Tuchuks, was terrified, and said almost nothing.
"Do not release the hunting sleep," I pleaded with Kamchak.
"I shall keep them leashed," he responded grimly.
With misgivings I observed the two, six-legged, sinuous, tawny hunting sleen on their chain leashes. Kamchak was holding Elizabeth's bedding a rep-cloth blanket for them to smell. Their ears began to lay back against the sides of their triangular heads; their long, serpentine bodies trembled; I saw claws emerge from their paws, retract, emerge again and then retract; they lifted their heads, sweeping them from side to side, and then thrust their snouts to the ground and began to whimper excitedly; I knew they would first follow the scent to the curtained enclosure within which last night we had observed the dance.
"She would have hidden among the wagons last night," Kamchak said.
"I know," I said, "The herd sleep." They would have torn the girl to pieces on the prairie in the light of the three Gorean moons.
"She will not be far," said Kamchak.
He hoisted himself to the saddle of his kaiila, a prancing and trembling hunting sleen on each side of the animal, the chains running to the pommel of the saddle.
"What will you do to her?" I asked.
"Cut off her feet," said Kamchak, "and her nose and ears, and blind her in one eye, then release her to live as she can among the wagons."
Before I could remonstrate with the angry Tuchuk the hunting sleen suddenly seemed to go wild, rearing on their hind legs, scratching in the air, dragging against the chains. It was all Kamchak's kaiila could do to brace itself against their sudden madness.