"Please, Mr. Cabot," she said.
I stepped back, angry.
"By the Priest-Kings," I cried, "you are one woman who looking for trouble"
Elizabeth laughed over the wine. Her eyes sparkled. "I am free," she said.
"I am well aware of that," I snapped.
She laughed.
"You spoke of arrangements," I said. "There are some. Free or not, you are the woman in my wagon. I expect to have food, I expect the wagon to be clean, the axles to be greased, the bosk to be groomed."
"Do not fear," she said, "when I prepare my meals I will make enough for two."
"I am pleased to hear it," I muttered.
"Moreover," she said, "I myself would not wish to stay in a wagon that was not clean, nor one whose axles were not greased nor whose bask were not properly groomed." "No," I said, "I suppose not."
"But it does seem to me," she said, "that you might share in such chores."
"I am the commander of a Thousand," I said.
"What difference does that make?" she asked.
"It makes a great deal of difference!" I shouted.
"You needn't shout," she said.
My eye glanced at the slave chains under the slave ring. "Of course," said Elizabeth, "we could regard it as a division of labor of sorts."
'Good," I said.
"On the other hand," she mused, "you might rent a slave: for such work."
"All right," I said, looking at her. "I will rent a slave." "But you can't trust slaves," said Elizabeth.
With a cry of rage I nearly spilled my wine.
"You nearly spilled your wine," said Elizabeth.
The institution of freedom for women, I decided, as many Goreans believed, was a mistake.
Elizabeth winked at me, conspiratorially. "I will take care of the wagon," she said.
"Good," I said. "Good!"
I sat down beside the fire bowl, and stared at the floor. Elizabeth knelt down a few feet from me, and took another sip of the wine.
"I heard," said the girl, seriously, "from a slave whose name was Hereena that tomorrow there will be great fighting."
I looked up. "Yes," I said. "I think it is true."
"If there is to be fighting tomorrow," she asked, "will you take part in it?"
"Yes," I said, "I suppose so."
"Why did you come to the wagon tonight?" she asked. "For wine," I said, "as I told you."
— She looked down.
Neither of us said anything for a time. Then she spoke. "I am happy," she said, "that this is your wagon."
I looked at her and smiled, then looked down again, lost in thought.
I wondered what would become of Miss Cardwell. She was, I forcibly reminded myself, not a Gorean girl, but one of Barth. She was not natively Turian nor Tuchuk. She could not even read the language. To almost anyone who would come upon her she might seem but a beautiful barbarian, fit presumably by birth and blood only for the collar of a master. She would be vulnerable. She, without a defender, would be helpless. Indeed, even the Gorean woman, outside her city, without a defender, should she escape the dangers of the wild, is not likely long to elude the iron, the chain and collar. Even peasants pick up such women, using them in the fields, until they can be sold to the first passing slaver. Miss Cardwell would need a protector, a defender. And yet on the very morrow it seemed I might die on the walls of Saphrar's compound What then would be her fate? Moreover, I re minded myself of my work, and that a warrior cannot well encumber himself with a woman, particularly not a free woman. His companion, as it is said, is peril and steel. I was sad. It would have been better, I told myself, if Kamchak had not given me the girl.
My reflections were interrupted by the girl's voice. "I'm surprised," she said, "that Kamchak did not sell me." "Perhaps he should have," I said.
She smiled. "Perhaps," she admitted. She took another sip of wine. "Tarl Cabot," she said "Yes," I said.
"Why did Kamchak not sell me?"
"I do not know," I said.
"Why did he give me to you?" she asked.
"I am not truly sure," I said.
I wondered indeed that Kamchak had given the girl to me.; There were many things that seemed to me puzzling, and I thought of Gor, and of Kamchak, and the ways of the Tuchuks, so different from those native to Miss Cardwell and myself.
I wondered why it was that Kamchak had put the ring on this girl, had had her branded and collared and clad Kajir was it truly because she had angered him, running from the wagon that one time or for another reason and why had he subjected her, cruelly perhaps, in my presence to the Slaver's Caress? I had thought he cared for the girl. And then he had given her to me, when there might have been other commanders. He had said he was fond of her. And I knew him to be my friend. Why had he done this, truly? For me? l Or for her, as well? If so, why? For what reason?
Elizabeth had now finished her wine. She had arisen and rinsed out the bowl and replaced it. She was now kneeling at ~ the back of the wagon and had untied the Koora and shaken l her hair loose. She was looking at herself in the mirror, holding her head this way and that. I was amused. She was seeing how the nose ring might be displayed to most advan sage. Then she began to comb her long dark hair, kneeling very straight as would a Gorean girl. Kamchak had never permitted her to cut her hair. Now that she was free I supposed she would soon shorten it. I would regret that. I have always found long hair beautiful on a woman.
I watched her combing her hair. Then she had put the comb aside and had retied the Koora, binding back her hair. Now she was again studying her image in the bronze mirror, moving her head slightly.
Suddenly I thought I understood Kamchak! He had indeed been fond of the girl!
"Elizabeth," I said.
"Yes," she said, putting the mirror down.
"I think I know why Kamchak gave you to me aside from the fact that I suppose he thought I could use a prettier wench about the wagon."
She smiled.
"I am glad he did," she said.
"Oh?" I asked.
She smiled. She looked into the mirror. "Of course," she said, "who else would have been fool enough to free me?" "Of course," I admitted.
I said nothing for a time.
The girl put down the mirror. "Why do you think he did?. she asked, facing me, curious.
"On Gor," I said, "the myths have it that only the woman who has been an utter slave can be truly free."
"I am not sure," she said, "that I understand the meaning of that."
"It has nothing to do, I think," I said, "with what woman is actually slave or free, has little to do with the simplicity of chains or the collar, or the brand."
"Then what?" she asked.
"It means, I think," I said, "that only the woman who has utterly surrendered and can utterly surrender losing her- self in a man's touch can be truly a woman, and being what she is, is then free."
Elizabeth smiled. "I do not accept that theory," she re- marked. "I am free now."
"I am not talking about chains and collars," I said. "It is a silly theory," she said.
I looked down. "I suppose so," I said.
"I would have little respect for the woman," said Elizabeth Cardwell, "who could utterly surrender to a man."
"I thought not," I said.
Abdomen," said Elizabeth, "are persons surely as much as men and their equals."