“Did I not speak of this to you when I first bound you as a slave girl?” I asked. I referred to our conversation in the room of preparation, when I had first surprised and captured her, making her mine.

“I asked when you would whip me,” she said, numbly. “You responded, when it was to your convenience.” She looked at me, miserably.

“It is now convenient,” I told her.

She sprang wildly to her feet. “I hate you!” she cried. “I hate you!”

Her small fists were clenched. She was, wild with rage, quite beautiful in the brief, stained rag I had given her to wear.

“I hate you!” she cried. “I hate all of you!’’ she cried, turning to look at the many warriors in the great room. “I hate men!” she cried. She was barefoot on the tiles. She was the only woman in the room, and she was slave. “I hate all men!” she cried. “I hate them! I hate them!” She spun to face me. “And I hate Priest-Kings, too!” she cried. “I hate you all!”

No one responded to her, but gazed impassively upon her.

“I betrayed Priest-Kings!” she cried. “Yes! I served Kurii! Yes! And I am glad I did, glad! Yes, glad! Glad! Glad!” Her eyes blazed. “Punish me!” she demanded.

“You are not to be punished because you betrayed Priest-Kings,” I told her.

“You left me in a paga tavern in Lydius,” she cried out, “a chained paga slave!”

“You chose to flee the Sardar,” I told her. “It was a brave act. It did not turn out well for you. You fell slave. On Gor, as not on Earth, a girl bears the consequences of her actions.”

“You could have purchased me”‘ she cried.

“Yes,” I said, “you were within my means.”

“But you did not do so!” she cried.

“It did seem convenient to me, at that time,” I said, “to purchase you, to keep you as a slave.”

“As a slave!” she cried. “You should have freed me!”

“As I recall,” I said, “you begged to be freed.”

“Yes!” she cried.

The men in the room looked at one another.

“I had not known, until that time,” I said, “that you were, in the belly of you, a true slave girl.”

She looked at me, angrily. She turned red.

On Gor it is said that only a true slave begs to be freed. That act, incontrovertibly, on Gor, more deeply than a brand and a collar, marks the individual as a true slave. Who but such a true slave would beg to be freed?

Such individuals, of course, are never freed, but, commonly, their nature now being made undeniably clear, are put under heavier restraints and treated more harshly. When Talena, the daughter of Marlenus of Ar, Ubar of Ar, had, in a missive to him, begged her freedom, he had, on his sword and on the medallion of Ar, sworn against her the oath of disownment. As a consequence, she was no longer of high birth, no longer his daughter. I had had Samos free her and transmit her to Ar. There she lived, free but of no status; she was no longer recognized, in the sight of its Home Stone, as a citizen of Ar; she had not even the collar of a slave girl for her identity; she was kept sequestered by Marlenus in the central cylinder, that his shame not be publicly displayed upon the high bridges of the city.

“No!” cried the girl. “You should have freed me!”

I looked at her, in her rage. I did not suppose she had acted much differently than would have many women. The Goreans believe, of course, that in the belly of every woman there is a slave girl, waiting to be revealed by the right master.

“You should have freed me!” she cried. “You should have freed me!”

I looked at her, in her rage, her beauty, her clenched fists, the brief, revealing rag.

“You are too beautiful to be free,” I told her.

She reacted as though struck.

She looked about, at the men in the room, clad in the garb of the Tahari. They looked upon her. She shuddered, knowing that among them she was too beautiful to be free.

She turned again to face me. She drew herself up. “I am pleased I identified you for Ibn Saran,” she said. “I am pleased that I testified against you at Nine Wells. Punish me.”

“You are not to be punished because you identified me for Ibn Saran,” I said, “nor because you testified against me at Nine Wells.”

She looked at me, furious.

“Were you not commanded by your Master, Ibn Saran, to so testify?” I said.

“Yes,” she said.

“You were a good slave girl. You are to be commended,” I said.

“Throw her a candy,” I said to one of the men.

He did so.

“Eat it,” I told Vella.

She did so.

“You are to be punished,” I said, “and punished only, because you, a slave girl, have not been found pleasing.”

She looked at me with horror.

“For so little?” she said.

I gestured to a man, an Aretai, in white burnoose, with black kafflyeh and white agal cording, who stood nearby. He tossed a Gorean slave whip to the tiles, some twenty feet from the girl.

She looked at the whip in disbelief. Earth women, no matter what they do, are never punished. She could not believe that she was to be treated as a Gorean slave girl.

“Fetch the whip,” I told her.

She stood straight. “Never!” she cried. “Never! Never!”

“Bring a sand glass,” I said, “of one Ehn’s sand.” It was brought. The Gorean day consists of twenty Ahn; the Gorean Ahn, or hour, of forty Ehn, or minutes; the Ehn consists of eighty Ihn, or seconds. An Ihn is slightly less than an Earth second.

The glass was inverted.

She looked at it. “You can never make me do this,” she said, “Tarl.”

She watched the sand slip through the glass. She turned to face me. “I’m pleased that I betrayed Priest-Kings. I’m pleased that I served Kurii I’m pleased that I identified you for Ibn Saran. I’m pleased that I testified against you at Nine Wells! Do you understand? Pleased!”

A quarter of the sand had slipped through the glass.

“You did not free me in Lydius. You kept me a slave!” she cried petulantly.

The sand had now slipped half through the glass. She looked about, from face to face, finding in them no sign of emotion, and then again she faced me.

“Of course I smiled at Nine Wells,” she cried. “I wanted you sent to Klima! I wanted you sent there! Vengeance was sweet! Only you escaped! Of course I mocked you from the window of the kasbah of Ibn Saran! There would be no women at Klima! Of course in insolence I hurled you a bit of perfumed silk, to torment you in the march and, later, at Klima. Of course I lightly blew you a kiss of farewell, delighted in my triumph over you! Of course! Of course! Yes, yes, I mocked you when you were helpless! It gave me much pleasure to do so!”

There was only a quarter of the sand remaining. She looked at it, miserably.

She turned to me again. “I was cruel and petty, Tarl,” she said. “Forgive me!”

The sand was almost slipped from the glass.

“I am a woman of Earth,” she cried. “Of Earth!” Such women, of course, were never punished, no matter what they did. They were always forgiven. “Forgive me, Tarl!” she cried. “Forgive me!”

But she was a Gorean slave girl.

“Never will I fetch the whip!” she cried.

Then, crying out with misery, frightened, a moment before the sand slipped from the glass, she turned toward the whip.

“In the fashion of the Tahari,” I told her.

She moaned, and fell to her hands and knees. The men, impassively, watched her go to the whip and pick it up, in her teeth.

“Put the whip down,” I told her.

She put the whip down, dropping it from her teeth. She looked at me, joyfully.

“Kneel,” I told her. She did so, puzzled. “Strip,” I told her, “without rising to your feet.” She did so, angrily, slipping the tiny, torn rag over her head and putting it to one side. She shook her hair; she straightened her body. A murmur of appreciation coursed through the men in the room. Then one, in Gorean fashion, struck his left shoulder, and then the others. She knelt, straight, while men applauded the beauty of her. How proud she was! How fantastically beautiful are women! And I owned her.