"She might even bring a good price in a market," said Marcus.

"I am sure of it," I said.

"Sleen!" said a free woman, bundled in the robes of concealment, heavily veiled, hurrying by. Doubtless she had witnessed, from a distance, the fate of her compatriot.

"The woman of Ar should be slaves," said Marcus.

"Yes," I said. I could think of one in particular.

"It would much improve them," he said.

"Yes," I said. Slavery, of course, much improves any woman. this is because of the psychological dimorphism of the human species, that the female's fulfillment lies in her subjection to, and subjugation by, a strong male.

"But do not confuse the men of Ar with the women of Ar," I said.

"I do not feel sorry for them," he said.

"I do," I said. "They have been confused, misled and robbed."

"And not only of their goods," said Marcus.

"No," I said, "but of their pride, as well."

"And their manhood," said Marcus, bitterly.

"I do not know," I said. "I do not know."

"Their women belong at the feet of men," said Marcus.

"So, too, do all women," I said.

"True," said Marcus.

Women taken in a given city, incidentally, are usually sold out of the city, to wear their collars elsewhere. In this fashion the transition from their former to their subsequent condition is made particularly clear to them. They must begin anew, as a new form of being, that of a lovely animal, the female slave. Also, given the xenophobia common on Gor, often obtaining among cities, the distrust of a stranger, the contempt for the outsider, and such, there is a special ease in a master's relating to a foreign slave, one with whom he has never shared a Home Stone. Similarly, of course, there is a special urgency and terror on the part of the slave, in finding that she now belongs helplessly to one of a different polity. She understands that it may be difficult to please such a master, one likely to be harsh and demanding, who may despise her, who may think nothing of subjecting her to cruel punishments, and that she must accordingly, if she would even live, strive desperately to be pleasing to him. They can thus, the girl's antecedents, like her name and clothing, stripped away, and his unknown to her, begin as pure master and slave. What, if anything, will then, from this basic fiat of their relationship, develop between them? Will she, in and of herself, alone, aside from the trivia of her now-irrelevant history, become his special, unique slave? Will he, on his part, in and of himself, alone, aside from his antecedents, his station, caste, and such, become to her a very special, very individual master, perhaps even her master of masters?

We then continued on.

"You are still troubled," said Marcus.

"It is like seeing a larl tricked into destroying himself," I said, "as though he were told that the only good larl is a sick, apologetic, self-suspecting, guilt-ridden larl. It is like vulos legislating for tarns, the end of which legislation is the death of the tarn, or is transformation into something new, something reduced, pathological and sick, celebrated then as the true tarn."

"I do not even understand what you are saying," said Marcus.

"That is because you are Gorean," I said.

"Perhaps," he shrugged.

"But you see such things occurring in Ar," I said.

"Yes," he said.

"The larl makes a poor verr," I said. "The tarn makes a pathetic vulo. Cannot you imagine it hunching down, and pretending to be little and weak? Is the image not revolting? Why it is not soaring among the cliffs, uttering its challenge scream to the skies?"

Marcus looked at me, puzzled.

"The beast who was born to live on flesh is not to be nourished on the nibblings of urts," I said.

"It is hard to understand you," he said.

"It is long since I have heard the roar of the larl, the cry of the tarn," I said.

"In Ar," he said, "there are no larls, there are no tarns."

"I do not know if that is true or not," I said.

"There are only women there," he said, "and men pretending to be like women."

"Each should be true to himself," I said.

"Perhaps neither should be true to himself, or to the other," said Marcus. "Perhaps each should try to be true to those who can be true to neither."

"Perhaps," said Marcus.

I drove my fist into the palm of my hand.

"What is wrong?" he asked.

"Ar must be roused!" I said.

"It cannot be done," he said.

"Ar lacks leadership, will, a resistance!" I said.

"Lead Ar," suggested Marcus.

"I cannot do that," I said. "I am not even of Ar."

Marcus shrugged.

"There must be another!" I said.

"Marlenus is dead," he said.

"There must be another!" I wept.

"There is no other," said Marcus.

"There must be a way," I said.

"There is no way," said Marcus.

"There must be!" I said.

"Do not concern yourself," said Marcus. "Ar is dead. She died in the delta."

"In the delta?" I said.

"In the delta," said Marcus. "Indeed, we were there."

"That is possibly it," I whispered. "The delta!"

Marcus looked at me, a little wildly. Perhaps he suspected that I had gone mad. Indeed, perhaps I had.

"That may be the key," I said. "The delta!"

"I do not understand," he said.

"Are you with me?" I asked.

"Has this anything to do with the recovery of the Home Stone of Ar's Station?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," I said. "Yes, indeed!"

"Then I am surely with you," he said.

"Is your sword still thirsty?" I asked.

"Parched," he said, smiling.

"Good," I said.

"Stop babbling, man!" ordered the guardsman, an officer in the scarlet of Ar, though his accent proclaimed him Cosian.

"It was so quick!" wept the merchant. "My shop, my wares, ruined!"

"Aii," said another of the guardsmen with the officer. There were four such men with him. They were, I think, of Ar. They were looking about the shop, one of ceramics. There were many shards about. Shelves had been pulled down. Among the shards and wreckage, by count, there were seven bodies, all Cosian merchants. "Who are you?" asked the officer, looking up.

"Auxiliaries, Captain," said I, "in the vicinity."

"See what carnage has been wrought here," said the officer, angrily.

"Looters?" I asked.

"Explain now," said the captain to the merchant, "what occurred. Control yourself. Be calm."

"I am sick!" wept the merchant.

"I am not of the physicians," said the officer. "I must have an account of this. There must be a report made."

"It was at the ninth Ahn," said the merchant, sitting on a stool.

"Yes?" said the officer.

"These fellows entered the shop," he said. "They claimed to be tax collectors."

"These fellows presented their credentials?" asked the captain.

"They are not tax collectors" said one of the guardsmen. "They are fellows come in from the camp, on passes. They are well known on the avenue. They pose as tax collectors, and then, in that guise, take what they wish."

"What did they want?" asked the captain of the merchant.

"Money," he said.

"You gave it to them?" asked the officer.

"I gave them what I had," he said, "but it was little enough. The collectors had come only five days earlier. They leave us destitute!"

"You murdered these men?" inquired the captain, skeptically.

"I did nothing," said the merchant. "They grew angry at not receiving more money. To be sure, had I any, I would have given it to them readily. Glory to Cos!"

"Glory to Cos," growled the officer. "Continue."

"Angry at the pittance they obtained they began to wreck the shop."

"Yes?" inquired the officer.

"My shop! My beautiful wares!" he moaned.