He nodded.

"I speak English," I informed her, speaking in that intricate, beautiful tongue.

She seemed startled. Then she cried out, angrily, pulling downward at the edges of the livery in which she had been placed, as though that would hide more of her legs, which were lovely. "I do not care to be dressed like this," she said. She pulled away, angrily, from the guard, and stood before us. "I have not even been given shoes," she said. "And what is the meaning of this?" she demanded, pulling at a plain ring of iron which had been hammered about her throat. Her throat was slender, and white, and lovely.

Samos handed the hair ribbon to a guardsman, gesturing to the girl. "Put it on," he said to her, in Gorean.

I repeated his command, in English.

"When am I to be permitted to leave?" she asked.

Seeing the eyes of Samos she angrily took the ribbon, and winding it about her head, fastened back her hair. She blushed, angrily, hotly, knowing that, as she lifted her hands gracefully to her hair, she raised the lovely line of her breasts, little concealed in the thin livery. Then she stood before us, angrily, the ribbon in her hair.

"Thus it was she came to us," said Samos, "save that she was clad in inexplicable, barbarous garments." He gestured to a guardsman, who fetched and spilled open a bundle of garments on the edge of the table. I saw that there were pants of some bluish, denim-type material, and a flannel, long-sleeved shirt. There was also a white, light shirt, short-sleeved. Had I not realized them to have been hers, I would have assumed them the clothing of an Earth male. They were male-imitation clothing.

The girl tried to step forward but the shafts of two spears, wielded by her flanking guardsmen, barred her way.

There was also a pair of shoes, plain, brown and low, with darker-brown laces. They were cut on a masculine line, but were too small for a man. I looked at her feet. They were small and feminine. Her breasts, too, and hips, suggested that she was a female, and a rather lovely one. Slave livery makes it difficult for a girl to conceal her sex.

There was also a pair of colored socks, dark blue. They were short.

She again tried to step forward but this time the points of the guards' spears prevented her. They pressed at her abdomen, beneath the navel. Rep-cloth, commonly used in slave livery, is easily parted. The points of the spears had gone through the cloth, and she felt them in her flesh. She stepped back, for a moment frightened and disconcerted. Then she regained her composure, and stood before us.

"This garment is too short," she said. "It is scandalous!"

"It is feminine," I told her. "Not unlike these," I said. I indicated the brassiere, the brief silken panties, which completed the group of garments on the table.

She blushed redly.

"Though you imitated a man outwardly," I said to her, "I note that it was such garments you wore next to your flesh."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said.

"Here," I said, "You wear one garment, which is feminine, and where it may be seen, proclaiming your femininity, and you are permitted no other garments."

"Return my clothing to me," she demanded.

Samos gestured to a guardsman, and he tied up the bundle of clothing, leaving it on the table.

"You see," said Samos, "how she was."

He meant, of course, the ribbon in her hair. She stood very straight. For some reason it is almost impossible for a woman not to stand beautifully when she wears slave livery and is in the sight of men.

"Give me the ribbon," said Samos. He spoke in Gorean, but I needed not translate. He held out his hand. She, lifting her arms, blushing, angrily, again touched the ribbon. She freed it of her hair and handed it to a guard, who delivered it to Samos. I saw the guards' eyes on her. I smiled. They could hardly wait to get her to the pens. She, still a foolish Earth girl, did not even notice this.

"Bring your spear," said Samos to a guard. A guard, one who stood behind, gave his spear to Samos.

"It is, of course, a scytale," I said.

"Yes," said Samos, "and the message is in clear Gorean."

He had told me what the message was, and we had discussed it earlier. I was curious, however, to see it wrapped about the shaft of the spear. Originally, in its preparation, the message ribbon is wrapped diagonally, neatly, edges touching, about a cylinder, such as the staff of a marshal's office, the shaft of a spear, a previously prepared object, or so on, and then the message is written in lines parallel with the cylinder. The message, easily printed, easily read, thus lies across several of the divisions in the wrapped silk. When the silk is unwrapped, of course, the message disappears into a welter of scattered lines, the bits and parts of letters; the coherent message is replaced with a ribbon marked only by meaningless, unintelligible scraps of letters; to read the message, of course, one need only rewrap the ribbon about a cylindrical object of the same dimension as the original object. The message then appears in its clear, legible character. Whereas there is some security in the necessity for rewrapping the message about a cylinder of the original dimension, the primary security does not lie there. After all, once one recognizes a ribbon, or belt, or strip of cloth, as a scytale, it is then only a matter of time until one finds a suitable object to facilitate the acquisition of the message. Indeed, one may use a roll of paper or parchment until, rolling it more tightly or more loosely, as needed, one discovers the message. The security of the message, as is often the case, is a function not of the opacity of the message, in itself, but rather in its concealment, in its not being recognized as a message. A casual individual would never expect that the seemingly incoherent design on a girl's ribbon would conceal a message which might be significant, or fateful.

From the girl's reactions I gathered that she understood now that the ribbon bore some message, but that she had not clearly understood this before.

"It is a message?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.

"What does it say?" she asked.

"It is none of your concern," I said.

"I want to know," she said.

"Do you wish to be beaten?" I asked.

"No," she said.

"Then be silent," I said.

She was silent. Her fists were clenched.

I read the message. "Greetings to Tarl Cabot, I await you at the world's end, Zarendargar, War General of the People."

"It is Half-Ear," said Samos, "high Kur, war general of the Kurii."

"The word 'Zarendargar'," I said, "is an attempt to render a Kur expression into Gorean."

"Yes," said Samos. The Kurii are not men but beasts. Their phonemes for the most part elude representation in the alphabets of men. It would be like trying to write down the noises of animals. Our letters would not suffice.

"Return me to Earth!" demanded the girl.

"Is she still a virgin?" I asked Samos.

"Yes," he said. "She has not even been branded."

"With what brand will you mark her?" I asked.

"The common Kajira brand," he said.

"What are you talking about?" she demanded. "Give me my clothing," she demanded angrily.

Again the points of the two spears pressed against her abdomen. Again they penetrated the loosely woven cloth. Again she stepped back, for the moment disconcerted.

I gathered that she had been accustomed to having her demands met by men.

When a woman speaks in that tone of voice to a man of Earth he generally hastens to do her bidding. He has been conditioned so. Here, however, her proven Earth techniques seemed ineffectual, and this puzzled her, and angered her, and, I think, to an extent frightened her. What if men did not do her bidding? She was smaller and weaker, and beautiful, and desirable. What if she discovered that it were she, and not they, who must do now what was bidden, and with perfection? A woman who spoke in that tone to a Gorean man, if she were not a free woman, would find herself instantly whipped to his feet.