"Of course," I said.

"You cheat her then of her opportunity to be overwhelmed, and to be forced to serve and love. You preclude her then from the fulfillment of her deepest nature."

I said nothing.

"If you will not be a man," she asked, "how can she be a woman?"

"Do you think that a woman is a slave?" I asked, scornfully.

"I have been in the arms of strong men," she said. "Yes."

I was stunned.

"You are wrong!" I cried. "You are wrong!" I was afraid, terribly, then, for if what she said was true then there might be within me a master. But if a woman should kneel before me and beg a collar would I not be terrified to enclose her lovely neck in its inflexible grasp? Would I not be afraid to own her, to assume the mighty responsibility of the mastery? Did I have the power, the strength, the courage, to be a master? Did I fear I would be unable to control and tame, and make mine, such a sinuous, beautiful animal? No, I surely would have, reddening and frightened, hurried her to her feet, trying to embarrass and shame her for having displayed her needs. I would have to encourage her to be a man. If she, too, were a man, then I could, with a clear conscience, leave the woman in her unsatisfied.

"And you are a fool," she said.

It irritated me that she had called me this, but I reminded myself that I was a man of Earth, and women might annoy or insult me as they pleased, with complete impunity. If they were not permitted to do this, how could they respect us?

"I am not surprised," she said, "that women are the equals of such men as you. It seems to me, Jason, that you are quite possibly the equal of a woman."

I did not speak.

"You are despicable," she said.

"It should please you," I said, "if you are the equals of men."

"Women dream not of equals," she said, "but of masters."

I sat back against the wall, angrily.

"It is degrading to wear a collar in this cell," she said. Then she lay down on the blanket, bitterly, and turned her back to me.

She did not bother covering her lovely body. Each insolent, luscious curve of her collared slave body was displayed to me, contemptuously, taunting me. It was the insult of a slave girl to an ineffectual slave she did not fear. My fists clenched. A wave of anger swept me. I considered leaping to her, hurling her upon her back, whipping her face back and forth with the palm and then back of my hand, and then, mercilessly, raping her, reminding her that she was only a slave, and a wench that had been given to me for the night. But I did not do this. I controlled myself.

I sat back against the wall, angry. I had tried to relate to her. I looked to the bench, where lay the slave whip. I considered putting it to her beauty, until she begged to serve. Lola would understand the kicks of my feet, the blows of the whip. Those are arguments which any woman can follow. Then I forced such thoughts from my mind. I had failed to relate well to her, in spite of being solicitous and charming, courteous and attentive, in spite of treating her with honor, and with dignity and respect. I treated her as my equal and I was, in return, subjected to ill treatment and scorn. I understood almost nothing of what had occurred. 1 had inked with her; I had treated her with homely comraderie; I had, almost invariably, treated her as a person.

"Are you going to whip me?" she asked.

"I certainly am not," I said.

"I did not think so." she said. Then, with a twist of her body, she rolled onto her back, and stared up at the ceiling. I saw the collar on her throat.

I sat against the wall, and troubled, thought.

Lola did not understand a gentleman, I decided. She was accustomed only to the brutes of Gor. I was too good for her.

"You do not seem grateful to me," I said, angrily.

"Why should I be grateful to you?" she asked.

"You were put in with me to be punished," I said. "I did not punish you."

"How clever were the masters," she said, bitterly. "I must have displeased them grievously."

"I do not understand," I said.

"I have been most cruelly punished," she said.

"I do not understand," I said. "I have not punished you."

Suddenly, surprising me, she rolled onto her stomach and, with her small fists, struck down at the blanket spread over the straw. She began to sob, hysterically. I could not understand her.

"What is wrong?" I asked her.

She leaped from the blanket and, piteously, choking and sobbing, fled to the bars. She pressed her lovely body against them and extended her arms and hands between them, to the silent, empty corridor. "Masters!" she cried. "Masters! Let me out! Let me out! Please, let me out!" Then she shook the heavy bars with her tiny, lovely hands. "Let me out!" she begged. "Please let me out, Masters!" Then, subsiding, sobbing, she slipped to her knees at the bars, holding them with her small hands: "Let me out, Masters!" she wept. "Please, my Masters, let me out!" But no one answered her cries. She knelt at the bars, her head down, sobbing. "Let me out," she whispered. "Please let me out, Masters:"

"I do not understand you," I said.

She sobbed, at the bars.

"I do not understand," I said. "I have not punished you."

"Do you not know what my punishment was?" she sobbed.

"No," I said.

"It was to have been put in with you," she said. She put down her head, sobbing.

Angrily I went back to where I had sat against the wall. Again I sat down, in the straw.

She remained at the bars, sobbing. Then, later, near them, she fell asleep.

I leaned against the wall, angry. I did not sleep.

"Get in," said Prodicus.

Gron, bare chested, stood beside him, resting the point of a great, long, curved sword on the tiles at his feet.

"Wait," said the Lady Gina.

I knelt, head down, before the square iron box, the exterior of which was enameled white, one side of which, its door, on hinges, lay opened on the tiles. I tensed. On two sides of the box, in red paint, was a Kef, in block printing. Kef, of course, is the initial letter not only of the Gorean expression 'Kajira', the most common Gorean expression for a female slave, but also `Kajirus', the most common Gorean expression for a male slave. The block printing indicated that the box was suitable for a male slave. This could also, of course, have been determined from its size which, though small, was larger than would have been that in which women would be placed. Such boxes, for women, were marked also with red on whiter but the letter, of course, would be the cursive Kef, which is also used as a common slave brand for imbonded females.

"Last night, Jason," said the Lady Gina, "we threw you a slave girl." She shook loose the blades of her slave whip. I kept my head down. "I was curious to see what you would do with her. I had wondered about you. I had thought there might be a bit of manhood in you." She suddenly lashed downward with the whip and I winced. "I see there was not," she said. She struck me again. The blades, in their stroke, burned cruelly on my back. I could not help tears forming in my eyes. Yet I think the tears were from frustration and misery, and from my shame, that I knew, in my heart, that I well deserved my beating, rather than from the mere pain of the harsh strokes.

"May I speak, my Mistress?" I begged.

"Yes," she said.

"I am a man of Earth," I said. "We prove our manhood by denying it. He who behaves least like a man shows himself thus to be most a man."

"Do you believe that?" asked the Lady Gina.

"No, Mistress," I said, miserably. I did not really believe it. I had only been taught to say it.