"Four tarsks," said a man.

"Six," said another.

"Fifteen," called out another.

"Sixteen," said a man.

The girl, shuddering, standing as she had, her hair in her mouth, her hands behind her head, put her head down, miserably. She did not dare to look even at the bidders, who might own her. She knew that her needs had betrayed her.

I smiled to myself. The selection of this woman for service in the Kurii cause now seemed clearer than it had before. She, like others, doubtless, when their political duties were finished, would have been collared and silked, and set to the task of learning to please masters. I thought she would make, in time, a good slave. She was already adequately beautiful and, in time, in bondage, might become incredibly beautiful. Her responsiveness, though not unusual for a slave girl, was surely impressive for an unmarked Earth girl in her first sale. Responsiveness, of course, is something that can increase and deepen in a woman, and under the proper tutelage and discipline, does so. The female slave, in the fullness of her womanhood, and helplessness, attains heights of passion from which the free woman, in her pride and dignity, is forever barred. She is not a man's slave.

"Twenty-two tarsks," called a man in the crowd.

"Twenty-four!" called another.

Yes, the responsiveness of the girl on sale had been impressive. In some months, in the proper collar, and at the right slave ring, I suspected she would become paga hot, hot enough to serve even in the paga taverns of Gor. Her head was down.

"Twenty-seven tarsks," called a man.

How shamed she was. Why was she so ashamed that she had sexual needs and was sensuously alive? Of course, I reminded myself, of course, she was an Earth girl.

"Twenty-eight tarsks," called a man.

The girl's body shook with an uncontrollable sob. Her secret, doubtless long hidden on Earth, that she had a deep, latent sexuality, had been ruthlessly and publicly exposed in a Gorean market. She had writhed, and as a naked slave.

"Twenty-nine tarsks," called a man.

She had writhed not only as a woman, but as a slave.

Her head was down. Her body shook.

For a moment I almost felt moved to pity. Then I laughed, looking at her. Her responses had revealed her as a slave.

"Forty tarsks," said a voice, triumphantly. It was the voice of Procopius Minor, or Little Procopius, who owned the Four Chains, a tavern near Pier Sixteen, to be distinguished from Procopius Major, or Big Procopius, who owned several such taverns throughout the city. The Four Chains was a dingy tavern, located between two warehouses. Procopius Minor owned about twenty girls. His establishment had a reputation for brawls, cheap paga and hot slaves. His girls served nude and chained. Each ankle and wrist ring had two staples. Each girl's wrists were joined by about eighteen inches of chain, and similarly for her ankles. Further each girl's left wrist was chained to her left ankle, and her right wrist to her right ankle. This arrangement, lovely on a girl, produces the "four chains," from which the establishment took its name. The four-chain chaining arrangement, of course, and variations' upon it, is well known upon Gor. Four other paga taverns in Port Kar alone used it. They could not, of course, given the registration of the name by Procopius Minor with the league of taverners, use a reference to it in designating their own places of business. These four taverns, if it is of interest, are the Veminium, the Kailiauk, the Slaves of Ar and the Silver of Tharna.

"Forty tarsks," repeated Procopius Minor, Little Procopius. He was little, it might be mentioned, only in commercial significance, compared to Procopius Major, or Big Procopius. Big Procopius was one of the foremost merchants in Port Kar. Paga taverns were only one of his numerous interests. He was also involved in hardware, paper, wool and salt. Little Procopius was not little physically. He was a large, portly fellow. To be sure, however, Procopius Major was a bit larger, even physically.

The girl looked up now, sensing the cessation in the bidding, the repeating of a bid, the tone of the voice of Procopius Minor.

Her hands were still behind the back of her neck. She had not been given permission to remove them. She looked out at Procopius Minor. She shuddered. She realized that he might soon own her, totally.

"I have heard a bid of forty tarsks," said the auctioneer, Vart. I supposed it would be good for the girl to serve for a time in a low paga house. It is not a bad place for a girl to begin to learn something of the meaning of her collar. "Do I hear another bid, a higher bid?" called Vart. Yes, she would look well in chains, kneeling to masters in a paga tavern. "My hand is open," called Vart. "Shall I close my hand? Shall I close my hand?"

He looked about, well pleased. He had never counted on getting as much as forty tarsks for the blond barbarian.

"I will now close my hand!" he called.

"Do not close your hand," said a voice.

All eyes turned toward the back. A tall man stood there, lean and black. He wore a closely woven seaman's aba, red, striped with white, which fell from his shoulders; this was worn over an ankle-length, white robe, loosely sleeved, embroidered with gold, with a golden sash. In the sash was thrust a curved dagger. On his head he wore a cap on which were fixed the two golden tassels of Schendi.

"Who is he?" asked the man next to me.

"I do not know," I said.

"Yes, Master?" asked the auctioneer. "'Is there another bid?"

"Yes," said the man.

"Yes, Master?" asked the auctioneer.

"I take him to be a merchant captain," said a man near me.

I nodded. The conjecture was intelligent. The fellow wore the white and gold of the merchant, beneath a seaman's aba. It was not likely that a merchant would wear that garment unless he were entitled to it. Goreans are particular about such matters. Doubtless he owned and' captained his own vessel.

"What is his name and ship?" I asked.

"I do not know," said the man.

"What is Master's bid?" asked the auctioneer.

There was silence.

We looked at the man. The girl, too, in the sales collar and position chain, her hands behind her neck, looked at him.

"What is Master's bid?" asked the auctioneer.

"One tarsk," said the man.

We looked at one another. There was some uneasy laughter. Then there was again silence.

"Forgive me, Master," then said the auctioneer. "Master came late to the bidding. We have already on the floor a bid of forty tarsks."

Procopius turned about, smiling.

"One silver tarsk," said the man.

"Aiii!" cried a man.

"A silver tarsk?" asked the auctioneer.

Procopius turned about again, suddenly, to regard the fellow in the back, incredulously.

"Yes," he said, "a silver tarsk."

I smiled to myself. The slave on sale was not a silver-tarsk girl. There would be no more bidding.

"I have a bid for a silver tarsk," said Vart. "Is there a higher bid?" There was silence. He looked to Procopius. Procopius shrugged. "No," he said.

"I shall close my hand," said the auctioneer. He held his right hand open, and then he closed it.

The girl had been sold.

The girl looked at the closed fist of the auctioneer with horror. It was not hard to understand its import.

The auctioneer went to her and pulled the hair from her mouth, then threw it back over her right shoulder. He smoothed her hair then, on both sides and in the back. He might have been a clerk adjusting merchandise on a counter. She seemed scarcely conscious of what he was doing. She looked out, fearfully, on the man who had bought her.

The auctioneer turned to the buyer. "With whom has the house the honor of doing business?" he asked.

"I am Ulafi," said the man, "captain of the Palms of Schendi."