Smugglers of Gor

Chapter Eighteen



“What is wrong, Master?” inquired Asperiche.

“Nothing,” I told her, angrily.

“You have seen her!” she laughed. “At long last! Here, in Shipcamp!”

“Who?” I asked.

“She whom you have sought so long,” she said. “Even in Brundisium, surely in Tarncamp!”

“I have sought no one,” I said.

“I think Master did not come to this remote, forlorn place for two staters,” she said.

“Gold staters,” I said.

“Even so,” she said.

“Do you wish to be beaten?” I asked.

“Is she well-curved,” she asked, “a blonde or a brunette?”

“You would look well,” I said, “on all fours, bringing me the switch in your teeth, whimpering plaintively to be beaten.”

“I trust she is not a barbarian,” she said.

“What is wrong with barbarians?” I asked.

“I thought so,” she said. “They are stupid.”

“They twist, sob, and cry out, as well as any other woman,” I said.

“Buy her,” she said. “Does she have a private master?”

“No,” I said, “she is a camp slave.”

“She will be cheap then,” she said. “Has she been in the slave house?”

“I do not know,” I said.

“If so,” she said, “she would be well heated by now.”

“I do not want her,” I said.

“Buy her,” she said. “Get her out of your system. Get her on your chain, have her crawl about for a time in your collar, use her for slave sport, make her sob and cry, and beg, and then sell her.”

“She is nothing to me,” I said. “I turned my back on her. I left her on her knees, on the dock.”

“What is her name?” she asked.

“I do not know, nor do I care,” I said.

“Was she sold in Brundisium?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, “to agents of the Pani, who were stocking slaves for the camps.”

“More likely, for trade goods,” she said.

“Perhaps,” I said.

“What was her lot number?” she asked.

“119,” I said.

“Master has an excellent memory,” she said.

“I scouted her, on the world called Earth,” I said. “She owes her collar to me.”

“I have heard it is a sorry world,” she said.

“It has not been well kept,” I said.

“Not even the urt soils its own nest,” she said.

“I have no interest in her,” I said.

“If you know her former lot number,” she said, “it would be easy enough for you, a free man, to learn her name, and where she is housed. Records are kept. I could be beaten if I inquired.”

“Curiosity,” I said, “is not becoming to a kajira.”

“So I have been told,” she said.

“And now you have been told again,” I said.

“Asperiche understands,” she said. “She is not stupid. She is not a barbarian.”

“We do not bring stupid slaves to Gor,” I said.

“Naive slaves then, ignorant slaves,” she said. “Barbarian kajirae do not even know they are women.”

“They soon learn,” I said.

“They are all frigid,” she said.

“Not all,” I said.

“Some,” she said.

“The collar takes that out of them,” I said.

“Slaves talk,” she said. “There are only so many barbarians. Lot numbers take time to wear off. Masters are not the only ones with memories. Would you like me to find her for you, bind her hands behind her, and switch-herd her to your feet?”

“Certainly not,” I said.

“You do not want her kneeling, bound before you?”

“No,” I said.

“What is special about her?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “Where are you going?”

“To fetch food,” she said. “The kitchen is open now.”