a
level not fully comprehensible to them at the beginning. One does not know what
has become of them for, in time, as one might expect, they being of Ar, they
were shipped out of the city, to be disposed of in various remote markets.
“Greetings, Teibar!” called a fellow.
“Hail, Teibar!” called another.
From the latter manner of greeting, I gathered this Teibar might be excellent
with the staff, or sword. Such greetings are usually reserved for recognized
experts, or champions, at one thing or another. For example, a skilled Kaissa
player is sometimes greeted in such a manner. I studied Teibar. I would have
suspected his expertise to be with the sword.
“His Tuka is with him,” said a fellow.
“Tuka, Tuka!” called another, rhythmically.
‘Tuka’ is common slave name on Gor. I have known several slaves with that name.
The girl who had come with Teibar, Tuka, I supposed, now knelt at his side, her
back straight, her head down. Her collar, like most female slave collars,
particularly in the northern hemisphere, was close fitting. There would be no
slipping it. I had no doubt that this Teibar was the sort of fellow who would
hold his slave, or slaves, in perfect discipline.
“Tuka, Tuka!” called another fellow.
“She is extremely pretty,” I said.
“She knows something of slave dance,” said a fellow, licking his lips.
“Oh?” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
“Tuka, Tuka, Tuka!” called more men.
The fellow, Teibar, looked down at his slave, who looked up at him, and quickly,
timidly, kisses at his thigh. How much she was his, I thought.
“Tuka, to the circle!” called a fellow.
“She is a dancer,” said a man.
“She is extraordinary,” said another.
“Put Tuka in the circle!” called a fellow.
“Tuka, Tuka!” called another.
Teibar snapped his fingers once, sharply, and the slave leaped to her feet,
standing erect, her head down, turned to the right, her hands at her sides, the
palms facing backward. She might (pg. 53) have been in a paga tavern, preparing
to enter upon the sand or floor. I considered Teibar’s Tuka. She had an
excellent figure for slave dance.
“Clear the circle!” called a fellow.
The other dancers hurried to the side, to sit and kneel, and watch.
I considered the slave. She was beautiful and well curved.
Teibar gestured to the circle.
“Ahh!” said men.
“She moves like a dancer,” I said.
“She is a dancer,” said the fellow.
I considered the girl. She now stood in the circle, relaxed, yet supple and
vital, her wrists, back to back, over her head, her knees flexed.
“She is a bred passion slave,” I said, “with papers and a lineage going back a
thousand years.”
“No,” said a man.
“Where did he pick her up,” I asked, “at the Curulean?”
“I do not know,” said a fellow.
I supposed she was perhaps a capture. I did not know if a fellow such as this
Teibar, who did not seem of the merchants, or rich, could have afforded a slave
of such obvious value. A fellow, for example, who cannot afford a certain kaiila
might be able to capture it, and then, once he had his rope on its neck, and
manages to make away with it, it is his mount.
“Aii!” cried a fellow.
“Aii!” said I, too.
Dancing was the slave!
“She is surely a bred passion slave,” I said. “Surely the blood lines of such an
animal go back a thousand years!”
“No! No!” said a man, rapt, not taking his eyes from the slave.
I regarded her, in awe.
“She is trained, of course,” said a man.
Only too obviously was this a trained dancer, and yet, too, there was far more
than training involved. Too, I speak not of such relatively insignificant
matters as the mere excellence of her figure for slave dance, as suitable and
fitting as it might be for such an art form, for women with many figures can be
superb in slave dance, or that she must possess a great natural talent for such
a mode of expression, but something much deeper.