Free Conspirators of Gor by John Norman

bring on the Arab slave market,” I said, “forty to sixty thousand dollars.”
    “I do not understand,” he said.
    “You intend to sell me in the Middle East,” I said, “to some sheik, some rich merchant.”
    “No,” he said.
    “To be held captive in some remote desert palace?”
    “That seems unlikely,” he said.
    “He would buy me for a wife,” I said.
    “Scarcely,” he said.
    “Surely not for less,” I said. “Surely not for a mere concubine!”
    “No,” he said.
    “Then?” I whispered.
    “Yes,” he said.
    “No, no!” I said.
    He was silent for a bit. I sensed the van making a turn.
    “I am a free woman!” I said.
    “Free women,” he said, “regard themselves as priceless. You did not.”
    “What then,” I asked, “do you think I am?”
    “That should be clear,” he said.
    I struggled in the bonds.
    “You will not be sent to the Middle East,” he said.
    “Where then?” I said.
    “Gor,” he said.
    “Do not tease me,” I said. “Be kind! Be merciful! Do not sport with a stripped, helpless captive!”
    “Gor,” he said.
    “That is fiction,” I said. “It is only in books, only in stories, only in stories!”
    “Gor,” he said.
    “I told you in the house,” I wept. “There is no such place! There is no such place!”
    Then the van had stopped, I had no idea where.
    Then I was aware of a hand in my hair, which pulled my head up and back, and, from the side, from my left, a soft, folded bit of white cloth, some six inches square. This square of cloth was damp, with some chemical. It was placed over my nose and mouth, and held in place, closely. I struggled for a moment, and then lost consciousness.
     
    * * * *
     
    “You look well in chains,” he said.
    I was well illuminated in the light of the torch.
    “Please give me clothing!” I begged.
    “Clothing is not necessary,” he said, “as you are a slave.”
    “I am not a slave!” I said.
    He pointed to his feet.
    I crawled to him, the chains on my wrists and ankles dragging on the large, flat stones, and, head down, frightened, pressed my lips to his feet.
    “See?” he said.
    “Yes,” I whispered, “—Master.”
    He then exited, bending down, and the small iron gate closed behind him. A moment later I heard a key turning in the lock, and was in darkness.
    I realized I was on Gor.
     
     

 
    Chapter Six
     
     
    In the small room, with the panel bolted on the outside, where we were commonly housed when not serving in the large outer room, the Gorean girl, well collared, had accosted me, demanding that I, a mere barbarian, should kneel before her. I had refused. She, with her beauty, her marked thigh, her encircled neck, was no more than I!
    “How then did they recognize you as a slave?” she had asked.
    “I have no idea,” I had said, though, in truth, I had an idea of such matters.
    “You must have been assessed,” she had said.
    “Doubtless,” I had said.
    Suddenly the door had been unbolted from the outside, and Tela, first girl, entered. All of us in the small room immediately went to our knees, and put our heads to the floor, the palms of our hands on the floor beside our heads.
    “I am frightened,” said Tela. “Something is wrong.”
    We dared not change position, as we had not received permission to do so.
    “Be as you would,” said Tela.
    We looked up.
    Usually Tela’s switch dangled from her wrist.
    It was not there now.
    She was clearly frightened, and her alarm spread to the rest of us, not now serving. I was the only barbarian in the room. We feared Tela, for she was first girl, our switch mistress. I had never seen Tela frightened before, except before the masters. There were two of us in the outer room, who would be, as far as I knew, serving.
    “What is wrong, Mistress?” asked Midice.
    “The guests have fled,” she said.
    I did not understand this, for the tables, the games, did not close until the early morning.
    “I fear the masters are undone,” she said. “They have