I looked upon the collar.

I would wear it.

I looked up at the man in the chair.

"You now have a name," he said. "It is that which is on the collar."

"Yes, Master," I said.

I did not, of course, at that point, know my name, only that I had one.

"Read it!" said Dorna, holding the collar before me.

"I cannot," I said. The script was unintelligible to me.

"She is illiterate," said the man in the chair.

"It is on her papers," said another.

"Stupid illiterate slave!" said Dorna. The man in the chair looked at me.

"You belong to the city," he said. "The collar is a state collar."

That I had not counted on! I did not even understand what it might be, to belong to a polity, a city, a state. Who then owned me, the polity, it seemed, the city, the state. But who did I serve? What did I do?

I would doubtless learn.

"Prepare her for her collaring," said the man.

"Down on all fours, s.l.u.t," said Dorna to me.

I immediately obeyed.

Dorna walked about me, in front of me, and handed the collar, opened, as it was, to the jailer, he who had brought me here, to the terrace. He was just a little behind me, and to my left.

Dorna then crouched down, and, combing it a little with her fingers, brought my hair forward, before my shoulders. She then arranged it. It hung down before me. My neck was muchly bared.

Dorna then rose to her feet and stood a bit before me and to my right.

"Is she prepared for collaring?" asked the man in the chair.

"She is," said Dorna.

"Tenrik," said the man in the chair.

"Yes," said the jailer.

"Are you prepared to collar her?" asked the man in the chair.

"Yes, Captain," said the jailer whose name I now understood to be 'Tenrik'. We, of course, do not address free men by their names but as "Master." Similarly, we address free women as "Mistress."

"Collar her," said the man in the chair.

I was then collared.

I was naked on all fours, before the dais, on a barbaric world, a collared slave girl.

I heard Dorna laugh. Was she so much more than I? Did she not, too, wear a collar? "She is pretty in a collar," said a man.

"They all are," said another.

Dorna turned away, angrily.

"Has she been collared?" asked the man in the chair.

"Yes. Captain," said Tenrik.

I gathered that this must be part of the ritual of the collaring, as there could be little doubt, now, about the light, inflexible, gleaming circlet gracing my throat.

"Kneel," said the man in the chair to me.

I knelt, in position. I knew I was beautiful in this position, collared. I had seen myself in mirrors, in the pens.

"Remove the collar," said the man.

I looked up at him, puzzled.

I could not read his eyes.

But one does not wait for a command to be repeated. I tried to remove the collar. I could not do so, of course. as it was of inflexible steel, and securely locked.

Dorna laughed. I threw her an angry glance. Let her remove her collar, if she could!

"Can you remove the collar?" asked the man in the chair.

"No, Master," I said.

"Do not forget it," he said.

"No, Master," I said.

"You are pretty," he said.

"Thank you, Master," I said.

"Take her to the ring," he said, gesturing to his left.

I looked up at him, startled, but had scarcely time to react for I was seized by the hair, by the jailer, and, half scrambling, half dragged, was conducted to the side, to a ring. There I was knelt down and my wrists were tied together and fastened to the ring. I looked wildly over my shoulder. The jailer was there, and was shaking out the five strands of a broad-bladed slave whip. "Masters?" I cried. Another man brought my hair well forward, again, as it had been for my collaring. "Please, no, Masters!" I cried.

"Do you think we are weak?" asked a man.

"No, Masters!" I said. "No, no, Masters!"

I had seen the six-legged creatures. I had seen the great birds. I had seen the warriors go forth. I had seen them return, sometimes with loot, with booty, at their saddles, silver and gold, and women.

Then the lash fell and I shook and sobbed. I had felt the whip before, twice in the pens, a stroke each time. I was not at all eager for a repet.i.tion of that experience.

Again the lash fell.

In the pens it had been a single-bladed lash.

Again I felt the leather.

I went to my belly, unable to remain on my knees. I could not believe what I felt.

I had heard of this whip before, the broad-bladed, five-stranded lash, designed for use on such as I, but never before had I felt it. It is to be clearly distinguished from many other forms of whip, in particular, from the "snake," a terrible whip used sometimes on men, beneath the blows of which even a strong man might die. The five-stranded lash, that to whose attentions I was now, to my dismay, to my misery, being formally introduced punishes terribly, but inflicts no permanent damage. It is designed to hurt, not injure.

Indeed. it does not even mark the subject, which might reduce her value.

Again the lash fell.

"Please stop!" I begged.

What had I done? I had done nothing as far as I knew!

"Please stop, Masters!" I cried. How naturally I had called out to them as "Masters"! Of course, I knew by now who were the natural masters, and, indeed, on this world, even the legal masters. On this world the fundamental biological realities of dominance and submission, thematic throughout nature, had not been falsified. Indeed, they were recognized by, and acknowledged within, and confirmed within, the very inst.i.tutions of this world. But even had it not been for my understanding of what I was, an understanding going back even to my native world, one which I had achieved, but had scarcely admitted to myself, long before I had been brought here, and one which I now understood even in terms of actual, significant, pertinent legalities of my condition and status, I would, I believe, in that moment, have called out to them as "Masters." I would think that any woman, even the most anesthetic, even the most stupid, even the most naive, even the most defensive, even the most resistant, even the most brainwashed, would have cried out so. In such moments shams dissipate.

In such moments fundamental profound realities obtrude. I think that in such moments almost any woman would be likely to see through the illusions to which she has been subjected, through the lies that she has been taught, through the puppetry of her conditioning program. Behind the fabrications and prevarications of political facades lurks the Realpolitik, so to speak, of nature.

And on this world, at least with respect to women such as I, the facades do not exist. We are put on our knees. We are collared. We are in our place. We obey. We serve.

Again the lash fell.

I writhed on my belly on the flagging. The stones felt cold, a considerable contrast with the flames that danced on my back. The feeding in the cell, and the watering there, that I had been fed and watered, and even that I had been given some bits of precious fruit were, it seemed, quite meaningless. So, too, surely had been the blanket, and even the wastes vessel! Had I understood such things as evidence of a special status, of special treatment, of special consideration, either of myself personally, or, more generally, of my sort of woman in this place? Had I interpreted such things as signs of lenience or tolerance? Had I understood them as signs of weakness or even, say of a sort of soft kindness which I might be able, cleverly, in time, to exploit to my advantage? Let now, then, a stupid slave be disabused of such illusions!

Again the lash, like lightning, flashed downward. Again I wept. No longer could I cry out. I was helpless.

I could do nothing for myself. I was completely dependent on others. I was in the hands of the masters.

Four times more the lash fell.

I then lay at the ring, on my belly, my crossed wrists stretched toward the ring, to which they were fastened. I tried to breathe. Tears had run down my cheeks.

The flagging was wet from them. The bonds on my wrists, too, from earlier, were moistened by the tears. In one place the back of my wrist was wet where a tear had slipped between the cords.

The whip was being put away.

I lay there.

I suddenly realized that in all likelihood there had been nothing whatsoever personal in the beating. I had not, for example, at least as far as I knew, been displeasing, nor had I offended anyone, unless it be the other kajira. I had not done anything, at least as far as I knew, in any normal sense, to provoke, or merit, the beating. To be sure, reasons are not required for beating a slave. If the master wishes, they may be beaten simply at his whim.

They are, after all, slaves. Similarly, as far as I could tell, these men bore me no ill will. I was, from their point of view, only a domestic animal. The beating then, in all likelihood, had not been punitive or even, really, disciplinary. Similarly it did not seem to be arbitrary. Rather it had been, it seems, ritualistic or inst.i.tutional, and, presumably, by intent, instructive.

It had been painful, but surely brief, strictly considered. I had not been informed of its purpose. I had not had to beg for the beating. I had not had to denounce myself before or during the beating. I had not had to count the strokes aloud, and so on.

The cords binding my wrists were freed from the ring, and then the cords were removed from my wrists.

I still lay at the ring.

I did not know if I could move.

The purpose of the beating I am sure, and thereby the intent, the rationale, of its inclusion in my induction here, so to speak, was neither unprecedented nor unusual.

It was to help me understand certain things very clearly from the very beginning, that I was subject to the whip, that the men in this place were fully capable of using it on me, and that, if they saw fit, or felt so disposed, would do so. As I have suggested this lesson is neither unprecedented nor unusual.

It is often thought to be a valuable lesson for a girl, particularly when she is brought into a new house.

Then I cried out as the jailer pulled me up to all fours by the hair and then, his fist in my hair, hurried me back to the dais.

I was now on all fours, at the foot of the dais. I looked up, through my hair, it muchly before my face now, and my tears, at he in the great chair.

"Do you wish to be beaten again?" he asked.

"No, Master! No, Master!" I said.

"Kneel," said he.

I obeyed.

"To whom do you belong?" he asked.

"To the state, Master," I said. To be sure, I did not know what state.

"Are you important?" he asked.

"No, Master," I said.

"Put your head to the floor," he said. "Clasp your hands behind the back of your neck."

I wept, and obeyed.

"Tenrik," said the fellow in the chair.

"Yes, Captain," said Tenrik.

I cried Out.

Dorna laughed.