"She has very pretty hair," said the first of the two other girls.

"I wonder if they will have it sheared," said the other.

"Would they do that?" asked the free woman, anxiously.

"They might," said the first girl.

"But, why?" asked the free woman, aghast. I gathered she was, indeed, fond of her hair.

"To make a wig for a free woman," speculated one.

"But I am a free woman!" said the free woman.

"They could even certify it honestly as the hair of a free woman, and then brand you a moment later."

"Brand me?" asked the free woman, weakly.

"Surely you do not expect not to be branded and collared?" said the second girl.

Most of the hairpieces, and wigs, and such, affected by free women are certified as being from the hair of free women. Most on the other hand, I am reasonably confident, are from the hair of slaves.

"They might also use it for catapult cordage," said one of the girls.

The free woman shuddered.

Anything, of course, could be done with her. She was now, for all practical purposes, though her body had not yet been marked, the property of masters.

I touched my own hair, nervously. I, too, of course, could be shorn.

Some masters harvest the hair of their slaves every two or three years, understanding this, I suppose, as a part of the productivity of the slave. To be sure, most Gorean masters like long hair on their slaves, and pleasure slaves are seldom shorn, except as a punishment or discipline.

Some girls do have their hair cropped, for example, such as might work in the factories, the laundries, and such.

Too, girls transported in slave ships are commonly shaved completely, to protect them from vermin below decks. It is not unknown for shorter-haired slaves to ascend the blocks, slaves whose hair, for one reason or another, has been cut short, but they are the exception. Also, they are usually low girls, stable slaves, field slaves, kettle-and-mat girls and such.

"Farewell, girl," said one of the two slaves.

"Farewell, girl," said the other.

They then left.

I alone, of the original group, was now with the free woman.

That I had lingered would, I supposed, suggest to the free woman that I might have done so for a purpose. To be sure, this was true. But it was not for any purpose which she was likely to suppose.

The information I wished I could not well obtain from either a free person, without great risk, or. indeed, from a slave either, for they would presume that anything so obvious must either be known to me or for some reason forbidden to me. They would not wish to risk telling me what I wished to know. What if the masters should find out? Curiosity, I recalled, was supposedly not becoming in a kajira. Yet we are, I suspect, among the most inquisitive of creatures.

"You dally, slave," said the free woman.

I shrugged.

"Perhaps you enjoy seeing free women in coffle, stripped and shackled,"

she said.

"It is where they belong," I said.

"Had I my whip," she said, "I would make you rue that remark!"

"That would not make it less true," I said.

She cried out with rage.

"It is no longer yours to hold the whip," I said. "It is now in the hands of others."

She jerked at the shackles, angrily.

"Did you used to whip slaves?" I asked.

"Yes!" she said.

"It is now you who must fear the whip," I said.

She looked up at me.

"It is such that it may now be used upon you," I said. "It will be interesting to see how you like it."

She looked down. She shuddered. "I do not want to be whipped," she said.

"Please the masters," I said.

"They would not give me water, unless I said 'sir' to them," she said, wonderingly.

"Yes," I said. That seemed like a small enough thing to me.

"I have never before in my life addressed men in such a way," she said.

"With respect?" I asked.

"Yes," she said. "I have strange feelings," she said, "when I address men in that fashion."

"Such feelings are natural," I said.

"But you do not address them as 'sir'?"

"No," I said. "We address them as "Master.""

"I would be terrified to do that," she said, "how it might make me feel."

"You will learn to do it," I said. "And you will also learn that it is a quite meaningful mode of address.

They are the masters."

"You are a barbarian!" she said.

"Yes," I said. "I am a barbarian."

"It is thusly fitting that you should be a slave!" she said.

"But not such as you?" I asked.

"No, no!" she said.

"Why?" I asked. "Are you less female than I?"

She looked at me, wildly.

"You have fought your femaleness for a long time," I said. "But the masters will not permit your continuing to do so."

She shook with terror.

"For the first time in your life," I said, "you are going to become a full woman, a true woman, the woman you were born to be."

"No!" she protested.

"What is important here," I said, "has nothing whatsoever to do with one's origins. They may condition and flavor our slavery, and make us of more or less interest to one man or another, but they are, in themselves, of no great importance. What is crucial here is not whether one is a barbarian or not, or comes from this city or that, but what we have in common, whether one is a female or not. That is what is of ultimate importance in these matters, our s.e.x, our femaleness."

She jerked in the chains, helplessly.

She put her head down. She sobbed.

Then she looked up at me. There were tears in her eyes. "But then it would be fitting," she whispered, "that we both be slaves."

"Yes," I said.

"Do you understand the numbers written on my body?" she asked, looking up at me.

"You want to know your category, your future brand, your likely disposition, your period of training, a possible place and time of sale, such things?" I asked.

"Yes!" she said. "Yes!"

"I did not even know they were numbers," I said, lightly.

"You are illiterate?" she said, suddenly, angrily.

"Yes," I said.

"Why have you dallied here!" she said.

"Perhaps to give you an apricot," I said.

"Give it to me!" she said.

"No," I said. I wanted one for myself. The other I thought I would give to the Lady Constanzia.

"So that is why you have remained here!" she said. "Not to feed me, not to help me, unknown to the others, in fear of me, or seeking my favor, but, like them, to torment me!"

"I think you are little to be feared now, free woman," I said. "And, if I were you, I do not think I would overrate the favors you have to dispense. Even men will take from you precisely what they please, and in any amounts or modalities they wish, and at any time of the day or night. And you will strive desperately with all your beauty and intelligence to please them."

"You want only to torment me, like the others," she said.

"You were not really very nice to them," I said.

"But they are nothing, only slaves, and I am a free woman!" she said.

"You, too, will soon be nothing," I said, "only a slave."

She looked up at me, angrily.

"And you, too, will learn to fear free women," I said. "You will learn to fear them terribly."

"Is this your petty vengeance on a free woman," she asked, angrily, "you illiterate, stupid, sleek, embonded, collared little she-urt?"

"I do not think I am smaller than you," I said.

"It is you who are stupid," I said.

"I, you illiterate, collared she-urt?"

"You were brought here hooded," I said. "You do not even know in what city you are."

"I am not stupid," she said. "It is you who are stupid, if you think I do not know where I am!"

"Oh?" I said.

"It is you who are stupid, not me," she said. "Anyone would know where he was, here in this place. Do you think I do not know in what mountains I am? Do you think I cannot tell the coloration of the Voltai; the Scarlet Mountain? Do you think I am totally unaware of the distances and times I have traveled? Do you think I cannot recognize the accents of the men who brought me here? Do you think I cannot understand the emblems and accouterments of the men of this place? Do you think the markings on the tarn saddles are in some foreign tongue? Do you think the songs of the crowd are unintelligible to me? Do you not think I can recognize the seven towers of war, the wall of Valens, the standards on the bridge behind us, the banners about, those that fly even from the warehouses themselves?"

"I do not know," I said.

"I am in Treve!" she cried. "I am in Treve!"

I smiled.

"You tricked me!" she cried.

"Yes," I said.

But my triumph was short-lived, for at that very moment two strong masculine hands closed on my upper arms, from behind. "Do you think it is nice to trick a free woman, tasta?" he asked.