Time Slave

6

Dr. Brenda Hamilton awakened.

She lay on her side on the cot. Her left hand, extended, lay under the curved iron bar at the top of the cot; her right hand lay beside her face; she looked at the slender, small fingers it seemed so small, so delicate compared to that of Gunther, or William, or Herjellsen, to a man’s hand.

The half light of late afternoon, golden, hazy, filtering, dimly illuminated the room.

The white-washed interior seemed golden and dim. She looked up at the arched roof, its beams, the corrugated tin. It was hot, terribly hot. She remembered that she seldom spent time in her quarters before sundown. She remembered that she had, once, awakened similarly. She remembered then that she was a prisoner.

She tried to move her hand, her left hand. Something jerked at it. She beard a steel cuff slide on iron. She sat up. She was handcuffed to the iron bar at the head of the cot.

She sat wearily at the edge of the cot. She wanted to relieve herself. She looked across the room to the wastes bucket.

She got up, to pull the cot to the side of the room. It remained fixed.

It had been bolted to the floor: It was aligned with the floor boards designated by Gunther. She smiled. The alignment of the cot was no longer her responsibility.

She considered, briefly, urinating on the floor, or soiling the mattress.

She would not do so.

She knew she was, at the slightest sign of insubordination, subject to physical discipline, and that it would be, unhesitantly, administered. She wondered what they would do to her for having attempted to escape.

How foolishly she had run to their arms. How easily she had been recaptured.

She remembered the Land Rover pursuing her, terrifying her, loud and roaring, through the midnight bush, the glare of its lights, the sting of the anesthetic bullet, Gunther’s cuffs.

She looked at the girl in the mirror, facing her, sitting on the edge of the cot, a steel cuff confining her to it. The girl was weary, filthy, her dress torn, her hair awry and filled with dust; her face was dirty; her hands were dirty, and there was dirt, from digging, black, under the fingernails; her legs were covered, too, with dirt, and scratches and blood.

They had brought her in as she was, from the bush, thrown her on the cot, handcuffed her to it, and left.

She was hungry, and thirsty, and wanted to relieve herself, and clean her body.

She lay back, on her side, her legs drawn up on the striped mattress, on the cot, her left hand under the curved iron bar at its head.

She smelled her body. She smelled, too, fresh plaster. The hut, she conjectured, where she had broken through it, through the closet, had been repaired.

She closed her eyes against the heat.

Then, almost against her will, she opened her eyes, wanting to look again in the mirror. Lying on her side she regarded herself, her head and hair, her figure, the curve of her hip and waist, the dress well up her thighs, the curves of her legs and ankles. She looked at herself, sullenly. She did not jerk at the handcuff. She lay quietly, secured. She had not escaped.

At six P.M. the door was unlocked.

The large black, who had beaten her, entered. His companion entered behind him.

Behind them came Herjellsen, and Gunther and William.

Brenda sat up.

Gunther came to her and unlocked the cuff from her left wrist.

Hamilton rubbed her wrist.

Herjellsen motioned for Dr. Brenda Hamilton to lie across the cot, as she had before, her hands on the floor, her head down.

The smaller black then dragged the dress up over her body, and half over her head, confining her arms in it.

“Beat her,” said Herjellsen.

While the men watched the larger black, with his belt, doubled, struck her, sharply, below the small of the back, fifteen times.

The beating, Hamilton knew, was not intended to be physically punishing. It was intended to be emotionally humiliating. It was. But, too, it stung, terribly. She could not keep tears from her eyes. She felt like a child. She knew it was not a man’s beating, but a woman’s beating. In tears, she realized it was more in the nature of a severe rebuke for naughtiness than anything else. It meant, clearly, that they were not particularly annoyed with her, that she had not worried them, that her escape attempt had not been, and was not taken seriously. Her effort, to herself, though foiled had been momentous desperate. Now it was being punished, sharply, but trivially. She supposed she was being punished at all only because she had been insubordinate, and they felt that something in response, however trivial, should be done to her. She asked herself if this was all her escape attempt was worth to them, all it had earned her.

The beating also told her that she was a woman, not worth the severe discipline that might be accorded a male.

That, too, humiliated her.

It taught her in a new way that she was a female, only a female.

She wept, too, because Gunther and William were watching. How could she face them again?

The last blow fell.

Gunther pulled her, she still tangled in her dress, sobbing, to her side. Her left wrist was jerked to the vicinity of the iron bar at the head of the cot. She felt it locked again in the cuff that dangled there.

She was confined as before. The men left.

She, furious, frustrated, helpless, felt like a punished child. She wept. She was furious at what men could do to women, if they wished. She hated their strength, and her own weakness. They can treat us like children, she wept.

“I hate you!” she cried.

Then she was afraid that they might hear her, and return to punish her again. “I hate you,” she whispered. “I hate you.” But mostly she hated herself, that she was a woman.

How could she ever again face Gunther and William?

Then she knew how she could face them again, and only how she could face them again, only as a woman-a woman-and one they had seen being beaten.

Then, after a time, she no longer hated being a woman. She lay on the thin, flat, striped mattress, on her side, her wrist helplessly handcuffed to the iron bar at the head of the simple cot, and looked at herself in the mirror. Her small, luscious, curved body, captive, formed a remarkable contrast to the thin, flat mattress, its linearity, the plainness of the iron cot, on which she was confined. She studied herself in the mirror, her head and hair, the deliciousness of her body, her legs, the slenderness of her ankles. Then no longer did she hate that she was a woman. She found it again, strangely perhaps, a precious thing to be. And she found herself, too, strangely enough, pleased that men were strong enough to do to her what they had done. She found herself, for some strange reason, pleased that one sex was so much weaker than the other. And, perhaps most strange of all, she found herself pleased that she was of the weaker sex.

She found, as she lay on the cot, captive, handcuffed to it, that the strength of men excited her, that she found it profoundly and unaccountably exciting.

I love it that there are men, she whispered to herself. I love it. I love it!

At ten P.M. the door was again unlocked.

The large black, he who had beaten her, again entered. Lying on the cot, she cringed. But he carried a large piece of bread in one hand and a tin mug of water in the other. Brenda saw, briefly, his companion behind him, before the door closed.

He approached her.

She regarded him with fear.

“Sit up,” he said.

She did so. She winced.

“Open your mouth,” he said.

She did so.

He thrust the bread into her mouth, whole.

He waited until she had, half choking, swallowed it down. Then he held the tin mug for her. She drank.

Before he left, with his foot, he shoved the wastes bucket to the cot.

For four days Hamilton saw no one but the blacks, and her feedings consisted of bread and water, each given to her as they had been the first time.

Sometimes, smiling, she tried to engage them in conversation but they did not speak to her.

Once, angrily, she cried out, “Speak when you’re spoken to, Boy!”

He turned, slowly, toward her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry!”

His hand struck her, knocking her forcibly to her right. She was jerked up short by the handcuff, taut, on her left wrist. He pulled her to her knees at the side of the cot, facing him. “I’m sorry!” she cried. Her lip was cut on her teeth. He pointed to his feet. She kissed them. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry!

“Very well,” said he, “-Girl.”

He left.

On the fourth night she said to him, “Please tell them I’ll be good! I’ll be good!”

“All right,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said.

The next morning Gunther and William arrived at the time of the first feeding.

Gunther carried a short length of chain, and two padlocks, and William a bowl of warm water, with a towel and soap, and a clean, folded garment.

“Lie on your stomach on the cot,” said Gunther.

“Yes, Gunther,” said Brenda Hamilton.

She felt one end of the heavy chain looped about her left ankle, snugly, and fastened with one of the padlocks. The loose end of the short chain was then looped about her right ankle, snugly, and fastened with the second padlock.

Gunther then removed the handcuff from her left wrist, and also from the iron bar at the head of the cot.

“Kneel,” he said.

Free of the cot, she did so. She heard the heavy links of the chain confining her ankles strike the floor.

“You will wear the cuff at night,” said Gunther.

“Yes, Gunther,” she said.

Gunther slipped the handcuffs, together, into a small leather case, worn at his belt. He buttoned shut the case.

“And during the day?” she asked.

“You are shackled,” he said.

“Yes, Gunther,” she said.

“Is that not the answer to your question?” he asked.

“Yes, Gunther,” she said.

“The experiments are progressing,” said Gunther. “You will shortly be needed.”

She looked up at him.

“You will not receive the least opportunity for escape,” said Gunther.

She put down her head.

“Do you understand, Brenda?” he said.

“Yes, Gunther,” she said.

He then turned and left.

William smiled, and put down the bowl of warm water, with the towel, and soap, and laid beside them the small, white, folded garment.

She looked at it.

“It is identical to the one you are wearing,” he said, “only, of course, it is not filthy, not torn, not marked with blood. It was not dragged through the Rhodesian bush in the middle of the night.”

“I did not know there was more than one,” she said, numbly, looking at it.

“You are permitted, of course,” said William, “only one at a time.”

She looked up at him, then understanding better than before the planning that had taken place.

“When was it purchased?” she asked.

“With four others,” smiled William.

“When?” she asked, looking at him.

“When you accepted the retainer,” he said, “to come to Rhodesia.”

“I see,” she said.

“These garments were here,” he said, “folded and waiting, packed, before your arrival.”

“When I walked in the gate,” she said, “they were waiting for me.”

“Yes,” smiled William.

She put her head down.

“Don’t put it on,” warned William, “until you are clean and fresh.”

“Very well, William,” she said.

“When you are finished,” he said, “knock on ‘the door. I will then bring you water and a shampoo, to wash your hair.”

Brenda looked at him, gratefully.

When he left the room she knelt by the bowl and threw off the soiled, tattered garment she had worn. Rejoicing, she cleansed her body of the dirt, the filth, of the bush. She wrapped the towel about her head to keep her hair from her body. She slipped on the new, fresh, pressed, crisp white frock. It was identical to that which she had first worn, thin, very brief, sleeveless. She knocked on the door. “William,” she said.

The door opened and William entered, with two buckets of water, and a shampoo, and a fresh towel.

He sat in one of the cane chairs, straddling it, its back to her, watching her wash her hair.

“The brush and comb,” he said, “when you want them later, are where you left them.”

They lay at the side of the wall.

She knelt before the mirror and ran the comb through her hair, straightening it. She would comb and brush it later, fully, when it was dry. It lay wet and black, matted, straight, beautiful, down her back.

When she looked at him, he said, “Shave your legs, and under your arms.” He handed her a safety razor, containing a blade.

She used the soap and water, and the blade, and shaved herself.

Then she returned the razor, and the blade, to him.

William picked up the materials he had brought, the buckets, the bowl, the two towels, the other things.

She stood and faced him.

“You are very beautiful, Brenda” he said.

She said nothing.

“If you are good,” he said, “you will be fed well.”

She did not respond.

“Well, Brenda,” he said, “it seems that things are much as they were before.”

“Yes, William,” she said.

“Except,” smiled he, “that your ankles are chained.”

She did not answer him.

“You have very pretty ankles, my dear,” he said. “They look well in chains.”

There were only eight inches of chain separating her ankles.

“Keep yourself clean, neat and well groomed,” he said.

She said nothing.

“Kneel,” he said.

She did.

“Do you understand?” he asked.

“Yes, William,” said Brenda Hamilton.

He turned to leave and then again, for a moment, faced her.

“Tonight,” he said, “you are to be interviewed by Herjellsen.”

“What are you?” asked Herjellsen, sharply.

“A woman,” said Brenda Hamilton. “A woman!”

“What is your name?” demanded Herjellsen, sharply.

“Brenda,” she said. “Brenda!”

Herjellsen leaned back in the cane chair, satisfied. It was only then that Brenda Hamilton realized how different her responses were to such questions than they would have been only two weeks ago. Before, she would have responded unthinkingly, to the first question, “A mathematician!” and, to the second, “Doctor Brenda Hamilton.”

She knelt before Herjellsen. Her ankles were still chained. But now, too, by Gunther, her wrists had been handcuffed behind her.

Gunther and William, also on cane chairs, sitting across them, sat to one side, listening.

“The interview is over,” said Herjellsen, getting up.

Brenda Hamilton looked up at him, astonished.

“What do you think of men?” asked Herjellsen, looking down on her.

“I-I think they are very strong,” said Brenda Hamilton.

“Do you desire sexual experience?” asked Herjellsen.

“No!” cried Brenda Hamilton. “No!”

“Gunther’s report,” said Herjellsen, “suggests otherwise.” Brenda blushed scarlet. She recalled she had, on her knees, begged Gunther to fuck her.

“That you desire, or do not desire, sexual experience,” said Herjellsen, “is doubtless less relevant to the success of the experiment than whether or not you, yourself, are, by others, found sexually desirable.”

“Others?” asked Brenda Hamilton.

“But,” said William, “when a woman does desire sexual experience she becomes, surely, subtly, physically,, more desirable.”

“You have in mind,” asked Herjellsen, “subconscious body signals?”

“Yes,” said William, “but even more obvious than that such things as smiling, inadvertent posings and touchings, approaching the male more closely than the culturally accustomed distances.”

“How do you read her?” asked Herjellsen. He again took his seat on the cane chair. He looked at Hamilton.

“I have studied her,” said William, “and I read in her body great conflict between resistance and yielding.”

“I do not find conflict,” said Gunther. “If I snap my fingers, she will lay for me.”

Hamilton put down her head.

“I mean more generally,” said William. “For example, today, while I watched her comb her wet hair before the mirror, she was obviously holding herself differently than if I were not present.”

Hamilton swallowed. She realized she had performed this act differently, when under the eyes of William. She had done it more slowly, more luxuriously, more beautifully, than she would have otherwise.

“That is natural,” said Herjellsen. “It is only a young female posing before a young male.”

“Look at her now,” said Gunther. “See the shoulders, back, the belly tight. She is presenting herself to us, even now, as a female.”

Hamilton put down her head and wept.

“Do not weep,” said Herjellsen. “It is natural female display behavior. It is quite healthy.”

Hamilton looked up at him.

“The only thing to be ashamed of,” said Herjellsen, “is the guilt.”

Hamilton regarded him, red-eyed.

“You are really quite beautiful,” said Herjellsen. “Straighten your body, put your shoulders back, draw in your stomach, thrust out your breasts.”

Tears in her eyes, Hamilton did so.

William whistled. “A beauty,” he said.

And suddenly Hamilton was no longer ashamed to be beautiful before men. That right was hers. She was a female. She would be beautiful, boldly.

“A true beauty,” said William.

Hamilton looked at Gunther.

“A slut,” said Gunther.

Hamilton tossed her head, and did not retreat. She looked away from him, her head in the air. She remained beautiful.

“Excellent,” said Herjellsen.

He turned to William.

“How do you read this woman’s attitude toward Gunther?” he asked.

“She desires him, intensely,” said William. His voice was flat.

Hamilton did not look at Gunther.

“Some women,” said Gunther, “who do not desire sexual experience, are extremely attractive. Their very coldness, their haughtiness, is a taunt to the blood, a challenge. It is great sport to take them, and reduce them to whining, panting whores, to break them to your will, to make them beg for your touch.”

Hamilton swallowed, painfully. Her shoulders fell forward. She bent forward, her head was down. She was again only a chained, handcuffed girl kneeling before men, at their mercy.

“Weakness, and fear, too,” Gunther was saying, “can enhance a woman’s sexual attractiveness.”

“Among mammals,” said William, “one is the aggressor, one the aggressed upon. This is the sexual equation. In most species of mammals, if not all, it is the male which is the aggressor. Sexual aggression in the female commonly neutralizes male aggression and makes consummation of the sexual act impossible. It is a common device used by women hostile to men, to prevent intercourse and insult and punish the male. In their own mind, and in his, if he is uninformed, she appears to be eager for sexual experience and he appears to be unable to satisfy her, or to be impotent. With another woman, of course, he functions normally.”

“I encountered, twice, such women,” said Gunther. “I beat them.”

“Scarcely gentlemanly of you, old man,” said William.

“After they were beaten,” said Gunther, “they responded perfectly.”

“Abjectly?” asked William.

“Yes,” said Gunther, “and with numerous orgasms.” He looked at William. “They only wanted to find a man stronger than they were. Strong women, they wanted stronger men, men strong enough to make them women, strong enough to subdue them, completely.”

“And you were that man?” asked William.

“Yes,” said Gunther. “In their hearts, like all women, they wanted to submit.”

“And you made them submit?” asked William.

“Yes,” said Gunther, “I made them submit.” He looked at William. “I made them submit to me-completely.”

“And doubtless they loved it?” asked William.

“That was not my concern,” said Gunther.

“What was your concern?” asked William.

“Their submission,” said Gunther.

“Did they seem pleased?” asked William.

“They were obedient,” said Gunther, “and had numerous orgasms. They wished me to keep them with me, on any terms. One was rich.”

“You see, Gunther,” said Hamilton, “I am not the only woman who is attracted to you.”

“You were not spoken to,” said Gunther.

“Forgive me, Gunther,” whispered Hamilton.

“Weakness and fear, as I said,” said Gunther, “can enhance a woman’s attractiveness.”

“They provoke the aggressor,” said William.

“What of servility, and submissiveness?” asked Herjellsen of Gunther.

“Yes,” said Gunther, “particularly if they are enforced upon her-if she is given no choice.” Gunther regarded Hamilton. “Women revel in groveling,” he said.

“That is not true!” cried Hamilton.

“Be silent,” said Gunther.

Hamilton put down her head. Something deep within her stirred. Though she hated the thought, she knew that she was pleased to have been so sharply commanded. Gunther had given her an order, a strict one. It excited her to obey him.

“What of helplessness?” asked Herjellsen of William.

“Yes,” said William, “helplessness in a woman tends to provoke sexual aggression; it stimulates the male. This expresses itself, of course, in countless ways. She needs him, say, to open a window, carry a bag, move a heavy object. Both he and she are conscious of her weakness; she must ask his favor; he readily performs the tasks; she now owes him and she, being weak, being a woman, has only her body with which to pay him. She responds with sexual favors; in the civilized situation, these are trivial-smiles, words of gratitude, an entire body attitude of gratefulness. That the male wants these favors is indicated by his customary fury, should she offer monetary payment. It is her `thanks’ alone he wants. Naturally. Her ‘thanks,’ of course, are a culturally accepted, little understood, muchly desired by the male display of her femaleness before him. Symbolically, he has had her; winning her smile is for him surrogate for the possession of her body.”

“Interesting, said Herjellsen.

“A most obvious example,” said William, “occurs when the woman must take the automobile, in need of repair, to a mechanic. Though her socio-economic status may be far above his she must, in her ignorance, her helplessness, approach the mechanic with typical female submission behavior. Moreover, he will exploit this situation, by being patient, by looming over her, by listening to her attempt to explain the problem of the engine. Very few individuals, incidentally, can speak clearly of a complicated piece of machinery, or even know more than a few names for parts. Yet the mechanic’s attitude will make her feel inferior, ignorant, stupid, and he, by contrast, large and wise, efficient and strong. Soon she will be laughing at herself, and pretending she knows even less than she does. She finds herself forced into acting like a fool, petitioning for a favor. She smiles, she laughs uneasily, she moves her body, she is embarrassed, she blushes, she looks up at him. He agrees to repair the vehicle. He will find out what is wrong, and whatever it is he, the noble fellow, will fix it. She leaves. He has had a sexual experience. Similar exploitative matrices may exist in the context of the female student and male teacher, or the female employee and the male employer. Females are forced, in thousands of ways, to be pleasing to men, and, as they struggle to smile, and be pleasing, he symbolically enjoys her, has her, accepts her, for the time, as one of his women.”

“What do you think of this, Gunther?” asked Herjellsen.

“I think it is true,” said Gunther. “Further, perhaps to your surprise, I do not disapprove. Rather I approve. Women should smile, should be forced to engage in submission behavior before men.”

“Why is that?” asked Herjellsen.

“Because men are dominant,” said Gunther. “And it is right that women should submit to them.” He looked at Herjellsen. “Women do not smile and move provocatively because society forces them to do so; they do so because they are women; they are not the dominant sex. Display behavior, and submission behavior, is always displayed, throughout the animal kingdom, before the dominant organisms. It is natural for the dominant organism to elicit, or enforce, this behavior. Your mechanic, he in William’s anecdote, is dominant. It is thus natural for him to elicit, or enforce, display behavior, submission behavior, in your upper-middle-class woman. She is, after all, whatever might be her socio-economic class, only a female.”

“I’m afraid you are a male chauvinist, old man,” said William.

“As a scientist,” said Gunther, “I attempt to ascertain the truth. I do not respond like a slavering dog to political stimuli.”

“When I spoke of helplessness,” said Herjellsen, “I did not have in mind such things as being unable to locate one’s car keys.”

The three men looked at Hamilton. She had her head down. She knelt the short white dress well up her thighs. Her ankles, each snugly, were confined in the short, chain shackle. Her wrists, behind her back, were locked in Gunther’s cuffs.

Brenda,” asked Herjellsen. “Are you helpless?”

“Yes,” said Brenda. She lifted her head, and looked at them red-eyed. “How could I be more helpless?” she asked.

“If you were nude,” said Gunther.

She put down her head.

“She is powerless, and at your mercy,” said Herjellsen. “You are young males. Does that enhance her sexual attractiveness?”

“Yes,” said Gunther.

“Yes,” said William.

“It is natural,” said Gunther, “for a man to want complete power, absolute power, over a woman.”

“This has to do, perhaps,” said William, “with the aggression-submission equation. For the male, maximum power facilitates total aggression; for the female, utter powerlessness gives her no alternative to complete submission.”

“More important than such trivialities as handcuffs and ankle chains,” said Gunther, “is to force the female’s psychological submission.”

“Of course,” said Herjellsen, “we are creatures with minds.”

“The best lay that I ever had,” said Gunther, “was a girl given to me for the night by a friend; four years ago, a Bedouin chieftain.”

“What was she like?” asked William.

“Juicy, cuddly,” he said, “brown, quick, large dark eyes, long black hair. When I pulled away her silk I saw that he had had her branded.”

“Oh,” gasped Hamilton.

“She was a slave girl,” said Gunther, looking at her.

Hamilton averted her eyes. “Oh,” she whispered.

“Yes,” said Gunther, “a superb female slave-simply superb. When she entered the tent we both knew that she was in my absolute power. The psychological dimension was perfect. She stood there, waiting to be commanded. I could do with her what I pleased, and whatever it was that I pleased that is what I did with her. It was a most interesting evening.”

“What did you do with her?” asked William.

“I could do with her what I pleased,” said Gunther.

“And what did you do with her?” asked William.

“Exactly what I pleased,” said Gunther.

“I see,” said William.

“It was a most interesting evening,” said Gunther.

Hamilton did not look up. She wished she had been that female slave.

“This seems practical,” said Herjellsen, “only where there is an institution of female slavery, socially accepted, societally enforced.”

“It is practical,” said Gunther, “wherever men are willing to make slaves, and have the opportunity.”

Hamilton wished that she were Gunther’s slave.

“For example,” said Gunther, “this compound is isolated.” He gestured to Hamilton. “We could, if we wished, make her a slave.”

Hamilton looked at him. She was frightened.

“Do not be afraid, Doctor Hamilton,” said Herjellsen, “it is not we who will make you a slave.”

“I don’t understand,” she whispered.

Herjellsen rose to his feet. “It is late,” he said. He nodded curtly to Brenda Hamilton, kneeling before him. “Good evening, my dear,” he said.

Then he, followed by William, left the room.

“Stand,” snapped Gunther, “back to me.”

Brenda Hamilton, shackled, looked up at him. “Please help me, Gunther,” she said.

He placed his strong hands beneath her arms and lifted her lightly to her feet.

She stood close to him, shackled, wrists fastened behind her. She looked at him. “Please, Gunther,” she said. She lifted her lips to him.

“Turn,” he said.

She did so, and he, with his key, unlocked the handcuffs, and removed them from her wrists.

“Use the wastes bucket,” he said. “I will return in five minutes.”

“Yes, Gunther,” she said, head down, blushing.

In five minutes he returned. She was sitting on the cot. He looked at her. Quickly, she knelt.

“Lie on your stomach on the cot,” he said, “and place your left wrist under the iron bar.”

She did so, and he approached her. She felt one cuff locked on her left wrist, and then the other she heard snapped about the iron bar at the head of the cot.

He then bent to her ankles.

He removed the chain that confined them.

She rolled to her back, suddenly, sliding the handcuff along the iron bar, twisting the links, and faced Gunther.

She laughed with pleasure.

She lifted one leg, and then the other. They were long, slender, shapely, lovely. She had her eyes closed. She moved them slowly, exulting in the luxury of the movement. She lay then on her back, and opened her eyes. She stretched her left leg, and bent the right, knee lifted, heel on the mattress.

Gunther was watching her.

“It feels so good to move,” she said. She smiled at Gunther.

He looked at her, angrily.

“You do find me attractive, don’t you, Gunther?” she asked. She was smiling.

“Whore,” said Gunther.

“Yes,” laughed Brenda Hamilton, looking at him, “Doctor Brenda Hamilton is a whore.”

Gunther regarded her, puzzled.

“I’m your whore,” she said.

“I do not understand,” he said.

“Every woman,” said Brenda Hamilton, “if she is vital, for some man or other, would be his willing, eager whore.”

Gunther looked at her.

“I’m yours,” she said. She laughed.

“Whore!” he snapped.

“Only to you,” she laughed. “Not to William, or Herjellsen, or the blacks.”

He looked at her, not speaking.

“Sit beside me, Gunther,” she said. “Please.”

He did so. He sat on the edge of the cot, looking down on her, his left hand across her body, resting on the left side of the cot.

“I’m in your complete power, Gunther,” she said. She jerked at the handcuff, indicating that she was secured. She smiled. “You have absolute power over me,” she said. “Does that not excite you?”

He said nothing. His eyes were expressionless.

“You can make me do anything you want,” she said. “I will obey you, perfectly, completely.”

With his right hand, he touched her head, and then, holding her face, turned it from one side to the other, looking at it.

“Perfectly, completely,” she whispered.

He removed his hand from her face.

“Was the brown girl so marvelous?” she asked him.

“The slave?” asked Gunther.

“Yes,” said Brenda Hamilton, “-the slave!”

“Yes,” said Gunther.

“I can be better,” she said.

“Oh?” asked Gunther.

“Try me,” she said.

Gunther smiled.

“Have me stand before you,” said Hamilton, “as she did, not knowing what you will command. See which of us is better!”

He put his hand at the neckline of her thin, cotton dress. She felt his fist in its fabric.

“Strip me!” she begged.

He looked down on her.

“I’m in your complete power, Gunther,” she said. “You have absolute power over me! You can do with me what you want! Anything! Whatever you want! Does that not excite you?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Too,” she whispered, “it excites me! I have never been so excited in my life, Gunther!”

She tried to sit up on the cot and hold him with her right arm. With his left hand he forced her right wrist down, and pinned it to the mattress. The handcuff on her left wrist confined her hand at the bar. The steel slid on the iron. She could not rise. She was held. Gunther’s right hand was still at the neckline of her frock.

She looked up at him.

“Could I not be your slave, like that brown girl?” she asked.

He did not answer her.

“Caress me, Gunther,” she begged.

Gunther stood up, releasing her. “Others will caress you,” he said.

“Others?” asked Hamilton.

“Yes,” said Gunther.

“But what if I do not want others to caress me?” she asked.

“It does not matter,” said Gunther. He bent down and picked up the chain and the two padlocks from the floor at the foot of the cot, and went to the door.

Brenda Hamilton rolled to her stomach, and screamed and sobbed, thrusting her mouth against the mattress. She squirmed and struck at the mattress, kicking it with her feet, pounding it with her right fist. She bit at it, sobbing, and scratched at it with the fingernails of her right hand. She turned on – her side, and held out her hand to Gunther, who stood by the door.

“Gunther!” she wept.

“Tomorrow night,” said Gunther, “we will attempt to initiate the final test sequence of the second series of experiments. Herjellsen has told me that you will be permitted to watch.

Hamilton regarded him, red-eyed.

“You yourself, as you have been informed,” said Gunther, “will figure essentially in the third series of experiments.”

“Why will you not make love to me?” asked Hamilton.

“Herjellsen has decided,” said Gunther, “that you are to be transmitted as a virgin. He expects that it may enhance your value, if trading is pertinent.”

“Value?” breathed Hamilton.

“Too, Herjellsen supposes,” said Gunther, “that they might be less likely to slay a virgin. A virgin might be something of a prize.”

“Who are-they?” asked Hamilton.

“We do not really know,” said Gunther. “But we suspect that they will have some connection with the Herjellsen artifact.”

“No!” cried Brenda Hamilton. “No! No!”

“There is some danger, of course,” said Gunther, “in transmitting a virgin.”

Hamilton looked at him.

“The sacrifice of virgin females may be practiced.”

Hamilton regarded him with horror.

“But, in your case,” said Gunther, “this seems unlikely.

Lovely as you are you are in your twenties, and this, we conjecture will be sufficient to remove you from this danger. Furthermore, such sacrifice, commonly, involves tribal girls of high station in the group, such being regarded as the fittest gifts for the gods.” Gunther looked at Hamilton. “You, not so much a girl as a woman, a stranger, ignorant, one foreign to them, one with no standing, no status, we conjecture will stand in little danger of being regarded as a desirable sacrifice.”

Hamilton sat now on the edge of the cot. She was aghast. She trembled.

“Furthermore,” said Gunther, “we commonly associate the sacrifice of virgins with agricultural economies, where men are more dependent on factors outside of their control, the weather, for example, than with hunting economies, where the nature of acquiring food, and the efforts relevant to its acquisition, are more clearly understood. Perhaps more importantly in agricultural economies the population is larger and the social institutions and structures more complex. A larger population is doubtless more willing to expend certain of its members; further there is in a larger population, naturally, less personal contact among all members, and this makes the sacrificial expenditure of a given member of the group a much more impersonal matter; furthermore, in the agricultural economy, with its larger population, you have, doubtless, an extensive, complex cult tradition, perhaps with its professional witch doctors or priests, providing the population with an elaborate justification for ritualized homicide. Social developments of this complexity would be less likely to occur in a hunting group. Furthermore, in a hunting group, where life would be more precarious, it seems likely to suppose that it might also be regarded as more precious. Women would be needed to bear children and carry burdens. It is not likely that they would be used as the victims in ceremonial homicides.”

“Oh, Gunther,” wept Hamilton. “Help me to escape!”

“Hunting groups, we conjecture, too,” said Gunther, “would, if they are to survive, be dominated by strong men, large men, rugged men, intelligent men, energetic, cunning and swift, men of much stamina, of sound constitution and hardy appetites.”

Gunther looked at Hamilton, and she shuddered.

“Such men,” said Gunther, “are likely to relish and appreciate, robustly, the bodies of their women. They will have better uses to put the bodies of their women to than human sacrifice.”

“You must help me to escape, Gunther,” wept Hamilton.

“With the conquest of agriculture, as you may not be aware,” said Gunther, “there was a concomitant degeneration of the human stock. This can be established skeletally, and also by cranial capacity. Modern man is smaller, and quite possibly intellectually inferior, to these free hunters. We have now, of course, in compensation, numbers and technology. We have libraries and a complicated culture. We are much more advanced, inferior, but much more advanced. We do not know what direction the race will take. As we are to the hunters, future man may be to us, miserable, petty and neurotic, or, perhaps, we shall grow again, toward the hunters-and the hunters will come again, from we ourselves-for surely we are their descendants, and surely we, somehow, somewhere, hidden within us, hold their promise-latent in our genetic codes the hunters may not be dead, but only asleep.” Gunther looked at Hamilton. “The race,” said Gunther, “is divided into the farmers and the hunters, those who grow millet and barley, those who trudge in the mud and dig in the soil the swarming mobs in the river valleys, scratching with their sticks and carrying their water, and the hunters, the lonely ones, the swift ones, the solitary ones, not understood, who will not dig in the soil, the ones who know the smell of the forest, the burrow of the ermine, the track of the caribou, who rise at dawn, in the cold, who can run fifty miles in one day, who can shoot the bow and hurl the spear, and live for weeks on the land, the cunning ones, the dissatisfied ones, the pursuers of meat.”

Hamilton looked at Gunther, strangely. Never had she heard him speak like this. He was usually silent, arrogant, taciturn.

“The world,” said Gunther, “is divided into those who fear, those who seek security, those who do not dare to lift their eyes from their narrow fields, and the other-the hunters.” Gunther was quiet for a moment, and then he spoke again. “Do you know where the hunters have gone?” he asked.

“No,” said Brenda Hamilton.

“The farmers, in their numbers, have killed them,” he said.

Hamilton regarded him.

“But they may not all be dead,” said Gunther. “Some may be only asleep.”

Hamilton said nothing.

“There has always been war,” said Gunther, “between the hunters and the farmers.” He smiled. “And I suppose there always will be.”

“There is nothing left to hunt,” said Hamilton.

“Mankind’s greatest game is now afoot,” said Gunther. He frowned. “The farmers will do what they can to prevent its pursuit.” “What game, Gunther?” asked Hamilton. “Meat!” said Gunther. “Meat fit for the godsl” “What meat, Gunther?” asked Hamilton. “The stars,” said Gunther. “The stars.” She looked at him. She shook her head. “No,” she said. “There is nothing more to hunt.” “There are the stars,” he said. Then he left her alone. Gunther is mad, thought Brenda Hamilton, he is as mad as the others. She lay back on the mattress and twisted in the heat. She jerked at the handcuff and cursed, and then tried to find a comfortable position in which to sleep.