Outlaw of Gor by John Norman Page A

than I had imagined.
    “Do I please you?” she asked.
    “Yes,” I said. “You please me very much.”
    I knew that this might be the first time a man had looked upon her face, except perhaps a member of her own family, if she had such.
    “Am I beautiful?” she asked.
    “Yes,” I said, “you are beautiful.”
    Deliberately, with both hands, she slipped her garment some inches down her shoulders, fully revealing her white throat. It was bare, not encircled by one of the slender, graceful slave collars of Gor. She was free.
    “Do you wish me to kneel to be collared?” she asked.
    “No,” I said.
    “Do you wish to see me fully?” she asked.
    “No,” I said.
    “I have never been owned before,” she said. “I do not know how to act, or what to do–save only that I know I must do whatever you wish.”
    “You were free before,” I said, “and you are free now.”
    For the first time she seemed startled. “Are you not one of them?” she asked.
    “One of whom?” I asked, now alert, for if there were slavers on the trail of this girl it would mean trouble, perhaps bloodshed.
    “The four men who have been following me, men from Tharna,” she said.
    “Tharna?” I asked, genuinely surprised. “I thought the men of Tharna revered women, alone perhaps of the men of Gor.”
    She laughed bitterly. “They are not in Tharna now,” she said.
    “They could not take you to Tharna as a slave,” I said. “Would the Tatrix not free you?”
    “They would not take me to Tharna,” she responded. “They would use me and sell me, perhaps to some passing merchant, perhaps in the Street of Brands in Ar.”
    “What is your name?” I asked.
    “Vera,” she said.
    “Of what city?” I asked.
    Before she could respond, if respond she would have, her eyes suddenly widened in fear, and I turned. Approaching across the meadow, ankle deep in the wet grass, were four warriors, helmeted and carrying spears and shields. By the shield insignia and blue helmets I knew them to be men of Tharna.
    “Run!” she cried, and turned to flee.
    I held her arm. She stiffened in hate. “I see!” she hissed. “You will hold me for them, you will claim right of capture and demand a portion of my price!” She spat in my face.
    I was pleased at her spirit.
    “Stand quiet,” I said. “You would not get far.”
    “I have fled from those men for six days,” wept the girl, “living on berries and insects, sleeping in ditches, hiding, running.”
    She could not have run if she had wished. Her legs seemed to quiver under her. I put my arm about her, lending her my support.
    The warriors approached me professionally, fanning out. One, not their officer, approached me directly; another, a few feet behind the first and on their left, followed him. The first, if necessary would engage me, and the second drive in on my right with his spear. The officer was the third man in the formation, and the other warrior hung several yards in the rear. It was his business to observe the entire field, for I might not be alone, and to cover the retreat of his fellows with his spear should the need arise. I admired the simple maneuvre, executed without command, almost a matter of reflex, and sensed why Tharna, in spite of being ruled by a woman, had survived among the hostile cities of Gor.
    “We want the woman,” said the officer.
    I gently disengaged myself from the girl, and shoved her behind me. The meaning of the action was not lost on the warriors.
    The eyes of the officer were narrow in the Y-like opening of his helmet.
    “I am Thorn,” he said, “a Captain of Tharna.”
    “Why do you want the women?” I taunted. “Do not the men of Tharna revere women?”
    “This is not the soil of Tharna,” said the officer, annoyed.
    “Why should I yield her to you?” I asked.
    “Because I am a Captain of Tharna,” he said.
    “But this is not the soil of Tharna,” I reminded him.
    From behind me the girl whispered, an abject whisper. “Warrior,