Dancer of Gor

"You may, of course, avail yourself of the privacy of your washroom," he said. I then walked between two men, the second and third man, to the ladies" room, and brushed aside the loose door. They waited outside, almost as though they might have some respect for my privacy. I turned on the light. I removed the jewelry, the ankles and necklaces, and such, I had worn. Then I reached behind my back and unhooked the scarlet halter, and slipped it from me. I looked at my breasts. In the tiny bit of scarlet silk they had given me to wear, their form, and loveliness, if they were lovely, would be in little doubt. I then slipped from the tights and skirt. I was naked, save for a leather thong on my left ankle, and bells. I felt strange, standing there in the ladies" room in the library, naked. Then I drew the small bit of silk over my head. They had obviously searched my room, perhaps ransacking it, and found it. They seemed to know a great deal about me. Perhaps they had thought it their business to learn about me. Perhaps there was little about me that they did not know. They knew even about that bit of silk, now on my body, one of my most closely guarded secrets.

I then turned off the light in the ladies" room and, to the small sound of bells on my ankle, returned to the central area.

"Stand there," said the man. I did. "Now, turn slowly before us," he said. I obeyed.

"Good," he said.

I looked at him.

"Kneel," he said.

I knelt.

"In your dance," he said, "you were frightened."

"Yes," I said.

"Still," he said, "it is clear that you are not without talent, indeed, perhaps even considerable talent."

I was silent.

"But it is also clear that you were holding back, that as a typical female of Earth, you would cheat men, that you would not give them all that you had to give. That sort of thing is now no longer permitted to you."

"a€”of Earth?" I said.

"Women look well in garments such as that you are wearing," he said. "They are appropriate for them."

Again I was silent. It was dark in the library, but not absolutely dark, of course. It was mostly a matter of shadows, and lighter places, of darker and lighter areas. Here where we were light came through the high, narrow windows to my left, from the moon, and from a street lamp, about a hundred feet away. It was near the western edge of the parking lot, by the sidewalk, fixed there, mainly, I suppose, to illuminate the street running at the side of the library. The front entrance is reached by a drive. It was spring. At that time I did not realize the significance of the time. The building was warm.

"Are you a "modern woman"?" he asked.

"Yes," I said. Again I did not know what else to say. He had asked me that question long ago, months ago, in the aisle, in our first encounter. I supposed it was true, in some sense.

"It is easy enough to take that from a woman," he said.

I looked at him, puzzled.

"Are you a female intellectual?" he asked.

"No," I said, as I had responded before, when he had asked the question long ago, in our first encounter.

"Yet in your personal library, that in your quarters, there are such books as Rosovtzeff" s History of the Ancient World and Mommsen" s History of Rome," he said. "Have you read them?"

"Yes," I said.

"They are now both out of print," he said.

"I brought them in a secondhand bookstore," I said. He had spoken of my "quarters," and not, say, of my "Rooms," or my "apartment." To me that seemed odd. Too, as he spoke now, at greater length, his accent, as it had once been before, was detectable. Still, however, I could not place it. I was sure his native tongue was not English. I did not know what his background might be. I had never encountered a man like him. I had not known they existed.

"Women such as you," he said, "use such books as cosmetics and ornaments, as mere intellectual adornments. They mean no more to you than your lipstick and eye shadow, than the baubles in your jewelry boxes. I despise women such as you."

I regarded him, frightened. I did not understand his hostility. He seemed to bear me some hatred, or some kind of woman he though I was, some hatred. I was afraid he did not wish to understand me. He seemed unwilling to recognize that there might be some delicacy and authenticity in my interest in these things, for their own value and beauty. To be sure, perhaps a bit of my motivation in their acquisition had been from vanity, but, yet, I was sure that there had been something genuine there, too. There must have been!

"Did you lean anything from the books?" he asked.

"I think so," I said.

"Did you learn the worlds of which they speak?" he asked.

"A little about them," I said.

"Perhaps it will do you some good," he mused.

"I do not understand," I said.

"But such books," he said, "are now behind you."

"I do not understand," I said.

"You will no longer need them where you are going," he said.

"I do not understand," I said.

"Such things will no longer be a part of your life," he said. "Your life is not going to be quite different."