John Norman - Gor 19 - Kajira of Gor

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Kajira of Gor
John Norman
Chronicles of Counter-Earth Volume 19
1 The Studio
“Do you not see it?” asked the man.
“Yes,” said the fellow with him.
“It is incredible,” said another.
“The resemblance is truly striking,” said the second man.
“Please turn your profile towards us, and lift your chin, Miss Collins,” said
the first man.
I complied.
I was in a photographer’s studio.
“A little higher, Miss Collins,” said the first man.
I lifted my chin higher.
“You may change in here,” had said the man earlier, indicating a small
dressing room off the studio. I had been handed a pair of clogs, a white silk
blouse and a pair of black shorts.
“No brassiere or panties,” he had said.
I had looked at him.
“We want no lines from them,” he said.
“Of course,” I had said.
The shorts were quite short, and, even without the panties, at least a size
too small. The blouse, too, even without the brassiere, was tight.
“Please tie up the blouse, in front,” he said. “We want some midriff.”
I had complied.
“Higher,” he had suggested.
I had complied.
I had then been, to my puzzlement, photographed several times, from the
neck up, front view and profile, against a type of chart, on which appeared
various graduated lines, presumably some type of calibrating or measuring
device. The lines, as nearly as I could determine, however, correlated neither
with inches nor centimeters.
“Now, please, step into the sand box,” he had said.
I had then stepped onto the sand, in the wide, flat box, with the beach
scene projected onto the large screen behind me. Then, for several minutes, the
photographer moving about me, swiftly and professionally, sometimes almost
intimately close, and giving me commands, the camera clicking, I had been
posed in an incredible variety of positions. Men, I had thought, must enjoy
putting a woman thus through her paces. Some of the shots were almost
naughty. I think, too, given the absence of a brassiere and panties, and the
skimpiness and tightness of the shorts, and the tightness of the blouse,
doubtlessly calculated features of my apparel, there would be little doubt in the
minds of the observers as to the lineaments of my figure. I did not object,
however. In fact I rather enjoyed this. I think I am rather pretty.
I was now standing in the sand, my left side facing the men, my chin
lifted. The lights were hot. To my left were the lights, the tangles of cord, the
men. To my right, in contrast, there seemed the lovely, deserted beach.
“She is pretty,” said one of the men.
“She is pretty enough to be a Kajira,” said one of the men.
“She will be,” laughed another.
I did not understand what they were talking about.
“Do not see such a woman merely in terms of such predictable and
luscious commonalities,” said the first man.
“You see clearly her potential for us, do you not?”
“Of course,” said the second man.
I did not understand them.
“Turn on the fan,” said the first man.
I then felt a cool breeze, blown by the large fan in front of me. In the
heat of the lights this was welcome.
“This coin, or medal, or whatever it is, is very puzzling,” had said the
gentle, bespectacled man, holding it by the edges with white, cotton gloves, and
then placing it down on the soft felt between us. He was an authenticator, to
whom I had been referred by a professional numismatist. His task was not to
appraise coins but to render an informed opinion on such matters as their type
and origin, where this might be obscure, their grading, in cases where a
collaborative opinion might be desired, and their genuineness.
“Is it genuine?” I asked.
“Who sold you this piece,” asked the man, “a private party? What did you
pay for it?”
“It was given to me,” I said, “by a private party.”
“That is extremely interesting,” said the man.
“Why?” I asked.
“It rules out an obvious hypothesis,” said the man. “Yet such a thing
would be foolish.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
“Puzzling,” he mused, looking down at the coin on the felt between us,
“puzzling.”
I regarded him.
“This object,” lie said, “has not been struck from machine-engraved dies.
Similarly, it is obviously not the result of contemporary minting techniques and
technology. It is not the product, for example, of a high-speed, automated coin
press.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
“It has been struck by hand,” he said. “Do you see how the design is
slightly off center?”
“Yes,” I said.
“That is a feature almost invariably present in ancient coins,” he said.
“The planchet is warmed, to soften the metal. It is then placed between the dies
and the die cap is then struck, literally, with a hammer, impressing the design of
the obverse and reverse simultaneously into the planchet.”
“Then it is an ancient coin?” I asked.
“That seems unlikely,” he said. “Yet the techniques used in striking this
coin have not been used, as far as I know, for centuries.”
“What sort of coin is it?” I asked.
“Too,” he said, “note how it is not precision milled. It is not made for
stacking, or for storage in rolls.”
I looked at him. It did not seem to me he was being too clear with me. He
seemed independently fascinated with the object.
“Such coins were too precious perhaps,” he said. “A roll of them might be
almost inconceivable, particularly in the sense of having many such rolls.”
“What sort of coin is it?” I asked.
“You see, however,” he asked, “how the depth of the planchet allows a
relief and contrast of the design with the background to an extent impossible in a
flat, milled coin?”
“Yes,” I said.
“What a superb latitude that gives the artist,” he said. “It frees him from
the limitations of a crude compromise with the counting house, from the
contemporary concessions which must be made to economic functionalism. Even
then, in so small and common an object, and in so unlikely an object, he can
create a work of art.”
“Can you identify the coin?” I asked.
“This, in its depth and beauty, reminds me of ancient coins,” he said.
“They are, in my opinion, the most beautiful and interesting of all coins.”
“Is it an ancient coin?” I asked.
“I do not think so,” he said.
“What sort of coin is it, then?” I asked.
“Look here,” be said. “Do you see how this part of the object, at the edge,
seems flatter, or straight, different from the rest of the object’s circumference?”
“Yes,” I said. To be sure, one had to took closely to see it.
“This object has been clipped, or shaved,” he said. “A part of the metal
has been cut or trimmed away. ‘In this fashion, if that is not noted, or the object
is not weighed, it might be accepted for, say, a certain face value, the individual-
responsible for this meanwhile pocketing the clipped or shaved metal.
If this is done over a period of time, with many coins, of course, the
individual could accumulate, in metal value, a value equivalent perhaps to one or
more of the original objects.”
“Metal value?” I asked.
“In modem coinage,” be said, “we often lose track of such things. Yet, if
one thinks about it, at least in the case of many coins, a coin is a way in which a
government or ruler certifies that a given amount of precious metal is involved in
a transaction. It saves weighing and testing each coin. The coin, in a sense, is an
object whose worth or weight, in standardized quantities, is certified upon it, and
guaranteed, so to speak, by an issuing authority. Commerce as we know it would
be impossible, of course, without such, objects, and notes, and credit and such.”
“Then the object is a coin?” I said.
“I do not know if it is a coin or not,” said the man.
“What else could it be?” I asked.
“It could be many things,” he said. “It might be a token or a medal. It
might be an emblem of membership in an organization or a device whereby a
given personage might be recognized by another. It might be a piece of art
intended to be mounted in jewelry. It might even be a piece in some game.”
“Can you identify it?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
The object was about an inch and a half in diameter and about three
eighths of an inch in thickness. It was yellowish, and, to me, surprisingly heavy
for its size.
“What about the letter on one side?” I asked.
“It may not be a letter,” be said. “It may be only a design.” It seemed a
single, strong, well-defined character. “If it is a letter,” he said, “it is not from an
alphabet with which I am familiar.”
“There is an eagle on the other side,” I said, helpfully.
“Is there?” he asked. He turned the coin on the felt, touching it carefully
with the cotton gloves.
I looked at the bird more closely.
“It is not an eagle,” be said. “It has a crest.”
“What sort of bird is it?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Perhaps it is a bird from some mythology,” be said,
“perhaps a mere artist’s whimsy.”
I looked at the fierce head on the surface of the yellowish object.
It frightened me.
“It does not appear to be a whimsy,” I said.
“No,” be smiled. “It doesn’t, does it?”
“Have you ever seen anything like this before?” I asked.
“No,” He said, “aside, of course, from its obvious resemblance to ancient
coins.”
“I see,” I said.
“I was afraid,” he said, “when you brought it in, that you were the victim
of an expensive and cruel hoax. I had thought perhaps you had paid a great deal
of money for this, before having its authenticity ascertained. On the other hand,
it was given to you. You were thus not being defrauded in that manner. As you
perhaps know coins can be forged, just as, say, paintings and other works of art
can be forged. Fortunately these forgeries are usually detectable, particularly
under magnification, for example, from casting marks or filing marks from seam
joinings, and so on. To be sure, sometimes it is very difficult to tell if a given coin
is genuine or not. It is thus useful for the circumspect collector to deal with
established and reputable dealers. Similarly the authentication of a coin can
often proceed with more confidence if some evidence is in band pertaining to its
history, and its former owners, so to speak. One must always be a bit suspicious
of the putatively rare and valuable coin which seems to appear inexplicably, with
no certifiable background, on the market, particularly if it lacks the backing of an
established house.”
“Do you think this object is genuine?” I asked.
“There are two major reasons for believing it is genuine,” he said,
“whatever it might be. First, it shows absolutely no signs of untypical.
production, such as being cast rather than struck, of being the result of obverse-
reverse composition, or of having been altered or tampered with in any way.
Secondly, if it were a forgery, what would it be a forgery of? Consider the
analogy of counterfeiting. The counterfeiter presumably wishes to deceive
people. Its end would not be well served by producing a twenty-five dollar bill,
which was purple and of no familiar design. There would be no point in it. It
would defeat his own purposes.”
“I understand,” I said.
“Thus,” said the man, “it seems reasonable to assume that this object,
whatever it is, is genuine.”
“Do you think it is a coin?” I asked.
“It gives every evidence of being a coin,” he said. “It looks like a coin. Its
simplicity and design do not suggest that it is commemorative in nature. It has
been produced in a manner in which coins were often produced, at least long
ago and in the classical world. It has been clipped or shaved, something that
normally occurs only with coins which pass through many hands. It even has bag
marks.”
“What are those?” I asked.
“This object, whatever it is,” said the man, “can clearly be graded
according to established standards recognized in numismatics. It is not even a
borderline case. You would not require an expert for its grading. Any qualified
numismatist could grade it. If this were a modern, milled coin, it would be rated
Extremely Fine. It shows no particular, obvious signs of wear but its surface is
less perfect than would be required to qualify it as being Uncirculated or as being
in Mint State. If this were an ancient coin, it would also qualify as being
Extremely Fine, but here the grading standards are different. Again there are
almost no signs of wear and the detail, accordingly, is precise and sharp. It
shows good centering and the planchet, on the whole, is almost perfectly
formed. Some minor imperfections, such as small nicks, are acceptable in this
category for ancient coins.”
“But what are bag marks?” I asked.
“You may not be able to detect them with the naked eye.” he said. “Use
this.” From a drawer in the desk he produced a boxlike, mounted magnifying
glass. This he placed over the coin, and snapped on the desk lamp.
“Do you see the tiny nicks?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, after a moment.
“Those are bag marks,” he said. “They are the result, usually, of the coin,
or object, being kept with several others, loose, in, say, a bag or box.”
“There might, then,” I asked, looking up from the magnifying device, “be
a large number of other objects like this somewhere?” That I found a very
interesting thought.
“Surely,” said the man. “On the other hand, such marks could obviously
have other causes, as well.”
“Then all the evidence suggests that this is a coin?” I said.
“The most crucial piece of evidence,” he said, “however, suggests that it
cannot be a coin.”
“What is that?” I asked.
“That it fits into no known type or denomination of coin.”
“I see,” i said.
“As far as I know,” he said, “no city, kingdom, nation or civilization on
Earth ever produced such a coin.”
“Then it is not a coin,” I said.
“That seems clear,” be said. “No,” he said. “Do not pay me.”
I replaced his fee in my purse.
“The object is fascinating,” he said. “Simply to consider it, in its beauty
and mystery, is more than payment enough.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“I am sorry that I could not be more helpful,” be said.
“Wait!” be called after me. I had turned to the door. “Do not forget this,”
he said, picking up the small, round, heavy object on the felt.
I turned back to face him. I was angry. I had thought that the object
might have had some value.
“It is only sonic sort of hoax,” I said, bitterly.
“Perhaps,” he said, smiling, “but, if I were you, I would take it along with
me.” “Why?” I asked.
“It has metal value, or bullion value,” he said.
“Oh?” I asked.
“Yes, he said. “Do you not understand what it is composed of?”
“No,” I said.
“It is gold,” he said.
I had hurried back and snatched the object, and put it in my purse. I had
then, hurriedly, left his office.
“Turn up the fan,” said the man, he who seemed in charge of those in the
photographer’s studio. The fan was turned up.
“Keep facing as you are,” he said, “your left side to us, your chin lifted,
That’s good.” My hair was lifted and blown back, I felt the breeze from the fan,
too, pressing my blouse back against me, even more closely. It rippled the silk at
the sides.
It tugged at the collar. The ends of the blouse, where I bad tied them
together, high on my midriff, as the man had requested, fluttered backward.
“Now arch your back and lift your hands to your hair,” he said. “Good, excellent,”
he said.
I was not a professional model. I had often thought that I was beautiful
enough to be one, but I was not one.
I heard the camera clicking. “Excellent,” said the man.
“Now look at us, over your left shoulder.”
I had had the yellowish, metallic object assayed. It had indeed been gold.
I had sold it to a bullion dealer. It would be melted down. I had received
eighteen hundred dollars for
“Now, face us, crouching slightly, your hands at your hair,” said the man.
“Good.”
These men, perhaps, wanted to train me as a model. Yet I suspected this
was not their true purpose. I was not particular as to what might be their true
purpose, incidentally. They obviously possessed the means to pay me well.
“Now smile, Tiffany,” said the man. “Good. Now crouch down in the sand,
your hands on your knees. Good. Now put your left knee in the sand. Have your
hands on your hips.
Put your shoulders back. Good. Smile. Good.”
“Good,” said one of the other men too. I could see they were pleased with
me. This pleased Vie, too. I now felt more confident that they might hire me. For
whatever object they wanted me I could sense that my beauty was not irrelevant
to it. This pleased me, as I am vain of my beauty. Why should a girl not use her
beauty to serve her ends, and to get ahead?
“Now face the camera directly, with your, left hand on your thigh and
your right hand on your knee,” said the man, “and assume an expression of
wounded feelings. Good.”
“She is good,” said one of the other men.
“Yes,” agreed another.
“Now assume an expression of apprehension,” said the first man.
“Good,” said the second man.
I normally worked at the perfume and notions counter in a large
department store on Long Island. It was there that I had been discovered, so to
speak. I had become aware, suddenly, that I was the object of the attention of
the man who was now directing this photography session. “It is incredible,” he
had said, as though to himself. He seemed unable to take his eyes from me. I
was used to men looking at me, of course, usually pretending not to, usually
furtively. I had been chosen to work at that counter because I was pretty, much
like pretty girls often being selected to sell lingerie.
Such employee placements are often a portion of a store’s merchandising
strategies. But this man was not looking at me in the same way that I was
accustomed to being looked at He was not looking at me furtively, pretending to
be interested in something else, or even frankly, like some men of Earth, rare
men, who look honestly upon a female, seeing her as what she is, a female.
Rather he was looking at me as though he could scarcely believe what he was
seeing, as though I might be someone else, someone he perhaps knew from
somewhere, someone be would not have expected to have found in such a
place. He approached the counter. He regarded me, intently.
I think I had never been so closely regarded. I was uneasy.
“May I help you?” I asked.
He said something to me in a language I did not understand. I regarded
him, puzzled.
“May I help you?” I asked.
“This is incredibly fortunate,” he said, softly.
“Sir?” I asked.
“You bear a striking resemblance to someone else,” he said. “It is
remarkable.”
I did not speak. I had thought he might have begun by asking if he did
not know me from somewhere. That stratagem, the pretext of a possible earlier
acquaintance, hackneyed and familiar though it might be, still affords a societal
acceptable approach to a female. If she is unreceptive, he may, of course,
courteously withdraw. It was merely a case of mistaken identity.
“It was almost as though it was she,” he said.
I did not encourage him. I did not, for example, ask who this other person
might be.
“I do not think I know you,” I said.
“No,” he smiled. “I would not think that you would.”
“I am also sure that I am not this other person,” I said.
“No,” he said. “I can see now, clearly, that you are not. Too, I can sense
that you lack her incisive intellect, her ferocity, her hardness, her cruelty.”
“I am busy,” I said.
“No,” he said, his eyes suddenly bard. “You are not.”
I shrugged, as though irritated. But I was frightened, and I think be knew
it. I was then terribly conscious of his maleness and power. He was not the sort
of man to whom a woman might speak in such a manner. He was rather the sort
of man whom a woman must obey.
“May I help you?” I asked.
“Show me your most expensive perfume,” he said.
I showed it to him.
“Sell it to me,” he said. “Interest me in it.”
“Please,” I said.
“Display it,” be said. “Am I not a customer?”
I looked at him.
“Spray some of it upon your wrist,” he said. “I shall see if it interests me.”
I did so.
“Extend your wrist,” be said. I did so, with the palm upward. This is an
extremely erotically charged gesture, of course, extending the delicate wrist,
perfumed, to the male, with the tender, vulnerable palm upward.
He took my wrist in both his hands. I shivered. I knew I could never break
that grip.
He put down his face, over my wrist, and inhaled, deeply, intimately,
sensuously.
I shuddered.
“It is acceptable,” he said, lifting his bead.
“It is our most expensive perfume,” I said. He had not yet released my
wrist. “Do you like it?” he asked.
“I cannot afford it,” I said.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said.
He released my wrist. “I shall take it,” he said. “Wrap it,” he said, “as a
gift.” “It is seven hundred dollars an ounce,” I said.
“It is overpriced for its quality,” he said.
“It is our best,” I said.
He -drew a wallet from his jacket and withdrew several hundred-dollar
bills from itg recesses. I could see that it held many more hills.
Trembling, I wrapped the perfume. When I had finished I took the
money.
“There is a thousand dollars here,” I said, moving as though to return the
extra bills.
“Keep what you do not need for the price and tax,” he said.
“Keep it?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“It is over two hundred dollars,” I said.
“Keep it,” he said.
While I busied myself with the register he wrote something on a small
card. “Thank you,” I said, uncertainly, sliding the tiny package toward him with
the tips of my fingers.
He pushed it back towards me. “it is for you,” he said, “of course.”
“For me?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “When is your day off?”
“Wednesday,” I said.
“Come to this address,” he said, “at ten o’clock in the morning, this
coming Wednesday.” He placed the small white card before me.
I looked at the address. It was in Manhattan.
“We shall be expecting you,” he said.
“I do not understand,” I said.
“It is the studio of a friend of mine,” he said, “a photographer. He does a
great deal of work for certain advertising agencies.”
”Oh,” I said. I sensed that this might be the opening to a career, of great
interest to me, one in which I might be able to capitalize, and significantly, on
my beauty.
“I see that you are interested,” he said.
I shrugged. “Not really,” I said. I would play hard to get.
“We do not accept prevarication in a female,” he said.
“A female?” I said. I felt for a moment Iliad been reduced to my radical
essentials.
“Yes,” he said.
I felt angry and, admittedly, not a little bit aroused by his handling of me.
“I hardly know you. I can’t accept this money, or this perfume,” I said.
“But you will accept it, won’t you?” he said.
I put down my bead. “Yes,” I said.
“We shall see you Wednesday,” he said.
“I shan’t be coming,” I said.
“We recognize that your time, as of now,” he said, “is valuable.”
I did not understand what he meant by the expression ‘as of now.’
He then pressed into my band the round, heavy, yellowish object which I
had later taken to the shop of a numismatist, and then, later, on the advice of
the numismatist, to the office of a specialist in the authentication of coins.
“This is valuable,” he said, “more so elsewhere than here.”
Again I did not understand the nuances of his speech. I looked down at
the object in m~ band. I assumed, from its shape and appearance, it might be
some kind of coin. If so, however, I certainly did not recognize it. It seemed alien
to me, totally unfamiliar. I clutched it, then, however, for he had told me that it
was valuable.
“You are a greedy little thing, aren’t you?” he said.
“I shan’t be coming,” I told him, petulantly. He made me angry. Too, he
made me feel terribly uneasy. He made me feel uncomfortably, and deeply,
female. Such feelings were terribly stimulating, but also, in their way, terribly
unsettling.
I did not know, really, how to cope with them.
I decided I would take the beginning of next week off from work. I would
try to find out something about the yellowish object. I would, then try to think
things out. Then, at my leisure, I would decide whether or not to go to the
stipulated address on Wednesday.
“We shall see you on Wednesday,” he said.
摘要：

KajiraofGorJohnNormanChroniclesofCounter-EarthVolume191TheStudio“Doyounotseeit?”askedtheman.“Yes,”saidthefellowwithhim.“Itisincredible,”saidanother.“Theresemblanceistrulystriking,”saidthesecondman.“Pleaseturnyourprofiletowardsus,andliftyourchin,MissCollins,”saidthefirstman.Icomplied.Iwasinaphotograp...

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