and weeping. Dimly she heard: “That was five seconds’ worth. Direct
nerve stim from the bracelet, triggers a center in the brain. Harmless
for periods of less than a minute, if you haven’t got a weak heart or
something. Do you understand you’d better be a good girl? All right, on
your feet.”
As she swayed erect, the shudders slowly leaving her, he smirked and
muttered, “You know, you’re a looker. Exotic; none of this standardized
biosculp format. I’d be tempted to bid on you myself, except the price
is sure to go out of my reach. Well … hold still.”
He did no more than feel and nuzzle. She endured, thinking that probably
soon she could take a long, long, long hot shower. But when a guard had
conducted her to the women’s section, she found the water was cold and
rationed. The dormitory gaped huge, echoing, little inside it other than
bunks and inmates. The mess was equally barren, the food adequate but
tasteless. Some twenty prisoners were present. They received her kindly
enough, with a curiosity that sharpened when they discovered she was
from a distant planet and this was her first time on Terra. Exhausted,
she begged off saying much and tumbled into a haunted sleep.
The next morning she got a humiliatingly thorough medical examination. A
psychotech studied the dossier on her which Naval Intelligence had
supplied, asked a few questions, and signed a form. She got the
impression he would have liked to inquire further–why had she
rebelled?–but a Secret classification on her record scared him off. Or
else (because whoever bought her would doubtless talk to her about it)
he knew from his study how chaotic and broken her memories of the
episode were, since the hypnoprobing on Diomedes.
That evening she couldn’t escape conversation in the dormitory. The
women clustered around and chattered. They were from Terra, Luna, and
Venus. With a single exception, they had been sentenced to limited terms
of enslavement for crimes such as repeated theft or dangerous
negligence, and were not very bright or especially comely.
“I don’t suppose anybody’ll bid on me,” lamented one. “Hard labor for
the government, then.”
“I don’t understand,” said Kossara. Her soft Dennitzan accent intrigued
them. “Why? I mean, when you have a worldful of machines, every kind of
robot–why slaves? How can it … how can it pay?”
The exceptional woman, who was handsome in a haggard fashion, answered.
“What else would you do with the wicked? Kill them, even for tiny
things? Give them costly psychocorrection? Lock them away at public
expense, useless to themselves and everybody else? No, let them work.
Let the Imperium get some money from selling them the first time, if it
can.”
Does she talk like that because she’s afraid of her bracelet? Kossara
wondered. Surely, oh, surely we can complain a little among ourselves!
“What can we do that a machine can’t do better?” she asked.
“Personal services,” the woman said. “Many kinds. Or … well,
economics. Often a slave is less efficient than a machine, but needs
less capital investment.”
“You sound educated,” Kossara remarked.
The woman sighed. “I was, once. Till I killed my husband. That meant a
life term like yours, dear. To be quite safe, my buyer did pay to have
my mind corrected.” A sort of energy blossomed in look and tone. “How
grateful I am! I was a murderess, do you hear, a murderess. I took it on
myself to decide another human being wasn’t fit to live. Now I know–”
She seized Kossara’s hands. “Ask them to correct you too. You committed
treason, didn’t you say? Beg them to wash you clean!”
The rest edged away. Brain-channeled, Kossara knew. A crawling went
under her skin. “Wh-why are you here?” she stammered. “If you were
bought–”
“He grew tired of me and sold me back. I’ll always long for him … but
he had the perfect right, of course.” The woman drew nearer. “I like
you, Kossara,” she whispered. “I do hope we’ll go to the same place.”
“Place?”
“Oh, somebody rich may take you for a while. Likelier, though, a
brothel–”
Kossara yanked free and ran. She didn’t quite reach a toilet before she