John Norman (12 page)

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.