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would lie within. The Tamara shifted in the current. I reconnoitered, as I could, moving the side of my head slightly. I peered into the cabin. I saw a table, and charts. I could not see his berth. I could not see the entire cabin. I assumed the cabin was empty. Surely Reginald himself, captain of the Tamira, would be above
    decks and forward, presumably on the stem castle taking note of the course of the battle. On the other hand if he should be in the cabin, or if it should be otherwise occupied, I must enter swiftly and without warning, that I might, if necessary, strike before being struck. I wiped the knife on my thigh. The preservation of the life of Reginald, or of another within, was not essential to the pursuit of my objectives.
    With a shattering of glass and wood I crashed into the cabin.
    She screamed, suddenly rising to a kneeling position in the berth, clutching the scarlet sheet about her throat.
    I stood between her and the door, half-naked, the knife in my hand.
    "Who are you?" she cried.
    I backed from her and then, turning, tried the door. She had been locked within, as I had speculated. From the inside, then, scarcely taking my eyes from her, I dropped the heavy bar into place, in its brackets, securing the door from the inside. I then, with its chain, and ship's lock, secured the bar in place.
    "Who are you?" she demanded, holding the sheet high about her.
    "Lower the sheet to your shoulders," I told her.
    She looked at me, angrily. Then she obeyed. There was a close-fitting steel collar on her neck.
    Seeing that she was a slave, no longer did I fear to compromise the modesty of a free woman. "Discard the sheet," I told her. She, kneeling in the berth, dropped it to her knees. "Completely," I told her.
    She cast the sheet aside.
    She was voluptuous, and blond, and blue-eyed. I saw that she would bring a high price in a slave market.
    "I shall scream," she said.
    "Do so, and I shall cut your pretty throat from ear to ear," I said.
    "Who are you!" she demanded.
    "Your master," I told her.
    "I am the slave of Reginald," she said. "Captain of the Tamira."
    "Are you aware that there is a battle going on outside?" I inquired.
    "Yes," she said, uneasily, squirming, naked, in the berth.

I grinned. Gorean men sometimes order their women to await them, thus. Indeed, that sort of thing is done even on Earth, by men who own their women Perhaps a telephone call instructs the woman to be waiting naked in bed for them when they arrive. She lies there alone, unclothed, under the sheets, awaiting her master. When he arrives, she is well ready to be touched.
    "Reginald, I take it," I said, "anticipates victory."
    She tossed her head. "Of course," she said.
    "This is the scout ship of Ragnar Voskjard," I said.
    "Perhaps," she said.
    "Why are you aboard?" I asked.
    "It pleased my master to bring me," she said.
    "Are you a Luck Girl?" I asked.
    She shrugged. "I am a female slave," she said.
    I smiled. Many Goreans regard the sight of a female slave as good luck. Certainly, at the very least, they are joys to look upon. The presence of a free woman on a ship, incidentally, causes some Gorean sailors uneasiness. Indeed, some, superstitiously, - and mistakenly, in my opinion, regard them as harbingers of ill fortune. This is probably, from the objective point of view, a function of the dissension such a woman may produce, particularly on long voyages, and of the alterations in seamanship and conduct which can be attendant upon her presence on shipboard. For example, knowing that a free woman is on board, and must be accommodated and protected, can adversely, whether it should or not, affect the decisions of a captain. He might put into shore when it would be best to remain at sea; he might run when he should fight; when he should be firm, he might vacillate; when he should be strong, he might be conciliatory and weak.
    There have been occasions recorded when a free woman, usually one who has been haughty and troublesome, has