Anthropologist of Gor Book 1 Preparations (5)

 Diary of Dr Claudia Skimmerhorn, Head of Anthropology at Queens College City University of New York

Saturday Morning, Jan 7, 2017.

I got home very early this morning, before seven o’clock. I wanted to be home before Clara woke up, but as I write this, after showering and breakfasting, she is still sleeping like the teenager she is. When I got home to our pre-war apartment that I had inherited from my grandmother was neither trashed nor suspiciously clean. I took that to mean that Clara had not had a wild party even though I had been out all night. Because her boyfriend, Tyrone O’Neill was back at boarding school, I assumed that she had stayed away from most risky behaviors. She is very much in love with that boy who I know will break her heart. He has that ‘good guy’ affect which means he is either a sociopath, or worse, a genuinely nice young man for whom she will do foolish things and in the end disappoint her. Most men are disappointments to women in the end; usually because we expect too much of them.

I was out with Oliver last night. We met for dinner, still giddy over the events of the Zoom call the day before in my office. The call had run long and we had not had a chance to discuss the amazingly good news of the acceptance of our proposal of an Anthropological Expedition to Gor.

I’m sorry, our Anthropological Expedition to the Antichthon, as I must learn to call it. Enthusiasts of Professor John Norman’s writings are always searching the internet for more information about their passion, and our funders do not want to attract the attention of pulp novel readers. Our Expedition is a serious scientific endeavor, not a sexy book for horny teenagers! Oliver and I were extremely excited when the call opened and we saw the title slide.

FIRST ANTHROPOLOGICAL EXPEDITION TO THE ANTICHTHON – BUDGET.

It was the word budget that gave me chills. Lots of things may be proposed and discussed, but budget moves things to another level. A level of reality.

            Oliver and I read with increasing excitement.

“Oliver, these proposed numbers are out of this world, I have never seen such numbers!”

            The time-line was tight, but the money they were thinking of giving us!  Oliver and I had not expected much of an honorarium for leading the study. We would be on sabbatical and expected to live on that. But this budget proposed mid-six-figures amounts for each of us, plus a bonus, “in the event of returning with significant amounts of data.” OK, that was sobering, a reminder of the dangers into which we would be undertaking. In addition, there was generous insurance ‘against dismemberment, disfigurement, illness, ill-treatment, or mental or physical distress, or any other effects,’ in return, of course for holding the City University of New York, any other academic institution, or any other individual or institution whatsoever absolutely blameless.

            The payments for the other members would be large as well. Not retirement wealth such as would be paid to Oliver and I, but enough to pay off student loans and proceed to further education with taking on any debt. For a young scholar that would be heaven. There was money, good money, to the University to lease, for at least two years space to train and study both before and after the expedition. They would fund us being away for a whole year, enough to conduct a proper preliminary survey of an unknown culture. It was like winning the lottery. The lease money would silence any questions from nosy people inside the University. Universities by their nature are full of inquisitive people. They are jealous of any advantage accruing to another scholar. They squabble like peasants over the smallest advantage to another. But this much money would cause the administration to shut down all that noise. That victory alone would be enough to gladden my heart! (Yes, I am as petty as any of them; the difference is I earn my perks by hard work and superior intelligence.)

Then we met, virtually, some of the people and groups funding the Expedition to the Antichthon, and a strange group they were! They would be the main topic for Oliver and I over dinner at Arlecchino, a small, excellent restaurant on a side street in Manhattan.

Arlecchino is a gem. It is unknown to taste makers, off the radar of the fashionable, blessedly ignored by those who go out to be ‘seen’. It is run by the third generation of the family that started in eighty years ago, and is usually busy enough with regular customers and the lucky who stumble in off the streets to stay in business and make a decent profit. I had my first meal at Arlecchino when I was fourteen, brought there by my grandmother. Oliver, too, was a long-time patron, it was one of the bonds between us. I wondered, while I waited at our table for Oliver to arrive, if he ever brought Denni, his twenty-two-year-old teaching assistant here. I hoped not. It would be a betrayal, opening me to the ridicule of the owners and staff. Still, one mustn’t expect too much of men. That way leads to disappointment.

The walls were decorated with images of the Commedia dell ‘Arte of Italy. They were like old friends, lovely, sweet Columbine, the posturing Il Capitano, and the others, including dear Arlecchino himself. I looked up to see our server leading Oliver to the table. She was new, and young. She had a family resemblance to many of the staff. The restaurant had provided employment for the extended family for years; some stayed forever, some it put through college or apprenticeships. Some founded their own places, chips off the old Harlequin, as it were.

The place was almost empty, just a few other diners. The first weeks of January, after the blowouts of Christmas and New Year's Eve are quiet ones in the restaurant trade. Things would not pick up again much until Valentine’s Day. A hand-printed sign in the window informed patrons that the restaurant would be closed Saturday Night for a Staff Party and then closed all next week. This too is common in the restaurant trade.

I greeted Oliver with a peck on the cheek. We ordered drinks, a whiskey sour for me, and beer for Oliver. I didn’t have any liking for girlie drinks such as Cosmos or the such. Even though the place was almost empty, we waited until we were alone to talk.

“Oliver, besides of course, getting funding and being funded at such an extravagant level, I think the thing which gave me the greatest joy was that the heading: “Anthropology of the Antichthon – First Expedition”. First Expedition implies that there will be more to follow – so exciting! The fact that so many groups are involved means lots of interested groups competing to fund us in return for looking into their pet concerns.”

“You are not worried that the Department of Defense is one of them?”

“No, Oliver, I am not. It means that we are taken seriously, and not just by groups of enthusiasts. That old man was kind of scary though. He did not seem to have much patience with fools.”

We stopped talking as the server brought our drinks. She was dressed as a waiter, with black trousers and white shirt, a few ruffles in the front. She wore a black bow tie; the shirt had French cuffs with gold cufflinks. Very stylish. Except for her face and hands her body was entirely covered, yet the severity of the male costume, made her seem more enticing, even I could see that. Oliver stared after her as she left the table, watching the swell of her buttocks filling out the trouser seat. Before the last few months when he started learning the Gorean language, or rather the language of the Antichthon, he never showed such bad manners. Ogling the servers with a female companion present was not a thing he would have done before making a study of the Chronicles of the Antichthon and its language. I put that piece of knowledge away to consider at a later time.

Oliver picked up our conversation.

“The Defense Dept man, what was his name?”

I consulted my notes.

“J Morgan Cornelius, from the Navy Dept. Not DARPA as he pointed out twice.”

Oliver nodded. “Yes that’s him. The man from that French group, Le Conseil d'Aventure called him Morgan, they must know each other.”

“They both likely know some interesting people, the Frenchman called himself the Comte de la Fere, but that is likely an alias.”

“Very likely indeed. Anyway, Mogan Cornelius sure slapped down the funny little man from the Defend the Earth Coalition of Roswell when he asked if there was worry about an invasion. Cornelius said that from what he had read in our submission, only small parties could travel through the portal at time and he was not worried about small bands of men with swords and spears. He said, ‘there is no danger of invasion from that planet’ ‘That planet’, I wonder if he is worried about invasion from other planets? Something to think about.”

I nodded, then added,

“He reassured the environmentalist people too. He told the Green Earth Survival Coalition, that there was no danger of going and environmentally looting the Antichthon either. How did he put it? From what I understand, the rulers of the Antichthon do not permit any firearms or such technologies there. Of course that is reiterated many times in the Chronicles.

“Some of the smaller funders had some useful ideas. Like that of the World Forest Survival Group to take samples of the air inside and if possible, outside of the city we arrive in to see if there is more oxygen in the air of the Antichthon and what the level of pollutants is. I know I have never breathed any air, any place on Earth as exhilarating as that of G.., I mean as the air of the Antichthon when I was there for a week.”

The server brought our appetizers; a salad for me, a bowl of Italian Wedding soup for Oliver. I noticed he was looking at the cuffs of her shirt and then at the bow tie. He was not obvious about it this time, but I could follow both his glances and his thoughts. Despite the girl’s modest attire, he was thinking that the tie, tied so neatly and closely around her throat, could be a collar, and the cuffs, secured with the gold cufflinks, could be another kind of cuffs, ones secured with a lock. Oliver is not the only one of us who has become sensitized to certain clues of clothing and possibilities by close study of the Chronicles of Dr Norman.

Oliver did not mention any thoughts he might have had. He resumed discussion of the zoom meeting.

“The ‘Comte de la Fere’ from the Conseil d’Aventure, had some good suggestions I suspect this Conseil are either professional or amateur members of French Intelligence, helping out unofficially.”

“Mission Impossible,” I said, giving the words a French accent”

“Quite Possible”, he replied, again with a French twist. “Amateur French adventurers, likely eccentrics of the old aristocracy, trying to spice up their lives in a humdrum world. Still he had some good ideas.”

“About the need for linguists and linguistic anthropologist in the party” I said. “I entirely agree. His idea that the linguistic expert or experts should work on our accents and those of our party so we sound less foreign is a good one. Especially to lose our Earth accents and have, if not a local accent, then one that is generically Gorean ‘from someone where else.’”

“Like an English actor playing an American. It is usually enough if they sound ‘not English’, but sound like something American, even if not from any place in particular’.”

“Exactly, Oliver. I liked the point he made, that if we tried to pretend to be local, we would soon slip up, but if we were from someplace non-threatening not to different, it would be accepted. The other point, which I had not thought of, was to have the linguistic anthropologist do covert studies on the associates we take with us, to see if their general social attitudes change as they acquire fluency in the language of the Antichthon, especially as regards gender roles.”

“Nonsense!” Oliver almost snorted. “It would be worth doing, I suppose, but I think it unlikely to find changes in attitudes just from thinking in a new language. It is more like Sociology, looking for correct answers and then finding what you are looking for, than observing like Anthropology and then drawing inferences from what is observed, no matter how unlikely. That is more scientific.”

“Maybe you are right.”

The server returned with our mains. As she walked away, I observed Oliver closely. I have known him for a long time; I could see what the casual watcher would not. That this man, this gentleman, who had been studying the Chronicles and the language of the Antichthon for a few months, desired our server to be serving, kneeling, naked, in a collar and cuffs. As we began eating in silence I realized something else. That I, a middle-aged woman of achievement, fiercely hated the young server. I hated her for her youth and for the sexuality that could not be concealed within the modest masculine costume. I hated her and wanted to drive from Oliver with a switch or even a whip. As a scholar, I considered it interesting. As a person, I considered it unfair that she should attract Oliver in such a visceral way. Sluts such as her should be collared and kept away from men, who after all, are just men, prey to their urges.

After a few minutes, Oliver said:

“We should talk about the third big donor: the Gender Parity Research Council.”

I made a face.

“Well, Oliver the GPRC certainly have an agenda, what I don’t understand is why they are a funder of our Expedition. One of our, or rather my hypotheses, is that one of the main pillars of the conservatism of Antichthon society is that the majority of the Free Women are generally satisfied or at least content with distinct gender roles and even with the collared servitude of some of their number, the kajira.”

“I think, Claudia, that they expect further research, by a group of scholars, half of which will be female, will discredit the working hypothesis.”

“The vast majority of women on the Antichthon, are not collared,” I pointed out. “And they are not rioting or demonstrating against the status quo. They don’t like the kajirae of course, because they are hypersexualized by their condition and distract attention and money from them and their homes, but I wonder if that is enough to make them generally unhappy.”

Our server came to collect the dessert orders. I know Oliver well. It was apparent to me that he wanted her naked on her knees in his collar. As to whether that was a desire implanted in him by study of the Chronicles and Language of the Antichthon, or if it merely awakened in him a desire that was already there was beyond me to say.

I returned to the topic of the Gender Parity Research Council.

“The GPRC had a large presence on the zoom call. Four, two men and two women. The women mostly had their cameras off and stayed muted. The men were on camera and had their mikes open. I thought that strange. The men seemed odd as well, I am not sure in what way, but definitely odd.”

“They didn’t seem very outdoorsy,” offered Oliver. Like they didn’t get out much. Men who talked all day inside with not many competencies. Men with soft hands.”

“That’s it, Oliver. They are soft men. Like housecats that never go outside, that never catch their own food. Whose only skills are soft words and manipulating reality away. Like, I searched for an adequate epithet. Like Sociologists!”

“Steady girl. Them’s fighting words. Not that they would fight. They would just put up their hands and say ‘agree to disagree.’ Very agreeable men. Almost neutered.”

“Like housecats.”

“Like pussycats.”

Oliver continued.

“The older woman put up a fight though. She was sure that all women on the Antichthon were discontented. She was sure that they all hated the system. The patriarchy.”

“So the Chronicles tell us, but I am not as sure. After all, all of the narratives we have are from men and women taken from Earth to that other planet. They may well have the fervor of converts. We don’t have a single testimony from a Free Woman of the Antichthon. You know my hypothesis. That the other planet is intensely resistant to social change; That requires a population that is at least satisfied with the way things are. A group as large as that of the Free Women could cause unrest if not placated as they are by high status and honor.”

“As long as they stay within their bounds,” offered Oliver.

“As long as they stay within their bounds,” I agreed. “And most do.”

“Not all, some speak out against plays, against kajirae in the streets. Some buy silk slaves, some take risks.”

“As I pointed out to the woman from the GPRC, that is a safety valve for society. Rather than be disruptive Free Woman, they find themselves in another role, one they, at least unconsciously, seek out. If they will not fit into the role of a respected and honored Free Woman, a woman who is priceless; they will find themselves forced into another role, that of a woman whose price is determined on the auction block.”

The server refilled our coffee cups; Oliver and I, separately of course, paid our bills. Because the place was nearly empty, there was no objection if we stayed and continued talking. I watched Oliver as he watched her walking away. I was sure that if he had brought Denielle McCabe here, he had thought of owning them both under the moons of the Antichthon. In that moment I hated Denni Perfect Tits more even than the server. Choking that down, I returned to my topic.

“I am convinced that at least half the collared sluts on Gor have unconsciously or sometimes consciously sought out the collar. They take trips outside the safety of the stone walls of their city or the wooden palisades of their village. They enter risky business deals where the chance of default and collaring is high. They walk the high paths between the cylinders. They buy silk slaves, despite the danger. They engage in trades with a high probability of the brand, like the Slaver Caste. They chose the collar because, to a small number of Free Women, it is preferable to the placid life of a Free Woman.”

“Not all in the collar sought it out,” Oliver objected.

“No. Some fall during the dislocations caused by war. Some are sold, or offer themselves up during famines to avoid starvation, or to save their children or families. There is a element of randomness, to get to what has proven over the centuries to be the optimal proportion of kajirae to Free Women. After all, except in one city, and that was an exceptional circumstance, the proportion has not changed in centuries. The society of the Antichthon is a very stable one.”

There was more to discuss, but Arlecchino was closing and I had designs on Oliver and he had designs on me, despite his desire for our server. So we left.

“Good night, come again.”

Such a sweet girl, so unsuspecting. I hated her.

When I got home this morning, I was very tired. Oliver’s desires had rendered him highly enthusiastic