"John Norman - Gor 26 - Witness Of Gor" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norman John)

I was cold, and helpless.

If it would be stupid, or absurd, as I suspected, if not dangerous, to pretend to a belligerent stance, to
protest, or threaten, or to appeal to legalities, the purport of which might well be aligned precisely against
one, then perhaps, I thought, one might appeal to the pity, the mercies, of one's captors. Could one not
plead with them, armed in all the vulnerable panoply of one's tears, of one's utter helplessness and need?
Could one not beg them for mercy? Might one not even consider, in such a desperate predicament, the
almost unthinkable option of kneeling before them, and lifting one's hands to them? Might one not, in such
desperate straits, dare even to assume that posture, one so natural. so apt, to supplication? And might
not one even cry, or pretend to? Surely they could not resist so piteous a spectacle. Surely, considering
one's weakness, and the presumed power of one's captors, this would be an endeavor more likely of
success than the utterance of empty threats, of meaningless protests, the enunciation of futile demands.

I would not drink here, nor eat here.

I did not think, really, given the fact that I was here, the presumed methodicality of my arrival in this
place, the presumably routine manner of my incarceration, the nature of my cell, or kennel, suggesting that
it was not unique, that my presence here would not be its first occupancy nor its last, the unlikelihood that
there was anything special about me, the probability that I was only one of several such as myself, that
my pleas would move my captors.

I changed my position several times.

It is hard to comprehend such realities, the darkness, the dampness, the stones, the walls, the wet straw,
its smell, the collar, the chains, the not being clothed.

There was some sense of security, oddly. just being on the chain.
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I did not speculate that I might have gone insane. The chain was too real.

In time I went to my belly and put my mouth down, and lapped the water in the shallow depression
beside me. Then, a little later, I reached into the other shallow depression and withdrew the damp crust
there, and fed on it. Too, in a moment, I addressed myself to the small bit of meal in the same container.
Later, with my finger, I carefully, methodically, wiped out the inside of the depression, that I might not
miss whatever last, tiny, wet particles of meal might adhere there. They had suddenly become very
precious. As I licked these gratefully from my finger, these few particles, such tiny, damp things, I realized
that what I was fed, and when I was fed, and in what amounts, and, indeed, literally, even if I was fed,
was now up to another.

This is a very frightening thing to understand.

I lapped again a bit of water, and then wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

I rolled to my back.

I looked up, into the darkness.