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Conspirators of Gor

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Picking up where the alien war between Kurii and the Priest-Kings left off, a young woman by the name Allison Ashton-Baker, involved in playing Gorean games on Earth, is transported to Ar to become a major witness of the unfolding events. We meet again with Lord Grendal, the result of a failed experiment to mix the genes of humans and Kurii; the Lady Bina, former pet of Agamemnon, who dreams of becoming Ubara of Ar; and Agamemnon himself, eleventh face of the Nameless One, the illustrious mastermind behind the ...

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Conspirators of Gor

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Picking up where the alien war between Kurii and the Priest-Kings left off, a young woman by the name Allison Ashton-Baker, involved in playing Gorean games on Earth, is transported to Ar to become a major witness of the unfolding events. We meet again with Lord Grendal, the result of a failed experiment to mix the genes of humans and Kurii; the Lady Bina, former pet of Agamemnon, who dreams of becoming Ubara of Ar; and Agamemnon himself, eleventh face of the Nameless One, the illustrious mastermind behind the Kurrian invasion. Packed with action, and, as usual, presented with a spicy dressing of cultural relativism and critical remarks on modernity and gender relations.
Rediscover this brilliantly imagined world where men are masters and women live to serve their every desire. 

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781497643567
  • Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media LLC
  • Publication date: 5/6/2014
  • Series: Gorean Saga Series , #31
  • Pages: 682
  • Sales rank: 351,706
  • Product dimensions: 5.50 (w) x 8.50 (h) x 1.70 (d)

Meet the Author

John Norman, born in Chicago, Illinois, in 1931, is the creator of the Gorean Saga, the longest-running series of adventure novels in science fiction history. Starting in December 1966 with Tarnsman of Gor, the series was put on hold after its twenty-fifth installment, Magicians of Gor, in 1988, when DAW refused to publish its successor, Witness of Gor. After several unsuccessful attempts to find a trade publishing outlet, the series was brought back into print in 2001. Norman has also produced a separate, three-installment science fiction series, the Telnarian Histories, plus two other fiction works (Ghost Dance and Time Slave), a nonfiction paperback (Imaginative Sex), and a collection of thirty short stories, entitled Norman InvasionsThe Totems of Abydos was published in spring 2012. 

All of Norman’s work is available both in print and as ebooks. The Internet has proven to be a fertile ground for the imagination of Norman’s ever-growing fan base, and at Gor Chronicles (, a website specially created for his tremendous fan following, one may read everything there is to know about this unique fictional culture. 

Norman is married and has three children.

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Read an Excerpt

Conspirators of Gor

The Gorean Saga: Book 31

By John Norman


Copyright © 2012 John Norman
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4976-0018-8


I had not expected to be sold.

I suppose very few do.

And certainly not on another world.

The collar is not uncomfortable. Usually I am not aware it is on me. It is noticeable, of course, when I see my reflection, as, for example, when I wish to adjust it a bit, on my neck, that it may sit more attractively on me. He wishes the lock, for example, to be squarely at the back of my neck. He is clear on that point. It is perhaps the first thing one notes, when one looks upon me, or any girl, whether she is in a collar or not. I think he will keep me in a collar, as he likes me that way. I realize now that I belong in one. I did not always realize that, but I suspected it. Most girls are not collared, but some of us are, particularly those who have been brought here from other places. They expect that we will wear collars. Surely, whether or not a girl wears a collar is the most important thing about her. You see instantly what she is, and you understand how she is to be treated. Too, in the collar, you know what you are to do, and how you are to act. The collar makes things very simple.

The collar might be removed, but that would make little difference, as we are marked, tastefully but unmistakably, most commonly on the left thigh, high, just below the hip. That is done shortly after we are brought here.

By that sign, if by no other, we are identified as what we are.

Usually we are distinctively garbed.

We are not to be confused with free women.

The tunic conceals very little. Men will have it that way.

Here I am no longer ashamed of my body.

I do not feel self-conscious, as I am an animal.

Here I am a far less beautiful animal than many, but, I think, too, I am a not inferior animal, either, to many. I have seen the eyes of men upon me. It is an interesting feeling, knowing that one is an animal. If I had not been of interest to men I do not think I would have been brought here, an animal, for their markets.

It is an interesting feeling, knowing that one is an animal, and is desired as such.

Men decide how they will have us before them.

I do not mind.

Rather, it pleases me.

It pleases me to be so, before them, as they will have me be, unmistakably displayed as what I am, honestly, forthrightly, without subterfuge, or hypocrisy, so markedly and visibly different from themselves, an animal, which may be of interest to them.

I do not object.

Rather, I am pleased.

How the free women hate us for that!

Here I am well displayed or exhibited. Here I may not conceal my nature, and needs. The tunic, the collar, the mark, make that clear.

Here we are helpless. We are denied our finest weapons, pretense, prevarication, and deceit.

How free we are, then, animals, so different from their free women.

How the free women despise us, and how we fear them!

I have learned how to walk, and move, and turn, and hold my head, and speak, and many things.

We are expected to improve our value.

Men expect much from an animal of my sort.

We are trained, as other animals.

I think it pleases them to train us.

Too, they clearly enjoy owning us, as well as other sorts of animals.

At night we are usually chained, or kenneled.

I did not always wear a collar. I was not always subject to the chain, the kennel, the whip.

I come from far away.

It is a very different place from those with which you are likely to be familiar. It is called Earth.


On your world you take so much for granted.

I wonder sometimes if you see things as they are. You value your lives, surely, and your Home Stones, and your fellows, but I wonder if you value your world, truly, or, perhaps better, value it enough. Perhaps you will value it more if you could see it, if only for a moment, through the eyes of another, one astonished, one from a quite different world, a world which was much like a charnel house, or a smoke house, a world with little pride, but much vanity, a world of crowding, scrambling about, cruelty, hating, treachery, hypocrisy, pollution, noise, corruption, foulness, a world muchly lacking in pride, and honor, a world without Home Stones.

I suppose you find that strange, a world without Home Stones.

Indeed, I wonder if you believe me, that there could be such a world, one without Home Stones.

It does exist.

I am not permitted to lie.

I am collared.

Conceive then, if you can, a world such as that from which I was obtained, a world without Home Stones, a world so meaningless, so forlorn, so petty, so empty. What are we worthy of, we, we without Home Stones? To such as those with Home Stones, of what value could such as we be? I touch my collar, and suspect. Of what else could we be good for? I look in the mirror, and understand.

I hope to please my master.

I am well aware of the penalties for failing to do so.

The men here are virile, and powerful, and are not patient. We learn to obey instantly, and unquestioningly.

It is very different here, from the world from which I was brought.

I do not object.

I think that I, even on my old world, longed for something like this, a world in which nature was recognized, and respected.

I wonder if that is hard to understand.

I do not think so.

Here is a world on which men take us, as it pleases them, and master us.

I do not object.

This is a world on which I kneel, and, head down, humbly lick and kiss the feet of my master.

He permits this.

I am grateful.

Do not despise me.

I am a female.

This is very different from being a male.

How long I longed to be taken and owned! How long I longed for a collar, and a master!

Now I am as I should be.

I am collared, and mastered.

Many of you, as I understand it, disbelieve in the existence of Earth, or, if you give some credit to the stories, you speculate that it lies to the east, beyond the Voltai, or far to the south, perhaps far beyond Bazi and Schendi, or west, like the Farther Islands. If you have attained, on the other hand, to the Second Knowledge, you understand it is alleged to be a different world, one of several orbiting Tor-tu-Gor, Light-upon-the-Home-Stone, but, even so, many of you, even with the Second Knowledge, remain skeptical, regarding it as no more than a myth or fable, and then, again, better credit the suppositions of the First Knowledge that it, if it exists, is here, on your world, but in a remote area, far from civilization.

But here I am to speak little of my old world.

In this narrative I am to deal, at least largely, with certain dark matters, political and military, matters which few here suspect, matters certainly unbeknownst to the vast majority of you, you who, in your scattered communities, in your villages, your towns, and walled cities, inhabit this fresh, wild, unspoiled, scarcely populated, beautiful place. You do not realize the danger which threatens you, what lurks in the brush, in the shadows, so to speak, so close, even at your elbow, and, too, far off, yet close enough, what crouches, watching, in the sky.

Know, good Masters and Mistresses, that others know of your world, sparkling in the darkness of the night, your morning world, so fresh, green, and sunlit, others who inhabit metal globes, who once owned such a world themselves, so beautiful, but destroyed it, and who now long for another.

I am to speak.

Many will disbelieve what I say.

And what could most do, even if they credited this narrative?

But I am to speak, nonetheless.

When in the presence of free persons, we commonly kneel. When we speak, when we are permitted to do so, we commonly speak softly, and with our heads lowered. But this is known to you. It is appropriate. We are collared.

So please forgive me for addressing you, for speaking first.

Do not think me bold.

I assure you I have learned my place.

My master has taught it to me well.

Many women on my old world do not know their place. At one time I did not know it, but I know it now.

My master has taught it to me well.

I am content in my place, for it is where I belong.

I have been commanded to speak.

I must obey.

I have no choice, I am collared.

But, too, I wish to speak.

Suppose then, if you wish, if it is easier for you, that I have been admitted to your presence, unworthy though I am, and am kneeling before you, head down, naked if you wish, a meaningless, purchasable barbarian who, with your permission, begins to speak.

She will speak of cities, and secret places, of a metal box, a Metal Worker, of beasts, large, hirsute, and dangerous, of an underground workshop, of pride, ambition, and devotion, of warriors and slaves, of gold and steel, of cords, and silk, of ships and worlds.

And so she begins.


On my former world, Gorean, the Language, is spoken rarely, and then only secretly. That is another thing you may find difficult to understand. But even on your world there are places where Gorean is not spoken. Surely you know that. Too, on my former world we do not have the serums you take so much for granted, assuring youth and strength, youth and beauty, serums so readily available, so inexpensive and abundant, that you administer them thoughtlessly and routinely, even to such as I. On my old world, such things would buy cities and ransom Ubars. On the other hand, I have here seen disputes resolved with blades, fleet tabuk felled with arrows, men confronting larls with no more than spears. Time kept with sand and water. Your swiftest ships knifing the water, propelled by no more than wind and oars. How primitive this seems to me, this country of paradoxes, of marvels and anomalies. I have gathered that much of this has to do with the rulings of your gods, called Priest-Kings, reigning from the dark, palisaded Sardar. But we are told little of these things. They are not for such as we. Matters of such moment are not discussed with us, no more than with sleen or kaiila. We rage with curiosity, and learn that curiosity is not becoming to such as we. But perhaps, finally, you know as little of your gods, your sovereigns, or Priest-Kings, as we. But we do know they exist. I have seen melted stones, where their ships have landed.

I have spoken of those who lurk in the brush, so to speak, and who watch from the skies.

They have powers far beyond your keenest steel, your sharpest spears, your swiftest arrows.

And they desire your green, fresh, unspoiled world.

The least of them, the weakest and most defective, armed with engineering, technology, and weaponry, could destroy the finest bands and prides of your Scarlet Caste, could reduce the mightiest walls to rubble, burn your ships like kindling, demolish to dust the loftiest of your fortresses.

Your only protection against these Others, these Different Ones, the lurkers and watchers, are your gods, your Priest-Kings.

But what if they should tire of you, and desert you?

I was not brought here to be embroiled in intrigue. It was not my choice. I was brought here as most from my world, as animals for your markets, selected for qualities and attributes of interest to strong men, qualities and attributes for which strong men, historically, even on my old world, will bid and pay, those qualities and attributes so despised in us, and yet coveted, I think, by your free women, beauty, desirability, weakness, vulnerability, femininity, a readiness and longing for submission, an inevitability to become, in a man's hands, the helpless, begging prisoner of our own passion, a desire to love and serve, to give all, to belong unstintingly and wholly, to be a sort of woman, meaningless and worthless, a man's subdued, yielding, grateful, loving slave! And yet, put them in a collar, and see if they are different! Subject them to the suitable and uncompromising power of nature, to exposure on the platform, to cages and kennels, to thongs, to the chain and whip, to thorough, unqualified, absolute domination, and see if they do not hasten, quickly and gratefully, to press their lips to the sandals of masters!


"Slave," she said. "Kneel!"

"You are not a free woman!" I said. "Are you so different from me? That bit of cloth you wear is as much a mockery of a garment as that which clings about me! Do I not see a metal circlet clasped close about your neck, which, I trust, is locked in place? If it is not, remove it, and I will kneel before you."

"Barbarian!" she said.

"We are no different," I said. "We are now the same, whether barbarian or Gorean!"

"No!" she said.

"I might sell for as much, or more than you!" I said.

She put her hands on her collar, her eyes flashing. "I was once free!" she said.

"So, too, once, on my world, was I!" I exclaimed.

"Liar!" she said. "See your upper left arm. You came here with that brand!"

"It is not a brand," I said. "It is a medical thing, a trace, a mark, the residue of a medical procedure, called a vaccination."

"It is a blemish," she said.

"It is very tiny!" I said.

"By such things, tiny, betraying brands, marking them as slaves," she said, "many barbarians are recognized."

"They are not brands," I said.

"Perhaps by such brands," she said, "the hunters recognize slaves."

"That is unlikely," I said, "for women on my world do not rush about, unclothed."

"What a liar, you are!" she said. "Many of your women are unveiled. Many times their arms are bared. I have seen slave garments exhibited which were concealed beneath the clothing of women on your world, obvious slave garments, garments so tiny, so soft, so smooth, so stimulating to the base, possessive instincts of men. And your hands and ankles might be noted on your world, or often so. And what of the beaches on your world, where slaves are exposed by their masters with little garmenture?"

"Few would be slaves," I said.

"Then proto-slaves," she said, "exhibiting themselves for prospective masters, displaying themselves brazenly, hoping that they might thereby come to the attention of masters."

"I assure you," I said, "my world is as complex as yours, perhaps more so."

"In the markets," she said, "I have seen chained barbarians exhibited in such garments."

I did not respond. I was unfamiliar with such markets, save from the inside.

"To be sure," she said, "only a fool would buy a clothed slave."

I had, of course, as doubtless she had as well, been sold naked. Few such experiences are as telling in making clear to one one's femaleness.

"Perhaps, on the other hand," she said, "it is by such brands that the hunters mark out their picks, their selections, their prey, for a later, convenient acquisition, a preliminary, provisional mark, scarcely noticeable, which will do, until a more appropriate marking, in the pens."

"No," I said. "Such marks often go back to childhood."

"They select them so young?" she said, interested.

"No," I said. "And men of my world are often similarly marked."

"Male silk slaves?" she said.

"Not at all," I said.

"I have seen such milky, frightened things in the markets," she said. "Some women like them. But they are men, of course, and there is always the danger that one of them, seeing here what men may be, may revert, and turn on one."

"Many men on my world are capable of being masters," I said, "and doubtless some are masters."

"It must be a fearful experience," she said, "when one's silk slave turns on one, perhaps binds one and disposes of one in a small market, taking the coins and departing the city."

"Perhaps few would have such courage," I said.

"Let us hope so," she said.

"I think that mark was a brand," she said, "by which the hunters recognized you as a slave."

"Not at all," I said. "It would not have been visible. It would have been concealed by the clothing I wore."

"How then did they recognize you as a slave?" she asked.

"I have no idea," I said, though, in truth, I had an idea of such matters. Who could not have seen the slave beneath my clothing? Could not a practiced eye have discerned saleable lineaments beneath that cloth? Who could not have looked upon my throat and not speculated on how fittingly it would have been encircled by a metal collar? Who could not have looked into my eyes, severely, and not seen the trembling, waiting slave?

"You must have been assessed," she said.

"Doubtless," I said.

"Where, when, how?" she asked.

"I do not know," I said. I did not know. It might have been anywhere, at any time, perhaps when I least suspected it, on a bus, in a subway, on the street, shopping, waiting for a light to change, stepping in or out of a taxi, in a corridor, in the aisle of a market, in a classroom, on the campus, anywhere, anytime.


Excerpted from Conspirators of Gor by John Norman. Copyright © 2012 John Norman. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Sort by: Showing all of 2 Customer Reviews
  • Posted July 24, 2012

    Guys, you're going to love this book if you're afraid of women.

    Guys, you're going to love this book if you're afraid of women. If, for example, you were the nerdy boy the cheerleaders picked on. If a beautiful woman has ever mocked you, this book is going to be a real help. Essentially, the Gor series was written especially for men who are afraid of women, and pine for the days when women were property to be used at will. If you're a real mysogynist, then best get the e-book which will be easier to read one handed, as the other one is likely to be busy - This is pretty "hearty stuff". Think fifty shades of Gray, but with lots more violence against women.

    On the other hand, if you're a woman who as always felt that well.... gender equality is all well and good, but I really would prefer to live in a society where women are treated like property. If you "play the lady ukulele" to fantasies of being chained up, beaten and made to service your master sexually any way any hooooo then - either get the e-book or the waterproof edition, because this will blow your pop-socks off.

    If you're a regular reader of books intended for adults, you might want to give this one a miss. The writing is an abomination - it is so bad that if I had an imaginary planet to live on, prose such as the hideous mess that appears in this book would be punishable by death.

    5 out of 12 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 22, 2013


    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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