Farnham's Freehold

by Robert A. Heinlein

  Barbara’s note that night applauded the idea of a literary discussion club by mail and discussed Mark Twain. Hugh was interested only in how it read diagonally:

  “Did

  I

  read

  it

  correctly

  darling

  question

  mark”

  19

  “Darling

  we

  must

  escape

  next

  six

  days

  or

  sooner

  be

  ready

  night

  after

  letter

  has

  phrase

  Freedom

  is

  a

  lonely

  thing⁠—⁠”

  For the next three days Hugh’s letters to Barbara were long and chatty and discussed everything from Mark Twain’s use of colloquial idiom to the influence of progressive education on the relaxation of grammar. Her answers were lengthy, equally “literary,” and reported that she would be ready to open the hatch, confirmed that she understood, that she had a little stock of food, had no knife, no shoes—but that her feet were very calloused—and that her only worry was that the twins might cry or that her roommates might wake up, especially as two of them were still giving night feedings to their babies. But for Hugh not to worry, she would manage.

  Hugh drew a fresh bottle of Happiness, taped it near the top of the shaft closest to her billet, instructed her to tell her roommates that she had stolen it, then use it to get them so hopped up on the drug that they would either sleep or be so slaphappy that if they did wake, they would do nothing but giggle—and, if possible, get enough of the drug into the twins that the infants would pass out and not cry no matter how they were handled.

  Making an extra trip through the tunnels to plant the bottle was a risk Hugh hated to take. But he made it pay. He not only timed himself by the clock in his rooms and learned beyond any possibility of mistake the rat maze he must follow but also he carried a practice load, a package of scrolls taped together to form a mass bigger and heavier, he felt sure, than one of his infant sons would be. This he tied to his chest with a sling made of stolen cloth; it had been a dust cover for the scroll printer in his offices. He made two such slings, one for Barbara, and tore and tied them so they could be shifted to the back later to permit the babies to be carried papoose style.

  He found that it was difficult but not impossible to carry a baby in this fashion through the tunnels, and he spotted the places where it was necessary to inch forward with extreme care not to place any pressure on his dummy “precious burden” and still not let the ties on his back catch on engineering fittings above him.

  But it could be done and he got back to his rooms without waking Kitten—he had increased her evening bonus of Happiness. He replaced the scrolls, hid his knife and spherical lamp, washed his knees and elbows and anointed them, then sat down and wrote a long P.S. to the letter he had written earlier to tell Barbara how to find the bottle. This postscript added some afterthoughts about the philosophy of Hemingway and remarked that it seemed odd that a writer would in one story say that “freedom is a lonely thing” and in another story state that—and so on.

  That night he gave Kitten her usual amplified nightcap, then said, “Not much left in this bottle. Finish it off and I’ll get a fresh one tomorrow.”

  “Oh, I’d get terribly silly. You wouldn’t like me.”

  “Go ahead, drink it. Have a good time, live it up. What else is life for?”

  Half an hour later Kitten was more than willing to be helped to bed. Hugh stayed with her until she was snoring heavily. He covered her hands, stood looking down at her, suddenly knelt and kissed her good-bye.

  A few minutes later he was down the first manhole.

  He took off his robe, piled on it a bundle of what he had collected for survival—food, sandals, wig, two pots of deodorant cream into which he had blended brown pigment. He did not expect to use disguise and had little faith in it, but if they were overtaken by daylight before they were in the mountains, he intended to darken all four of them, tear their robes into something resembling the breechclout and wrap-around which he had learned were the working clothes of free peasant farmers among the Chosen—“poor black trash” as Joe called them—and try to brazen it out, keeping away from people if possible, until it was dark again.

  He tied one baby sling to him with the other inside it and started. He hurried, as time was everything. Even if Barbara managed to pass out her roommates promptly, even if he had no trouble breaking out at his preferred exit, even if the crawl back through the tunnels could be made in less than an hour—doubtful, with the kids—they could not be outdoors earlier than midnight, which allowed them five hours of darkness to reach wild country. Could he hope for three miles an hour? It seemed unlikely, Barbara barefooted and both carrying kids, the country unknown and dark—and those mountains seen from his window seemed to be at least fifteen miles away. It would be a narrow squeak even if everything broke his way.

  He made fast time to sluts’ quarters, punishing his knees and elbows.

  The bottle was missing, he could feel the tacky places where he had fastened it. He settled himself as comfortably as possible and concentrated on quieting his pounding heart, slowing his breathing, and relaxing. He tried to make his mind blank.

  He dozed off. But he was instantly alert when the lid over him was raised.

  Barbara made no sound. She handed him one of their sons, he stuffed the limp little body as far down the tunnel as he could reach. She handed him the other, he placed it beside the first, then added a pitiful little bundle she had.

  But he did not kiss her until they were down inside—only seconds after he had wakened—and the lid had clicked into place over them.

  She clung to him, sobbing; he whispered to her fiercely not to make a sound, then added last-minute instructions into her ear. She quieted instantly; they got busy.

  It was agonizingly difficult to get ready for the crawl in a space too small for one and nearly impossible for them both. They did it because they had to. First he helped her get out of the shorter garment sluts wore, then he had her lie down with her legs back in the other reach of the tunnel while he tied a baby sling to her, then a baby was stuffed into each sling and knots tightened to keep each child slung as high in its little hammock as possible. Hugh then knotted the skirt of her garment together, stuffed her hoarded food into the sack thus formed, tied the sleeves around his left leg, and let it drag behind. He had planned to tie it around his waist, but the sleeves were too short.

  That done (it seemed to take hours), he had Barbara back up into the far reach of the tunnel, then managed painfully to turn himself and get headed the right way without banging little Hughie’s skull. Or was it Karl Joseph? He had forgotten to ask. Either one, the baby’s warm body against his, its lightly sensed breathing, gave him fresh courage. By God, they would make it! Whatever got in his way would die.

  He set out, with the light in his teeth, moving very fast wherever clearance let him do so. He did not slow down for Barbara and had warned her that he would not unless she called out.

  She did not, ever. Once her baggage worked loose from his leg. They stopped and he had her tie it to his ankle; that was their only rest. They made good time but it seemed forever before he reached the little pile of plunder he had cached when he set out.

  They unslung the babies and caught their breaths.

  He helped Barbara back into her shift, rearranged her sling to carry one baby papoose fashion, and made up their luggage into one bundle. All that he held out was his knife taped to his arm, his robe, and the light. He showed her how to hold the light in her mouth, then spread her lips and let the tiniest trickle leak out between her teeth. She tried it.

  “You look ghastly,” he whispered, “Like a jack-o’-lantern. Now listen carefully. I
’m going up. You be ready to hand me my robe instantly. I may reconnoiter.”

  “I could help you get it on, right here.”

  “No. If I’m caught coming out, there will be a fight and it would slow me down. I won’t want it, probably, until we reach a storeroom that is our next stop. If it’s all clear above, I’ll want you to hand out everything fast, including the baby not on your back. But you will have to carry him as well as the bundle and my robe; I’ve got to have my hands free. Darling, I don’t want to kill anybody but if anyone gets in our way, I will. You understand that, don’t you?”

  She nodded. “So I carry everything. Can do, my husband.”

  “You follow me, fast. It’s about two city blocks to that storeroom and we probably won’t see anyone. I jiggered its lock this afternoon, stuffed a wad of Kitten’s chewing gum into it. Once inside we’ll rearrange things and see if you can wear my sandals.”

  “My feet are all right. Feel.”

  “Maybe we’ll take turns wearing them. Then I have to break a lock on a delivery door but I spotted some steel bars a week ago which ought still to be there. Anyhow, I’ll break out. Then away we go, fast. It should be breakfast before we are missed, sometime after that before they are sure we are gone, still longer before a chase is organized. We’ll make it.”

  “Sure we will.”

  “Just one thing—If I reach for my robe and then close the lid on you, you stay here. Don’t make a sound, don’t try to peek out.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I might be gone an hour. I might fake a bellyache and have to see the vet, then come back when I can.”

  “All right.”

  “Barbara, it might be twenty-four hours, if anything goes wrong. Can you stay here and keep the twins quiet that long? If you must?”

  “Whatever it takes, Hugh.”

  He kissed her. “Now put the light back in your mouth and close your lips. I’m going to sneak a peek.”

  He raised the lid an inch, lowered it. “In luck,” he whispered. “Even the standing light is out. Here I go. Be ready to hand things up. Joey first. And don’t show a light.”

  He pushed the lid up and flat down without a sound, raised himself, got his feet to the corridor floor, stood up.

  A light hit him. “That’s far enough,” a dry voice said, “Don’t move.”

  He kicked the whip hand so fast that the whip flew aside as he closed. Then this—and that!—and sure enough! The man’s neck was broken, just as the book said it would be.

  Instantly he knelt down. “Everything out! Fast!”

  Barbara shoved baby and baggage up to him, was out fast as he took her hand. “Some light,” he whispered. “His went out and I’ve got to dispose of him.”

  She gave him light.

  Memtok—

  Hugh quelled his surprise, stuffed the body down the hole, closed the lid. Barbara was ready, baby on back, baby in left arm, bundle in right. “We go on! Stay close on my heels!” He set out for the intersection, holding his course in the dark by fingertips on the wall.

  He never saw the whip that got him. All he knew was the pain.

  20

  For a long time Mr. Hugh Farnham was aware of nothing but pain. When it eased off, he found that he was in a confinement cell like the one in which he had lived his first days under the Protectorate.

  He was there three days. He thought it was three days, as he was fed six times. He always knew when they were about to feed him—and to empty his slop jar, for he was not taken outside for any purpose. He would find himself restrained by invisible spider web, then someone would come inside, leave food, replace the slop jar, and go. It was impossible to get the servant who did this to answer him.

  After what may have been three days he found himself unexpectedly caught up by that prisoning field (he had just been fed) and his old colleague and “cousin” the Chief Veterinary came in. Hugh had more than a suspicion as to why; his feeling amounted to a conviction, so he pleaded, demanded to be taken to the Lord Protector, and finally shouted.

  The surgeon ignored it. He did something to Hugh’s thigh, then left.

  To Hugh’s limited relief he did not become unconscious, but he found, when the tanglefoot field let up, that he could not move anyhow and felt lethargic. Shortly two servants came in, picked him up, placed him in a box like a coffin.

  Hugh found that he was being shipped somewhere. His shipping case was given casual but not rough handling; once he felt a lift surge and then surge to a stop; his box was placed in something; and some minutes, hours, or days later it was moved again; and presently he was dumped into another confinement room. He knew it was a different one; the walls were light green instead of white. By the time they fed him he had recovered and was again “tangled” while food was placed inside.

  This went on for one hundred and twenty-two meals. Hugh kept track by biting a chunk out of his fingernails and scratching the inside of his left arm. This took him less than five minutes each day; he spent the rest of his time worrying and sometimes sleeping. Sleeping was worse than worrying because he always reenacted his escape attempt in his sleep and it always ended in disaster—although not necessarily at the same point. He did not always kill his friend the Chief Domestic and at least twice they got all the way to the mountains before they were caught. But, long or short, it ended the same way and he would wake up sobbing and calling for Barbara.

  He worried most about Barbara—and the twins, although the boys were not as real to him. He had never heard of a slut being severely punished for anything. However, he had never heard of a slut being involved in an attempted escape and a killing, either; he just did not know. But he did know that the Lord Protector preferred slut meat for his table.

  He tried to tell himself that old Ponse would do nothing to a slut while she was still nursing babies—and that would be a long time yet; among servants, according to Kitten, mothers nursed babies for at least two years.

  He worried about Kitten, too. Would the child be punished for something she had had nothing to do with? A completely innocent bystander? Again he did not know. There was “justice” here; it was a major branch of religious writings. But it resembled so little the concept “justice” of his own culture that he had found the stuff almost unreadable.

  He spent most of his time on what he thought of as “constructive” worry, i.e., what he should have done rather than what he had done.

  He saw now that his plans had been laughably inadequate. He should never have let himself be panicked into moving too soon. It would have been far better to have built up his connection with Joe, never disagreed with him, tickled his vanity, gone to work for him and, in time, prevailed on him to adopt Barbara and the kids. Joe was an accommodating person and old Ponse was so openhanded that he might simply have made Joe a present of these three useless servants instead of demanding cash. The boys would have been in no danger for years (and perhaps never in danger if Joe owned them), and, in time, Hugh could have expected to become a trusted business servant, with a broad pass allowing him to go anywhere on his master’s business—and Hugh would have acquired sophisticated knowledge of how this world worked that a house servant could never acquire.

  Once he had learned exactly how it ticked, he could have planned an escape that would work.

  Any society man has ever devised, he reminded himself, could be bribed—and a servant who handles money can find ways to steal some. Probably there was an “underground railroad” that ran to the mountains. Yes, he had been far too hasty.

  He considered, too, the wider aspects—a slave uprising. He visualized those tunnels being used not for escape but as a secret meeting place—classes in reading and writing, taught in whispers; oaths as mighty as a Mau Mau initiation binding the conspirators as blood brothers with each Chosen having marked against his name a series of dedicated assassins, servants patiently grinding scraps of metal into knives.

  This “constructive” dream he enjoyed most—and believed in lea
st. Would these docile sheep ever rebel? It seemed unlikely. He had been classed with them by accident of complexion but they were not truly of his breed. Centuries of selective breeding had made them as little like himself as a lap dog is like a timber wolf.

  And yet, and yet, how did he know? He knew only the tempered males, and the few studs he had seen had all been dulled by a liberal ration of Happiness—to say nothing of what it might do to a man’s fighting spirit to lose his thumbs at an early age and be driven around with whips-that-were-more-than-whips.

  This matter of racial differences—or the nonsense notion of “racial equality”—had never been examined scientifically; there was too much emotion on both sides. Nobody wanted honest data.

  Hugh recalled an area of Pernambuco he had seen while in the Navy, a place where rich plantation owners, dignified, polished, educated in France, were black, while their servants and field hands—giggling, shuffling, shiftless knuckleheads “obviously” incapable of better things—were mostly white men. He had stopped telling this anecdote in the States; it was never really believed and it was almost always resented—even by whites who made a big thing of how anxious they were to “help the American Negro improve himself.” Hugh had formed the opinion that almost all of those bleeding hearts wanted the Negro’s lot improved until it was almost as high as their own—and no longer on their consciences—but the idea that the tables could ever be turned was one they rejected emotionally.