Farnham's Freehold

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “I hate to hear you say that, Hugh. All in all, you and I always got along pretty well. Well, if that’s your last word, I might as well go tell Their Charity. Is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, Joe.”

  “Well—Good-bye, Barbara. Good-bye, Hugh.” He left.

  The Lord Protector came back in alone, moving with the slow caution of a man old and sick. “So that’s what you’ve decided,” he said, sitting down and gathering the shawl around him. He reached out for the mouse, still crouching on the table top; servants came in and cleared off the table. He went on, “Can’t say that I’m surprised—I’ve played bridge with both of you. Well, now we take up the other choice. Your lives are forfeit and I can’t let you stay here, other than on those terms. So now we send you back.”

  “Back where, Ponse?”

  “Why, back to your own time, of course. If you make it. Perhaps you will.” He stroked the mouse. “This little fellow made it. Two weeks at least. And it didn’t hurt him. Though one can only guess what two thousand years would do.”

  The servants were back and were piling on the table a man’s watch, a Canadian dime, a pair of much worn mountain boots, a hunting knife, some badly made moccasins, a pair of Levis, some ragged denim shorts with a very large waistline, a .45 automatic pistol with belt, two ragged and faded shirts, one somewhat altered, a part of a paper of matches, and a small notebook and pencil.

  Ponse looked at the collection. “Was there anything else?” He slid the loaded clip from the pistol, held it in his hand. “If not, get dressed.”

  The invisible field let them loose.

  21

  “I don’t see what there is to be surprised about,” Ponse told them. “Hugh, you will remember that I told my scientists that I wanted to know how you got here. No miracles. I told them rather firmly. They understood that I would be most unhappy—and vexed—if the Protectorate’s scientists could not solve it when they had so many hints, so much data. So they did. Probably. At least they were able to move this little fellow. He arrived today, which is why I sent for you. Now we will find out if it works backwards in time as well as forwards—and if the big apparatus works as well as the bench model. I understand it is not so much the amount of power—no atom-kernel bombs necessary—as the precise application of power. But we’ll soon know.”

  Hugh asked, “How will you know? We will know—if it works. But how will you know?”

  “Oh, that. My scientists are clever, when they have incentive. One of them will explain it.”

  The scientists were called in, two Chosen and five servants. There was no introduction; Hugh found himself treated as impersonally as the little white mouse who still tried to meet his death on the floor. Hugh was required to take off his shirt and two servant-scientists taped a small package to Hugh’s right shoulder. “What’s that?” It seemed surprisingly heavy for its size.

  The servants did not answer; the leading Chosen said, “You will be told. Come here. See this.”

  “This” turned out to be Hugh’s former property, a U. S. Geodetic Survey map of James County. “Do you understand this? Or must we explain it?”

  “I understand it.” Hugh used the equals mode, the Chosen ignored it while continuing to speak in protocol mode, falling.

  “Then you know that here is where you arrived.”

  Hugh agreed, as the man’s finger covered the spot where Hugh’s home had once stood. The Chosen nodded thoughtfully and added, “Do you understand the meaning of these marks?” He pointed to a tiny x-mark and very small figures beside it.

  “Certainly. We call that a ‘bench mark.’ Exact location and altitude. It’s a reference point for all the rest of the map.”

  “Excellent.” The Chosen pointed to a similar mark at the summit of Mount James as shown by the map. “Now, tell us, if you know—but don’t lie about it; it will not advantage you—how much error there would be, horizontally and vertically, between these two reference points.”

  Hugh thought about it, held up his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. The Chosen blinked. “It would not have been that accurate in those primitive times. We assume that you are lying. Try again. Or admit that you don’t know.”

  “And I suggest that you don’t know what you are talking about. It would be at least that accurate.” Hugh thought of telling him that he had bossed surveying parties in the Seabees and had done his own surveying when he was getting started as a contractor—and that while he did not know how accurate a geodetic survey was, he did know that enormously more accurate methods had been used in setting those bench marks than were ever used in the ordinary survey.

  He decided that explanation would be wasted.

  The Chosen looked at him, then glanced at Their Charity. The old man had been listening but his face showed nothing. “Very well. We will assume that the marks are accurate, each to the other. Which is fortunate, as this one is missing”—he pointed to the first one, near where Hugh’s home had been—“whereas this one”—he indicated the summit of Mount James—“is still in place, in solid rock. Now search your memory and do not lie again, as it will matter to you…and it will matter to Their Charity, as a silly lie on your part could waste much effort and Their Charity would be much displeased, we are certain. Where, quite near this reference mark and the same height—certainly no higher!—is—was, I mean, in those primitive times—a flat, level place?”

  Hugh thought about it. He knew exactly where that bench mark had been: in the cornerstone of the Southport Savings Bank. It was, or had been, a small brass plate let into the stone beside the larger dedication plate, about eighteen inches above the sidewalk at the northeast corner of the building. It had been placed there shortly after the Southport shopping center had been built. Hugh had often glanced at it in passing; it had always given him a warm feeling of stability to note a bench mark.

  The bank had sided on a parking lot shared by the bank, a Safeway Supermarket, and a couple of other shops. “It is level and flat off this way for a distance of—” (Hugh estimated the width of that ancient parking lot in feet, placed the figure in modern units.) “Or a little farther. That’s just an estimate, not wholly accurate.”

  “But it is flat and level? And no higher than this point?”

  “A little lower and sloping away. For drainage.”

  “Very well. Now place your attention on this configuration.” Again it was Hugh’s property, a Conoco map of the state. “That object fastened to your back you may think of as a clock. We will not explain it, you could not understand. Suffice to say that radiation decay of a metal inside it measures time. That is why it is heavy; it is cased in lead to protect it. You will take it to here.” The Chosen pointed to a town on the map; Hugh noted that it was the home of the state university.

  At a gesture the Chosen was handed a slip of paper. To Hugh he said, “Can you read this? Or must it be explained?”

  “It says ‘University State Bank,’” Hugh told him. “I seem to recall that there was an institution of that name in that town. I’m not sure, I don’t recall doing business with it.”

  “There was,” the Chosen assured him, “and its ruins were recently uncovered. You will go to it. There was, and still is, a strong room, a vault, in its lowest part. You will place this clock in that vault. Do you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “By Their Charity’s wish, that vault has not yet been opened. After you have gone, it will be opened. The clock will be found and we will read it. Do you understand why this is crucial to the experiment? It will not only tell us that you made the time jump safely but also exactly how long the span was—and from this our instruments will be calibrated.” The Chosen looked very fierce. “Do this exactly. Or you will be severely punished.”

  Ponse caught Hugh’s eye at this point. The old man was not laughing but his eyes twinkled. “Do it, Hugh,” he said quietly. “That’s a good fellow.”

  Hugh said to the Chosen scientist. “I wil
l do it. I understand.”

  The Chosen said, “May it please Their Charity, this one is ready to weigh them now, and then leave for the site.”

  “We’ve changed our mind,” Ponse announced. “We will see this.” He added, “Nerve in good shape, Hugh?”

  “Quite.”

  “All of you who made the first jump were given this opportunity, did I tell you? Joe turned it down flatly.” The old man glanced over his shoulder. “Grace! Changed your mind, little one?”

  Grace looked up. “Ponsie!” she said reproachfully. “You know I would never leave you.”

  “Duke?”

  The tempered servant did not even look up. He simply shook his head.

  Ponse said to the scientist, “Let’s hurry and get them weighed. We intend to sleep at home tonight.”

  The weighing was done elsewhere in the Palace. Just before the four were placed on the weighing area the Lord Protector held up the cartridge clip he had removed from the pistol Hugh now wore. “Hugh? Will you undertake not to be foolish with this? Or should I have the pellets separated from the explosives?”

  “Uh, I’ll behave.”

  “Ah, but how will you behave? If you were impetuous, you might succeed in killing me. But consider what would happen to Barba and our little brats.”

  (I had thought of that, you old scoundrel. I’ll still do what seems best to me.) “Ponse, why don’t you let Barbara carry the clip in a pocket? That would keep me from loading and firing very fast even if I did get ideas.”

  “A good plan. Here, Barba.”

  The boss scientist seemed unhappy at the total weight of his experimental package. “May it please Their Charity, this one finds that body weights of both adults must have lessened markedly since the time of the figures on which the calculations were made.”

  “And what do you expect of us?”

  “Oh, nothing, nothing, may it please Their Charity. Just a slight delay. The mass must be exact.” Hurriedly the Chosen started piling metal discs on the platform.

  It gave Hugh an idea. “Ponse, you really expect this to work?”

  “If I knew the answer, it would not be necessary to try it. I hope it will work.”

  “If it does work, we’ll need money right away. Especially if I’m to travel half across the state to bury this clock device.”

  “Reasonable. You used gold, did you not? Or was it silver? I see your idea.” The old man gestured. “Stop that weighing.”

  “We used both, sometimes, but it had to have our own protectorate’s stamp. Ponse, there were quite a number of American silver dollars in my house when you took it away from me. Are they available?”

  They were available and in the Palace and the old man had no objection to using them to make up the missing weight. The boss scientist was fretted over the delay—he explained to his lord that the adjustments were set for an exact time span as well as exact mass in order to place these specimens at a time before the East-West War had started, plus a margin for error—but that delay was reducing the margin and might require recalculation and long and painful recalibration. Hugh did not follow the technicalities.

  Nor did Ponse. He cut the scientist off abruptly. “Then recalculate if necessary. All.”

  It took more than an hour to locate the man who could locate the man who knew where these particular items of the savage artifacts were filed, then dig them out and fetch them. Ponse sat brooding and playing with his mouse. Barbara nursed the twins, then changed them with the help of slut servants; Hugh petitioned plumbing calls for each of them—granted, under guard—and all this changed all the body weights and everything was started over again.

  The silver dollars were still in, or had been replaced in, the $100 rolls in which Hugh had hoarded them. They made quite a stack, and (on the happy assumption that the time jump would work) Hugh was pleased that he had lost while imprisoned the considerable paunch he had regrown during his easy days as “Chief Researcher.” However, less than three hundred silver dollars were used in bringing them up to calculated weight—plus a metal slug and some snips of foil.

  “If it suits the Lord Protector, this one believes that the specimens should be placed in the container without delay.”

  “Then do it! Don’t waste our time.”

  The container was floated in. It was a box, metallic, plain, empty, and with no furnishings of any sort, barely high enough for Hugh to stand upright in, barely large enough for all of them. Hugh got into it, helped Barbara in, the babies were handed to them and Hughie started to squawl and set off his brother.

  Ponse looked annoyed. “My sluts have been spoiling those brats. Hugh, I’ve decided not to watch it, I’m weary. Goodbye to both of you—and good riddance; neither of you would ever have made a loyal servant. But I’ll miss our bridge games. Barba, you must bring those brats back into line. But don’t break their spunk doing it; they’re fine boys.” He turned and left abruptly.

  The hatch was closed down on them and fastened; they were alone. Hugh at once took advantage of it to kiss his wife, somewhat hampered by each of them holding a baby.

  “I don’t care what happens now,” Barbara said as soon as her mouth was free. “That’s what I’ve been longing for. Oh, dear, Joey is wet again. How about Hughie?”

  “It’s unanimous, Hughie also. But I thought you just said you didn’t care what happens now?”

  “Well, I don’t, really. But try explaining that to a baby. I would gladly swap one of those rolls of dollars for ten new diapers.”

  “My dear, do you realize that the human race lasted at least a million years with no diapers at all? Whereas we may not last another hour. So let’s not spend it talking about diapers.”

  “I simply meant—Wups! They’re moving us.”

  “Sit flat on the floor and brace your feet against the wall. Before we have scrambled babies. You were saying?”

  “I simply meant, my darling, that I do not care about diapers, I don’t care about anything—now that I have you with me again. But if we aren’t going to die—if this thing works—I’m going to have to be practical. And do you know of anything more practical than diapers?”

  “Yes. Kissing. Making love.”

  “Well, yes. But they lead to diapers. Darling, could you hold Hughie in your other arm and put this one around me? Uh, they’re moving us again. Hugh, is this thing going to work? Or are we going to be very suddenly dead? Somehow I can imagine time travel frontwards—and anyhow we did it. But I can’t imagine it backwards. I mean, the past has already happened. That’s it. Isn’t it?”

  “Well, yes. But you haven’t stated it correctly. The way I see it, there are no paradoxes in time travel, there can’t be. If we are going to make this time jump, then we already did; that’s what happened. And if it doesn’t work, then it’s because it didn’t happen.”

  “But it hasn’t happened yet. Therefore, you are saying that it didn’t happen, so it can’t happen. That’s what I said.”

  “No, no! We don’t know whether it has already happened or not. If it did, it will. If it didn’t, it won’t.”

  “Darling, you’re confusing me.”

  “Don’t worry about it. ‘The moving finger writes, and having writ, moves on’—and only then do you find out if it goosed you in passing. I think we’ve straightened out on a course; we’re steady now, just the faintest vibration. If they are taking us where I think they are, James County I mean, then we’ve got at least an hour before we need worry about anything.” He tightened his arm around her. “So let’s be happy that hour.”

  She snuggled in. “That’s what I was saying. Beloved, we’ve come through so many narrow squeaks together that I’m not ever going to worry again. If it’s an hour, I’ll be happy every second of it. If it’s forty years, I’ll be happy every second of that, too. If it’s together. And if it’s not together, I don’t want it. But either way, we go on. To the end of our day.”

  “Yes. ‘To the end of our day.’”

  She si
ghed happily, rearranged a wet and sleeping infant, snuggled into his shoulder and murmured, “This feels like our very first day. In the tank room of the shelter, I mean. We were just as crowded and even warmer—and I was never so happy. And we didn’t know whether we were going to live through that day, either. That night.”

  “We didn’t expect to. Else we wouldn’t have twin boys now.”

  “So I’m glad we thought we were going to die. Hugh? It isn’t any more crowded than it was that night in the tank room.”

  “Woman, you are an insatiable lecher. You’ll shock the boys.”

  “I don’t think once in more than a year is being insatiable. And the boys are too young to be shocked. Aw, come on! You said yourself we might be dead in an hour.”

  “Yes, we might and you have a point and I’m theoretically in favor of the idea. But the boys do inhibit me and there actually isn’t quite as much room even if we weren’t cluttered up with eight or nine wet babies and I don’t see how it’s mechanically possible. The act would be a tesseract, at least.”

  “Well—I guess you’re right. I don’t see any way either; we would probably squash them. But it does seem a shame, if we’re going to die.”

  “I refuse to assume that we’re going to die. I won’t ever make that assumption again. All my figuring is based on the assumption that we are going to live. We go on. No matter what happens—we go on.”

  “All right. Seven no trump.”

  “That’s better.”

  “Doubled and redoubled. Hugh? Just as soon as the boys are big enough to hold thirteen cards in their pudgy little hands, we’re going to start teaching them contract. Then we’ll have a family four of our own.”

  “Suits. And if they can’t learn to play, we’ll temper them and try again.”

  “I don’t want ever to hear that word again!”

  “Sorry.”

  “And I don’t want to hear that language again, either, dear. The boys should grow up hearing English.”