Farnham's Freehold by Robert A. Heinlein
At last the big man glanced at him. “Sit down, boy.”
Hugh sat down, on the floor. The lord went on, “Have you learned Language? We’re told that you have.”
“May it please Their Charity, this one’s time has been devoted singly to that purpose, with what inadequate results known to them far better than their servant would dare venture to estimate.”
“Not bad. Accent could be crisper. And you missed an infix. How do you like the weather we’ve been having?”
“Weather is as Uncle the Mighty ordains it. If it pleases His favorite nephew, it cannot fail to make joyful one so humble as this servant.”
“Quite good. Accent blurry but understandable. Work on it. Tell your teachers we said it. Now drop that fancy speech, I haven’t time to listen to it. Equals speech, always. In private, I mean.”
“All right. I—” Hugh broke off; one of the female servants had returned, to kneel in front of her lord with a drink on a tray.
Ponse glanced sharply at Hugh, then looked at the girl. “It? Doesn’t count, it’s a deaf mute. You were saying?”
“I was about to say that I couldn’t have an opinion about weather because I haven’t seen any since I got here.”
“I suppose not. I gave orders for you to learn Language as quickly as possible and servants are inclined to follow instructions literally. No imagination. All right, you will walk outdoors an hour each day. Tell whoever is in charge of you. Any petition? Are you getting enough to eat? Are you being treated well?”
“The food is good, I’m used to eating three times a day but—”
“You can eat four times a day if you wish. Again, tell the one in charge of you. All right, now to other matters. Hugh—That’s your name, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Their Charity.”
“Can’t you hear? I said, ‘Use equals mode.’ My private name is Ponse. Use it. Hugh, if I had not picked you people up myself, were I not a scholar, and had I not seen with my own eyes the artifacts in that curious structure, your house, I would not have believed it. As it is, I must. I’m not a superstitious man. Uncle works in mysterious ways, but He doesn’t use miracles and I would not hesitate to repeat that in any temple on Earth, unorthodox as it sounds. But—How long does it come to, Joe?”
“Two thousand one hundred and three years.”
“Call it two thousand. What’s the matter, Hugh?”
“Uh, nothing, nothing.”
“If you’re going to throw up, go outside; I picked these rugs myself. As I was saying, you’ve given my scientists something to think about—and a good thing, too; they haven’t turned out anything more important than a better mousetrap in years. Lazy scoundrels. I’ve told them to come up with a sensible answer, no miracles. How five people—or six—and a building of some mass could hurdle twenty centuries and never break an egg. Exaggeration. Joe tells me it broke some bones and other things. Speaking of bones, Joe tells me this won’t please you—and it didn’t please him—but I ordered my scientists to disturb some bones. Strontium sampling, that sort of thing; I suppose you’ve never heard of it. Clear proof that the cadaver had matured before the period of maximum radioactivity—Look, I warned you about these rugs. Don’t do it!”
Hugh gulped. (“Karen! Karen! Oh, my darling!”)
“Better now? Perhaps I should have told you that a priest was present, proper propitiations were made—exactly as if it had been one of the Chosen. Special concession, my orders. And when the tests were completed every atom was returned and the grave closed with proper rites.”
“That’s true, Hugh,” Joseph said gravely. “I was there. And I put on fresh flowers. Flowers that will stay fresh, I’m told.”
“Certainly they will,” Ponse confirmed, “until they wear out from sheer erosion. I don’t know why you use flowers but if there are any other rites or sacrifices necessary to atone for what may seem to you a desecration, just name it. I’m a broadminded man; I’m aware that other times had other customs.”
“No. No, best let it be.”
“As you wish. It was done from scientific necessity. It seemed more reasonable than amputating one of your fingers. Other tests also kept my scientists from wiggling out of the obvious. Foods preserved by methods so ancient that I doubt if any modem food expert would know how to duplicate same—and yet the foods were edible. At least some servants were required to eat them; no harm resulted. A fascinating radioactivity gradient between upper and inner sides of the roof structure—I gave them a hint on that. Acting on information received from Joe, I ordered them to look for evidence that this event took place at the beginning of the East-West War that destroyed the Northern Hemisphere.
“So they found it. Calculations lead them to believe that the structure must have been near the origin of an atom-kernel explosion. Yet it was unhurt. That produced a theory so wild that I won’t tire your ears with it; I’ve told them to go on working.
“But the best thing is the historical treasure. I am a man of history, Hugh; history, properly interpreted, tells everything. The treasure, of course, are those books that came along. I am not exaggerating when I say that they are my most precious possessions. There are only two other copies of the Encyclopaedia Britannica in the world today—and those are not this edition and are in such poor shape that they are curiosities rather than something a scholar can work with; they weren’t cared for during the Turmoil Ages.”
Ponse leaned back and looked happy. “But mine is in mint condition!”
He added, “I’m not discounting the other books. Treasures, all of them. Especially the Adventures of Odysseus, which is known only by reputation. I take it that the pictures date from the time of Odysseus too?”
“I’m afraid not. The artist was alive in my time.”
“Too bad. They’re interesting, nevertheless. Primitive art, stronger than we have now. But I exaggerated when I said that the books were my dearest possession.”
“Yes?”
“You are! There! Doesn’t that please you?”
Hugh barely hesitated. “Yes. If true.” (If it’s true that I am your chattel, you arrogant bastard, I prefer being a valuable one!)
“Oh, quite true. If you had been speaking in protocol mode, you wouldn’t have been able to phrase a doubt. I never lie, Hugh; remember that. You and—That other one, Joe?”
“Duke.”
“‘Duke.’ Although Joe speaks highly of your scholarship, not so highly of its. But let me explain. There are other scholars who read Ancient English. None in my household, true; since it is not a root language to any important degree, few study it. Nevertheless, scholars could be borrowed. But none such as yourself. You actually lived then; you’ll be able to translate knowledgeably, without these maddening four and five interpretations of a single passage that disfigure most translations from ancient sources, all because the scholar doesn’t really know what the ancient author was talking about. Lack of cultural context, I mean. And no doubt you will be able to supply explanations for things obscure to me and commonplace to you.
“Right? Right! So you see what I want. Start with the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Get busy today, translate it. Just scribble it out quickly, sloppy but fast. Someone else will pretty it up for my eyes. Understand? All right, go do it.”
Hugh gulped. “But, Ponse, I can’t write Language.”
“What?”
“I was taught to speak; I haven’t been taught to read and write.”
Ponse blinked. “Memtok!”
The Chief Palace Domestic arrived with such speed that one might suspect that he was just outside the door. And so he had been—listening in on private conversation by means Memtok was certain were not known to the Lord Protector…inasmuch as Memtok was still breathing. Such measures were risky but he found them indispensable to efficient performance of his duties. At worst, it was safer than planting a slut in there who was not quite a deaf mute.
“Memtok, I told you it was to be taught to speak, read, and write Language.??
Hugh listened, eyes downcast, while the Chief Domestic tried to protest that the order had never been given (it had not) but nevertheless had been carried out (obviously false), all without contradicting the Lord Protector (impossible to reconcile, inconceivable to attempt).
“Garbage,” Ponse remarked. “I don’t know why I don’t put you up for adoption. You would look good in a coal mine. That pale skin would be improved by some healthy coal dust.” He twitched his quirt and Memtok paled still more. “Very well, let it be corrected. It is to spend half of each day in learning to read and write, the other half in translating and in dictating same into a recorder. I should have thought of that; writing takes too long. Nevertheless, I want it to be able to read and write.” He turned to Hugh. “Anything you can think of? That you need?”
Hugh started to phrase a request in the involved indirection which presumed nothing, as required by protocol mode, rising.
Ponse chopped him off. “Speak directly, Hugh. Memtok, close your ears. No ceremony needed in Memtok’s presence, he is a member of my inner family, my nephew in spirit if not in the eyes of my senior sister. Spit it out.”
Memtok relaxed and looked as beatific as his vinegar features permitted. “Well, Ponse, I need room to work. My cell is the size of that divan.”
“Describe your needs.”
“Well, I’d like a room with natural light, one with windows, say a third the size of this one. Working tables, bookshelves, writing materials, a comfortable chair—yes, and access to a toilet without having to wait; it interferes with my thinking otherwise.”
“Don’t you have that?”
“No. And I don’t think it helps my thinking to be touched up with a whip.”
“Memtok, have you been whipping it?”
“No, my uncle. I swear.”
“You would swear if you were caught with cream on your lip. Who has been?”
Hugh dared to interrupt. “I’m not complaining, Ponse. But those whips make me nervous. And I never know who can give me orders. Anybody, apparently. I haven’t been able to find out my status.”
“Mmm—Memtok, where do you have it in the Family?”
The head servant barely conceded that he had not been able to solve that problem.
“Let’s solve it. We make it a department head. Mmm—Department of Ancient History. Title: Chief Researcher. Senior head of department, just below you. Pass the word around. I’m doing this to make clear how valuable this servant is to me…and anyone who slows up its work is likely to wind up in the stew. I suppose it will really be a one-servant department but you fill it out, make it look good, by transferring its teachers, and whoever looks out for its recorder and prepares the stuff for me, a cleaner or two, an assistant to boss them—I don’t want to take up its valuable time on routine. A messenger. You know. There must be dozens of idlers around this house, eating their silly heads off, who would look well in the Department of Ancient History. Now have fetched a lesser whip and a lesser badge. Move.”
In moments Hugh was wearing a medallion not much smaller than Memtok’s. Ponse took the whip and removed something from it. “Hugh, I’m not giving you a charged whip, you don’t know how to use it. If one of your loafers need spurring, Memtok will be glad to help. Later, when you know how, we’ll see. Now—Are you satisfied?”
Hugh decided that it was not the time to ask to see Barbara. Not with Memtok present. But he was beginning to hope.
He and Memtok were dismissed together. Memtok did not object when Hugh walked abreast of him.
13
Memtok was silent while he led Hugh back down to servants’ country; he was figuring out how to handle this startling development to his own advantage.
This savage’s status had troubled the Chief Domestic from arrival. He didn’t fit—and in Memtok’s world everything had to fit. Well, now the savage had an assigned status; Their Charity had spoken and that was that. But the situation was not improved. The new status was so ridiculous as to make the whole belowstairs structure (the whole world, that is) a mockery.
But Memtok was shrewd and practical. The bedrock of his philosophy was: You can’t fight City Hall, and his basic strategy in applying it was the pragmatic rule: When you can’t beat ’em, you join ’em.
How could this savage’s preposterous promotion be made to appear necessary and proper—and a credit to the Chief Domestic?
Uncle! The savage wasn’t even tempered. Nor would he be. At least not yet. Later, possibly—it would make everything so much more tidy. Memtok had been amazed when Their Charity had postponed the obvious. Memtok hardly recalled his own tempering; his emotions and drives before that time were a thin memory—of someone else. There was no reason for the savage to have kicked up a fuss about it; tempering marked promotion into real living. Memtok looked forward to another half century of activity, power, gracious living—what stud could claim that?
But there it was. How to make it look good?
A Curiosity!—that’s what the savage was. All great lords possessed Curiosities; there had been times when visiting in his own caste that he had been embarrassed by the fact that his own lord took no interest in Curiosities; there were not even Siamese twins nor a two-headed freak in the whole household. Not even a flipper-armed dwarf. Their Charity was—let’s admit it—too simple in his tastes for his high rank; sometimes Memtok was a little ashamed of him. Spending his time on scrolls and such when he should be upholding the pride of the house.
That lord in Hind—What title? Prince something or other silly. Never mind, he had that big cage where studs and sluts lived and mated with great apes, talked the same jabber—it wasn’t Language—and you couldn’t tell which was which save that some were hairy and some were smooth. There was a Curiosity worthy of a great household! That lord’s chief domestic had declared by the Uncle that there were live crossbreeds from the experiment, hidden away where the priests couldn’t object. It might be true, since it was a fact that despite official denial crossbreeds between servants and Chosen were possible—and did happen, even though designated bedwarmers were always sterile. But these accidents were never allowed to see the light of day.
A Curiosity, that was the angle. An untempered who was nevertheless a servant executive. A Famous Scholar who had not even been able to speak Language when he was almost as old as Memtok. A man out of nowhere. From the stars. Everybody knew that there were men somewhere in the stars.
Probably a miracle…and the temples were investigating and any year now this household would be famous for its unique Curiosity. Yes. A word here, a word there, a veiled hint—
“Hugh,” Memtok said cordially. “May I call you ‘Hugh’?”
“What? Why, certainly!”
“You must call me ‘Memtok.’ Let’s stroll a bit and pick out space for your departmental headquarters. You would like a sunny place, I understand. Perhaps rooms facing the gardens? And do you want your personal quarters opening off your headquarters? Or would you rather have them elsewhere so that you can get away from it all?” The latter, Memtok decided. Roust out the head gardener and the studmaster and give the savage both their quarters—that would make everyone understand how important this Curiosity was…and get both of them sore at the savage, too. He’d soon realize who was his friend. Memtok, namely, and nobody else. Besides, the gardener had been getting uppity, implying that his work didn’t come under the Chief Domestic. A touching up was what he needed.
Hugh said, “Oh, I don’t need anything fancy.”
“Come, come! We want you to have every facility. I wish I could get away from it all sometimes. But I can’t—problems, problems, problems, every minute of the day; some people have to have all their thinking done for them. It will be a treat to have a man of the mind among us. We’ll find you cozy quarters, plenty of room for you and your valet. But separate.” Valet? Was there a tempered young buck around, well housebroken and biddable, who could be depended on to report everything and keep his mouth shut? Suppose
And would his sister see the wisdom in it? He had great hopes for the boy. Memtok was coldly aware that he would have to go someday—though not for many years—and he was determined that his heir should succeed to his high office. But it would take planning, and planning could never start too soon. If his sister could be made to see it—
Memtok led Hugh through crowded passageways; servants scurried out of the way wherever they went—save one who stumbled and got tingled for his awkwardness.
“My!” said Hugh. “This is a big building.”
“This? Wait till you see the Palace—though no doubt it is falling to rack and ruin, under my chief deputy. Hugh, we use only a quarter of the staff here. There is no formal entertaining, just garden parties. And only a handful of guests. In the city the Chosen are always coming and going. Many a time I am rooted out of bed in the night to open apartments for some lord and his ladies without a moment’s warning. And that is where planning counts. To be able to open the door of a guest-wing flat and know—know, mind you, without looking—that beds are freshly perfumed, refreshments waiting, everything spotless, music softly playing.”
“That must take real staff work.”
“Staff work!” Memtok snorted. “I wish I could agree. What it takes is for me to inspect every room, every night, no matter how tired I am, before I go to bed. Then stay up to see that mistakes are corrected, not depend on their lies. They’re all liars, Hugh. Too much ‘Happiness.’ Their Charity is generous; he never cuts down on the ration.”
“I’ve found the food ample. And good.”
“I didn’t say food, I said ‘Happiness.’ I control the food and I don’t believe in starving them, not even as punishment. A tingle is better. They understand that. Always remember one thing, Hugh; most servants don’t really have minds. They’re as thoughtless as the Chosen—not referring to Their Charity of course; I would never criticize my own patron. I mean Chosen in general. You understand.” He winked and gave Hugh a dig in the ribs.