Farnham's Freehold by Robert A. Heinlein
“Sorry, baby. We are about to have a kitten. See that, Joe?” Fur rippled from the cat’s middle down toward the tail, then did so again.
Karen hurriedly threw everything out of the lowest wardrobe drawer, placed it against the wall and put the hunting jacket in it, rushed back. “Did I miss it?”
“No,” Hugh assured her. “But right now!”
Doc stopped panting to give one wail and was delivered of a kitten in two quick convulsions.
“Why, it’s wrapped in cellophane,” Barbara said wonderingly.
“Didn’t you know?” asked Karen. “Daddy, it’s gray! Doc, where have you been? Though maybe I shouldn’t bring that up.”
Neither Hugh nor Dr. Livingstone answered. The mother cat started vigorously licking her offspring, broke the covering, and tiny ratlike arms and legs waved helplessly. A squeak so thin and high as to be almost inaudible announced its opinion of the world. Doc bit the cord and went on licking, cleaning off blood and mucus and purring loudly at the same time. The baby didn’t like it and again vented almost silent protest.
“Boss,” demanded Joe, “what’s wrong with it? It’s so skinny and little.”
“It’s a fine kitten. It’s a pretty baby, Doc. He’s a bachelor, he doesn’t know.” Hugh spoke cooingly and rubbed the cat between her ears. He went on in normal tones, “And the worst case of bar sinister I ever saw—smooth-haired, tiger-striped, and gray.”
Doc looked up reprovingly, gave a shudder and delivered the afterbirth, began chewing the bloody mass. Barbara gulped and rushed to the door, fumbled at a bolt. Karen went after her, opened it and steadied her while she threw up.
“Duke!” Hugh snapped. “Bear guard!”
Duke followed them, stuck his head out. Karen said, “Go ’way! We’re safe. Bright moonlight.”
“Well…leave the door open.” He withdrew.
Karen said, “I thought you weren’t having morning sickness?”
“I’m not. Oh!” Retching again hit her. “It was what Doc did.”
“Oh, that. Cats always do that. Let me wipe your mouth, dear.”
“It’s awful.”
“It’s normal. Good for them. Hormones, or something; you can ask Hugh. All right now?”
“I think so. Karen! We don’t have to do that? Do we? I won’t, I won’t!”
“Huh? Oh! Never thought of it. Oh, I know we don’t—or they would have told us in Smut One.”
“Lots of things they don’t mention in Smut One,” Barbara said darkly. “When I had to take it, it was taught by an old maid. But I won’t. I’ll resign first, not have this baby.”
“Comrade,” Karen said grimly, “that’s something we both should have thought of earlier. Stand aside, it’s my turn to heave.”
Presently they went inside, pale but steady. Dr. Livingstone had three more kittens and Barbara managed to watch without further rushes for the door. Of the other birthings only the third was notable: a tiny tomcat but large in its tininess. He was a breech presentation, the skull did not pass easily, and Doc in her pain clamped down.
Hugh was busy at once, pulling gently on the little body with his whole hand and sweating like a surgeon. Doc wailed and bit his thumb. He did not let it stop him nor hurry him.
Suddenly the kitten came free; he bent over and blew in its mouth, was rewarded with a thin, indignant squeak. He put the baby down, let Dr. Livingstone clean it. “That was close,” he said shakily.
“Old Doc didn’t mean to,” Joe said softly.
“Of course not. Which of you girls feels like fixing this for me?”
Barbara dressed the wound, while telling herself that she must not, must not, bite when her own time came.
The kittens were, in order, smooth-haired gray, fluffy white, midnight black with white jabot and mittens, and calico. After much argument between Karen and Joe, they were named: Happy New Year, Snow Princess Magnificent, Dr. Ebony Midnight, and Patchwork Girl of Oz—Happy, Maggie, Midnight, and Patches.
By midnight mother and children were bedded in the drawer with food, water, and sandbox near, and everyone went to bed. Joe slept on the floor with his head by the kitten nest.
When everyone was quiet, he raised up, used the flash to look in. Dr. Livingstone had one kitten in her arms, three more at suck; she stopped cleaning Maggie and looked inquiringly at him.
“They’re beautiful kittens, Doc,” he told her. “The best babies.”
She spread her royal whiskers and purred agreement.
8
Hugh leaned on his shovel. “That does it, Joe.”
“Let me tidy up around the gate.” They were at the upper end of their ditch where the stream had been dammed against the dry season. It had been on them for weeks; the forest was sere, the heat oppressive. They were extremely careful about fire.
But no longer so careful about bears. It was still standard practice to be armed, but Duke had killed so many carnivores, ursine and feline, they seldom saw one.
The water spilling over the dam was only a trickle but there was water for irrigation and for household needs. Without the ditch they would have lost their garden.
It was necessary every day or so to adjust the flow. Hugh had not built a water gate; paucity of tools, scarcity of metal, and a total lack of lumber had baffled him. Instead he had devised an expedient. The point where water was taken from the pond had been faced with brick and a spillway set of half-round tile. To increase the flow this was taken out, the spill cut deeper, bricks adjusted, and tiles replaced. It was clumsy; it worked.
The bottom of the ditch was tiled all the way to house and garden; a minimum of water was lost. Their kiln had worked day and night; most of their capital gain had come out of the clay bank below the house and it was becoming difficult to dig good clay.
This did not worry Hugh; they had almost everything they needed.
Their bathroom was no longer a joke. Water flowed in a two-stall trough toilet partitioned with deerhide; tile drainpipe “leaded” with clay ran down the manhole, out the tunnel, and to a cesspool.
Forming drainpipe Hugh had found very difficult. After many failures he had whittled a male form in three parts—in parts, because it was necessary to shape the clay over it, let it dry enough to take out the form before it cracked from shrinking over the form.
With practice he cut his failures to about 25 percent in forming, 25 percent in firing.
The damaged water tank he had cut painfully, mallet and chisel, lengthwise into tubs, a bathtub indoors and a washtub outdoors. The seams he had calked with shaved hide; the tubs did not leak—much.
A brick fireplace-oven filled one corner of the bath-kitchen. It was not in use; days were long and hot; they cooked outdoors and ate under an awning of empty bears—but it was ready against the next rainy season.
Their house now had two stories. Hugh had concluded that an addition strong enough to stop bears and tight enough to discourage snakes would have to be of stone, and solidly roofed. That he could do—but how about windows and doors? Glass he would make someday if he solved the problems of soda and lime. But not soon. A stout door and tight shutters he could manage, but such a cabin would be stuffy.
So they had built a shed on the roof, a grass shack. With the ladder up, a bear faced a twelve-foot wall. Unsure that a wall would stop all their neighbors, Hugh had arranged trip lines around the edge so that disturbing them would cause an oxygen bottle to fall over. Their alarm was tripped the first week, scaring off the intruder. It had also, Hugh admitted, scared the bejasus out of him.
Anything that could not be hurt by weather had been moved out and the main room was rearranged into a women’s dormitory and nursery.
Hugh stared downstream while Joe finished fussing. He could make out the roof of his penthouse. Good enough, he mused. Everything was in fair shape and next year would be better. So much better that they might take time to explore. Even Duke had not been as much as twenty miles away. Nothing but feet for travel and too busy scratchi
Next year would be soon enough.
“A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?” They had started with neither pot nor window. This year a pot—Next year a window? No hurry—Things were going well. Even Grace seemed contented. He felt certain that she would settle down and be a happy grandmother. Grace liked babies, Grace did well with babies—How well he remembered.
Not long now. Baby Karen was fuzzily vague but her guesses seemed to show that D-day was about two weeks off, and her condition matched her guess, as near as he could tell.
The sooner the better! Hugh had studied everything in his library on pregnancy and childbirth; he had made every preparation he could. His patients seemed to be in perfect health, both had satisfactory pelvic measurements, both seemed unafraid, and they helped each other with friendly nagging, not to gain too much weight. With Barbara to hold Karen’s hand, with Karen to hold Barbara’s hand, with Grace’s motherly experience to bolster them, Hugh could see no trouble ahead.
It would be wonderful to have babies in the house.
With a warm wave of euphoria Hugh Farnham realized that he had never been so happy in his life.
“That’s it, Hugh. Let’s catch those tiles on the way back.”
“Okay. Take the rifle, I’ll carry the tools.”
“I think,” Joe said, “we ought to—”
His words chopped off at a gunshot; they froze. It was followed by two more.
They ran.
Barbara was in the door. She held up a gun and waved, went inside. She came out before they reached the house, stepping carefully down off the stoop and moving slowly; she was very gravid. Her belly bulged huge in shorts made from worn-out jeans that had belonged to Duke; she wore a man’s shirt altered to support her breasts. She was barefooted and no longer carried the gun.
Joe outdistanced Hugh, met her near the house. “Karen?” he demanded.
“Yes. She’s started.”
Joe hurried inside. Hugh arrived, stood panting. “Well?”
“Her bag of waters burst. Then the pains started. That was when I fired.”
“Why didn’t you—Never mind. What else?”
“Grace is with her. But she wants you.”
“Let me catch my breath.” Hugh wiped his face, tried to control his trembling. He took a deep breath, held it, let it out slowly. He went inside, Barbara following.
The bunks near the door had been taken down. A bed stuck out into the doorway but space cleared by removing shelves left passage. One bunk was now a cot in the living corner. The bed was padded with a grass mattress and a bear rug; a calico cat was on it.
Hugh squeezed past, felt another cat brush his ankles. He went into the other bay. The bunks there had been rebuilt into a bed across the end; Karen was in bed, Grace was seated, fanning her, and Joe stood by with an air of grave concern.
Hugh smiled at his daughter. “Hi, Fatty!” He stooped and kissed her. “How are you? Hurting?”
“Not now. But I’m glad you’re here.”
“We hurried.”
A cat jumped up, landing on Karen. “Unh! Damn you, Maggie!”
“Joe,” said Hugh, “round up the cats and put them in Coventry.” The tunnel mouth had been bricked up, but with air holes, and a cat door which could be filled with a large brick. The cats had a low opinion of this but it had been built after Happy New Year had become missing and presumed dead.
Karen said, “Daddy, I want Maggie with me!”
“Joe, make that all but Maggie. When we get busy, grab Maggie and shut her up, too.”
“Can do, Hugh.” Joe left, passing Barbara coming in.
Hugh felt Karen’s cheeks, took her pulse. He said to his wife, “Is she shaved?”
“There hasn’t been time.”
“You and Barbara get her shaved and washed. Punkin’, when did your bowels move?”
“Just did. I was on the pot when it happened. Just sitting there minding my own business—and all of a sudden I’m Niagara Falls!”
“But your bowels moved?”
“Oh, yes!”
“That’s one less thing to worry about.” He smiled. “Not that there’s anything to worry about, you’ll play bridge most of the night. Like kittens, babies show up in the wee, sma’ hours.”
“All night? I want to have this little bastard and get it over with.”
“I want it over with, too, but babies have minds of their own.” He added, “You’ll be busy a while and so will I. I’m dirty.” He started to leave.
“Daddy, wait a minute. Do I have to stay back here? It’s hot.”
“No. The light is better by the door. Especially if young Tarzan has the decency to arrive during daylight. Barbara, turn that used bear over; it’ll be cooler. Put this sheet on it. Or a clean one if there is one.”
“The sterilized one?”
“No. Don’t unpack the boiled sheet until the riot starts.” Hugh patted his patient’s hand. “Try not to have a pain until I’m clean.”
“Daddy, you should have been a doctor.”
“I am a doctor. The best doctor in the world.”
As he left the house he encountered Duke, soaked from a long run. “I heard three shots. Sis?”
“Yes. No hurry, labor just started. I’m about to take a bath. Want to join me?”
“I want to say hello to Sis first.”
“Hurry up; they’re about to bathe her. And grab Joe; he’s incarcerating cats. They’ll want us out of the way.”
“Shouldn’t we be boiling water?”
“Do so, if it will calm you. Duke, my O.B. kit, such as it is, has been ready for a month. There are six jars of boiled water, for this and that. Go kiss your sister and don’t let her see that you’re worried.”
“You’re a cold fish, Dad.”
“Son, I’m scared silly. I can list thirteen major complications—and I’m not prepared to cope with any of them. Mostly I pat her hand and tell her that everything is dandy—and that’s what she needs. I examine her, solemn as a judge, and don’t know what to look for. It’s just to reassure her…and I’ll thank you to help out.”
Duke said soberly, “I will, sir. I’ll kid her along.”
“Don’t overdo it. Just let her see that you share her confidence in old Doc Farnham.”
“I will.”
“If Joe gets the jitters, get him out. He’s the worst. Grace is doing fine. Hurry up or they won’t let you in.”
Later, bathed and calmed down, Hugh climbed out of the stream ahead of Joe and Duke, walked back carrying his clothes and letting the air dry him. He paused outside, put on clean shorts. “Knock, knock!”
“Stay out,” Grace called. “We’re busy.”
“Then cover her. I want to scrub.”
“Don’t be silly, Mother. Come in, Daddy.”
He went in, squeezing around Barbara and Grace, and on into the bathroom. He trimmed his nails very closely, scrubbed his hands with ditch water—then again with boiled water, and repeated it. He shook them dry and went into the main room, being careful not to touch anything.
Karen was on the bed at the door, a ragged half sheet over her. Her shoulders were swaddled in a grayish garment that had been the shirt Hugh had worn the night of the attack. Grace and Barbara were seated on the bed, Duke stood outside the door, and Joe sat mournfully on the bunk beyond the bed.
Hugh smiled at her. “How is it going? Any twinges?”
“Nary a twinge, damn it. I want to have him before dinner.”
“You will. Because you don’t get any dinner.”
“Beast. My daddy is a beast.”
“Doctor Beast, please. Skedaddle, friends, I want to examine my patient. Everyone but Grace. Barbara, go lie down.”
“I’m not tired.”
“You may be awake most of the night. Take a nap. I don’t want to cope with a seven-month preemie.”
He folded back the sheet, looked Karen over, and palpated her swollen belly. “Has
“Has he! I’m going to sign him up with the Green Bay Packers. I think he’s wearing shoes.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised. Did you have shoes on when you started him?”
“What? Daddy, you are a nasty man. Yes.”
“Prenatal influence. Next time take them off.” He tried to judge whether the child was in the head-down position, or whether it was—God forbid!—a breech presentation. He was unable to decide. So he smiled at Karen and lied. “Shoes won’t bother us, as he is head down, just as he should be. It’s going to be an easy birth.”
“How can you tell, Daddy?”
“Put your hand where mine is. That’s his little pointy head, all set to take the dive. Feel it?”
“I guess so.”
“You could see, if you were where I am.” He tried to see if she was dilated. There was a little blood and he decided against a tactile examination—he did not know how it should feel and handling the birth canal would increase danger of infection. He knew that a rectal exploration should tell him something but be did not know what—so there was no point in submitting Karen to that indignity.
He looked up, caught his wife’s eye and thought of asking her opinion, decided not to. Despite having borne children, Grace knew no more about it than he did; the only result would be to shake Karen’s confidence.
Instead he got his “stethoscope” (three end papers from his encyclopaedia, rolled into a tube) and listened for fetal heartbeat. He had often heard it lately. But he got only a variety of noises which he lumped in his mind as “gut rumble.”
“Ticking like a metronome,” he announced, putting the tube down and covering her. “Your baby’s in fine shape, baby girl, and so are you. Grace, did you start a log when the first pain showed?”
“Barbara did.”
“Will you keep it, please? But first tell Duke to take the ropes off the other bed and rig them here.”
“Hubert, are you sure she should pull on ropes? Neither of my doctors had me do anything of the sort.”
“It’s the latest thing,” he reassured her. “All hospitals use them now.” Hugh had read somewhere that midwives often had their patients pull on ropes while bearing down. He had looked for this in his books, could not find it. But it struck him as sound mechanics; a woman should be able to bear down better.