Farnham's Freehold

“If those lying, cheating bastards ever throw their murder weapons at the United States, I want to live long enough to go to hell in style—with eight Russian side-boys!”

  Farnham twisted in his chair. “I mean it, Duke. America is the best thing in history, I think, and if those scoundrels kill our country, I want to kill a few of them. Eight side boys. Not less. I felt relieved when Grace refused to consider moving.”

  “Why, Dad?”

  “Because I don’t want that pig-faced peasant with the manners of a pig to run me out of my home! I’m a free man. I intend to stay free. I’ve made every preparation I can. But I wouldn’t relish running away. I—Here come the girls.”

  Karen came in carrying drinks, followed by Barbara. “Hi! Barb got a look at our kitchen and decided to make crêpes Suzettes. Why are you two looking grim? More bad news?”

  “No, but if you will snap the television on, we might get part of the ten o’clock roundup. Barbara, those glorified pancakes smell wonderful. Want a job as a cook?”

  “What about Joseph?”

  “We’ll keep Joseph as housekeeper.”

  “I accept.”

  Duke said, “Hey! You refused my offer of honorable matrimony and turn around and agree to live in sin with my old man. How come?”

  “I didn’t hear ‘sin’ mentioned.”

  “Don’t you know? Barbara… Dad is a notorious sex criminal.”

  “Is this true, Mr. Farnham?”

  “Well…”

  “That’s why I studied law, Barbara. It was breaking us to bring Jerry Giesler all the way from Los Angeles every time Dad got into a jam.”

  “Those were the good old days!” Duke’s father agreed. “But, Barbara, that was years ago. Contract is my weakness now.”

  “In that case I would expect a higher salary—”

  “Hush, children!” Karen said forcefully. She turned up the sound:

  “—agreed in principal to three out of four of the President’s major points and has agreed to meet again to discuss the fourth point, the presence of their nuclear submarines in our coastal waters. It may now be safely stated that the crisis, the most acute in post-World-War-Two years, does seem to be tapering off to a mutual accommodation that both countries can live with. We pause to bring you exciting news from General Motors followed by an analysis in depth—”

  Karen turned it down. Duke said, “Just as I said, Dad. You can take that cork out of your ear.”

  “Later. I’m busy with crêpes Suzettes. Barbara, I’ll expect these for breakfast every morning.”

  “Dad, quit trying to seduce her and cut the cards. I want to win back what I’ve lost.”

  “That’ll be a long night.” Mr. Farnham finished eating, stood up to put his plate aside; the doorbell rang. “I’ll answer it.”

  He went to the door, returned shortly. Karen said, “Who was it, Daddy? I cut for you. You and I are partners. Look pleased.”

  “I’m delighted. But remember that a count of eleven is not an opening bid. Somebody lost, I guess. Possibly a nut.”

  “My date. You scared him off.”

  “Possibly. A baldheaded old coot, very weather-beaten and ragged.”

  “My date,” Karen confirmed. “President of the Dekes. Go get him, Daddy.”

  “Too late. He took one look at me and fled. Whose bid is it?”

  Barbara continued to try to play like a machine. But it seemed to her that Duke was overbidding; she found herself thereby bidding timidly and had to force herself to overcome it. They went set several times in a long, dreary rubber which they “won” but lost on points.

  It was a pleasure to lose the next rubber with Karen as her partner. They shifted and again she was Mr. Farnham’s partner. He smiled at her. “This time we clobber them!”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Just play as you did. By the book. Duke will supply the mistakes.”

  “Put your money where your mouth is, Dad. Want a side bet of a hundred dollars on this rubber?”

  “A hundred it is.”

  Barbara thought about seventeen lonely dollars in her purse and got nervous. She was still more nervous when the first hand ended at five clubs, bid and made—by Duke—and realized that he had overbid and would have been down one had she covered his finesse.

  Duke said, “Care to double that bet, Governor?”

  “Okay. Deal.”

  Her morale was bolstered by the second hand: her contract at four spades and made possible by voids; she was able to ruff before cleaning out trumps. Her partner’s smile was reward enough. But it left her shaky.

  Duke said, “Both teams vulnerable, no part score. How’s your blood pressure, Daddy-o? Double again?”

  “Planning on firing your secretary?”

  “Speak up, or accept a white feather.”

  “Four hundred. You can sell your car.”

  Mr. Farnham dealt. Barbara picked up her hand and frowned. The count was not bad—two queens, a couple of jacks, an ace, a king—but no biddable suit and the king was unguarded. It was a strength and distribution which she had long tagged as “just good enough to go set on.” She hoped that it would be one of those sigh-of-relief hands in which everyone passes.

  Her partner picked up his hand and glanced at it. “Three no trump.”

  Barbara repressed a gasp, Karen did gasp. “Daddy, are you feverish?”

  “Bid.”

  “Pass!”

  Barbara said to herself, “‘God oh god, what I do now?’”

  Her partner’s bid promised twenty-five points—and invited slam. She held thirteen points. Thirty-eight points in the two hands—grand slam.

  That’s what the book said! Barbara girl, “three no trump” is twenty-five, twenty-six, or twenty-seven points—add thirteen and it reads “Grand Slam.”

  But was Mr. Farnham playing by the book? Or was he bidding a shut-out to grab the rubber and nail down that preposterous bet?

  If she passed, then game and rubber—and four hundred dollars—was certain. But grand slam (if they made it) was, uh, around fifteen dollars at the stakes Duke and his father were playing. Risk four hundred dollars of her partner’s money against a chance of fifteen? Ridiculous!

  Could she sneak up on it with the Blackwood Convention? No, no!—there hadn’t been background bidding.

  Was this one of those bids Duke had warned her about?

  (But her partner had said, “Play by the book.”)

  “Seven no trump,” she said firmly.

  Duke whistled. “Thanks, Barbara. We’re ganging up on you, Dad. Double.”

  “Pass.”

  “Pass,” Karen echoed.

  Barbara again counted her hand. That singleton king looked awfully naked. But…either the home team had thirty-eight points—or it didn’t. “Redouble.”

  Duke grinned. “Thanks, sweetie pie. Your lead, Karen.”

  Mr. Farnham put down his hand and abruptly left the table. His son said, “Hey! Come back and take your medicine!”

  Mr. Farnham snapped on the television, moved on and switched on the radio, changed its setting. “Red alert!” he snapped. “Somebody tell Joseph!” He ran out of the room.

  “Come back! You can’t duck this with that kind of stunt!”

  “Shut up, Duke!” Karen snapped.

  The television screen flickered into life: “—closing down. Tune at once to your emergency station. Good luck, good-bye, and God bless you all!”

  As the screen went blank the radio cut in: “—not a drill. This is not a drill. Take shelter. Emergency personnel report to their stations. Do not go out on the street. If you have no shelter, stay in the best protected room of your home. This is not a drill. Unidentified ballistic objects have been radar sighted by our early-warning screens and it must be assumed that they are missiles. Take shelter. Emergency personnel report to their—”

  “He means it,” Karen said in an awed voice. “Duke, show Barb where to go. I’ll wake Joseph.” She ran out of the room.

&nbs
p; Duke said, “I don’t believe it.”

  “Duke, how do we get into the shelter?”

  “I’ll show you.” He stood up unhurriedly, picked up the hands, put each in a separate pocket. “Mine and Sis’s in my trousers, yours and Dad’s in my coat. Come on. Want your suitcase?”

  “No!”

  2

  Duke led her through the kitchen to the basement stairs. Mr. Farnham was halfway down, his wife in his arms. She seemed asleep. Duke snapped out of his attitude. “Hold it, Dad! I’ll take her.”

  “Get on down and open the door!”

  The door was steel set into the wall of the basement. Seconds were lost because Duke did not know how to handle its latch. At last Mr. Farnham passed his wife over to his son, opened it himself. Beyond, stairs led farther down. They managed it by carrying Mrs. Farnham, hands and feet, a limp doll, and took her through a second door into a room beyond. Its floor was six feet lower than the basement and under, Barbara decided, their back garden. She hung back while Mrs. Farnham was carried inside.

  Mr. Farnham reappeared. “Barbara! Get in here! Where’s Joseph? Where’s Karen?”

  Those two came rushing down the basement stairs as he spoke. Karen was flushed and seemed excited and happy. Joseph was looking wild-eyed and was dressed in undershirt and trousers, his feet bare.

  He stopped short. “Mr. Farnham! Are they going to hit us?”

  “I’m afraid so. Get inside.”

  The young Negro turned and yelled, “Doctor Livingstone I presume!” and dashed back up the stairs.

  Mr. Farnham said, “Oh, God!” and pressed his fists against his temples. He added in his usual voice, “Get inside, girls. Karen, bolt the door but listen for me. I’ll wait as long as I can.” He glanced at his watch. “Five minutes.”

  The girls went in. Barbara whispered, “What happened to Joseph? Flipped?”

  “Well, sort of. Dr.-Livingstone-I-Presume is our cat. Loves Joseph, tolerates us.” Karen started bolting the inner door, heavy steel, and secured with ten inch-thick bolts.

  She stopped. “I’m damned if I’ll bolt this all the way while Daddy is outside!”

  “Don’t bolt it at all.”

  Karen shook her head. “I’ll use a couple, so he can hear me draw them. That cat may be a mile away.”

  Barbara looked around. It was an L-shaped room; they had entered the end of one arm. Two bunks were on the right-hand wall; Grace Farnham was in the lower and still asleep. The left wall was solid with packed shelves; the passage was hardly wider than the door. The ceiling was low and arched and of corrugated steel. She could see the ends of two more bunks at the bend. Duke was not in sight but he quickly appeared from around the bend, started setting up a card table in the space there. She watched in amazement as he got out the cards he had picked up—how long ago? It seemed an hour. Probably less than five minutes.

  Duke saw her, grinned, and placed folding chairs around the table.

  There came a clanging at the door. Karen unbolted it; Joseph tumbled in, followed by Mr. Farnham. A lordly red Persian cat jumped out of Joseph’s arms, started an inspection. Karen and her father bolted the door. He glanced at his wife, then said, “Joseph! Help me crank.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Duke came over. “Got her buttoned up, Skipper?”

  “All but the sliding door. It has to be cranked.”

  “Then come take your licking.” Duke waved at the table.

  His father stared. “Duke, are you seriously proposing to finish a card game while we’re being attacked?”

  “I’m four hundred dollars serious. And another hundred says we aren’t being attacked. In a half hour they’ll call it off and tomorrow’s papers will say the northern lights fouled up the radar. Play the hand? Or default?”

  “Mmmm—My partner will play it; I’m busy.”

  “You stand behind the way she plays it?”

  “Of course.”

  Barbara found herself sitting down at the table with a feeling that she had wandered into a dream. She picked up her partner’s hand, studied it. “Lead, Karen.”

  Karen said, “Oh, hell!” and led the trey of clubs. Duke picked up the dummy, laid it out in suits. “What do you want on it?” he asked.

  “Doesn’t matter. I’ll play both hands face up.”

  “Better not.”

  “It’s solid.” She exposed the cards.

  Duke studied them. “I see,” he admitted. “Leave the hands; Dad will want to see this.” He did some figuring. “Call it twenty-four hundred points. Dad!”

  “Yes, Son?”

  “I’m writing a check for four hundred and ninety-two dollars—and let that be a lesson to me.”

  “You don’t need to—”

  All lights went out, the floor slammed against their feet. Barbara felt frightening pressure on her chest, tried to stand up and was knocked over. All around was a noise of giant subway trains, and the floor heaved like a ship in a cross sea.

  “Dad!”

  “Yes, Duke! Are you hurt?”

  “I don’t know. But make that five hundred and ninety-two dollars!”

  The subterranean rumbling went on. Through this roar Barbara heard Mr. Farnham chuckle. “Forget it!” he called out. “The dollar just depreciated.”

  Mrs. Farnham started to scream. “Hubert! Hubert, where are you? Hubert! Make it stop!”

  “Coming, dear!” A pencil of light cut the blackness, moved toward the bunks near the door. Barbara raised her head, made out that it was her host, on hands and knees with a flashlight in his teeth. He reached the bunk, succeeded in quieting Grace; her screams ceased. “Karen?”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, Just bruised. My chair went over.”

  “All right. Get the emergency lighting on in this bay. Don’t stand up. Crawl. I’ll light you from here. Then get the hypo kit and—ow! Joseph!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You in one piece?”

  “I’m okay, Boss.”

  “Persuade your furry-faced Falstaff to join you. He jumped on me.”

  “He’s just friendly, Mr. Farnham.”

  “Yes, yes. But I don’t want him doing that while I’m giving a hypo. Call him.”

  “Sure thing. Here, Doc! Doc, Doc, Doc! Fish, Doc!”

  Some minutes later the rumbling had died out, the floor was steady, Mrs. Farnham had been knocked out by injected drug, two tiny lights were glowing in the first bay, and Mr. Farnham was inspecting.

  Damage was slight. Despite guardrails, cans had popped off shelves; a fifth of rum was broken. But liquor was almost the only thing stored in glass, and liquor had been left in cases, the rest of it had come through. The worst casualty was the shelter’s battery-driven radio, torn loose from the wall and smashed.

  Mr. Farnham was on his knees, retrieving bits of it. His son looked down. “Don’t bother, Dad. Sweep it up and throw it away.”

  “Some parts can be salvaged.”

  “What do you know about radios?”

  “Nothing,” his father admitted. “But I have books.”

  “A book won’t fix that. You should have stocked a spare.”

  “I have a spare.”

  “Then for God’s sake get it! I want to know what’s happened.”

  His father got up slowly and looked at Duke. “I would like to know, too. I can’t hear anything over this radio I’m wearing. Not surprising, it’s short range. But the spare is packed in foam and probably wasn’t hurt.”

  “Then get it hooked up.”

  “Later.”

  “Later, hell. Where is it?”

  Mr. Farnham breathed hard. “I’ve had all the yap I’m going to take.”

  “Huh? Sorry. Just tell me where the spare is.”

  “I shan’t. We might lose it, too. I’m going to wait until I’m sure the attack is over.”

  His son shrugged. “Okay, if you want to be difficult. But all of us want to hear the news. I
t’s a shabby trick if you ask me.”

  “Nobody asked you. I told you I’ve had all the yap I’m going to take. If you’re itching to know what’s happening outside, you can leave. I’ll unbolt this door, crank back the armor door, and you can open the upper door yourself.”

  “Eh? Don’t be silly.”

  “But close it after you. I don’t want it open—both for blast and radioactivity.”

  “That’s another thing. Don’t you have any way to measure radioactivity? We ought to take steps to—”

  “SHUT UP!”

  “What? Dad, don’t pull the heavy-handed father on me.”

  “Duke, I ask you to keep quiet and listen. Will you?”

  “Well…all right. But I don’t appreciate being bawled out in the presence of others.”

  “Then keep your voice down.” They were in the first bay near the door. Mrs. Farnham was snoring by them; the others had retreated around the bend, unwilling to witness. “Are you ready to listen?”

  “Very well, sir,” Duke said stiffly.

  “Good. Son, I was not joking. Either leave…or do exactly as I tell you. That includes keeping your mouth shut when I tell you to. Which will it be? Absolute obedience, prompt and cheerful? Or will you leave?”

  “Aren’t you being rather high-handed?”

  “I intend to be. This shelter is a lifeboat and I am boat officer. For the safety of all I shall maintain discipline. Even if it means tossing somebody overboard.”

  “That’s a farfetched simile. Dad, it’s a shame you were in the Navy. It gives you romantic ideas.”

  “I think it’s a shame, Duke, that you never had service. You’re not realistic. Well, which is it? Will you take orders? Or leave?”

  “You know I’m not going to leave. And you’re not serious in talking about it. It’s death out there.”

  “Then you’ll take orders?”

  “Uh, I’ll be cooperative. But this absolute dictatorship—Dad, tonight you made quite a point of the fact that you are a free man. Well, so am I. I’ll cooperate. But I won’t take unreasonable orders, and as for keeping my mouth shut, I’ll try to be diplomatic. But when I think it’s necessary, I’ll voice my opinion. Free speech. Fair enough?”

  His father sighed. “Not nearly good enough, Duke. Stand aside, I want to unbolt the door.”