Farnham's Freehold

  After that they were bathed again. The eyebrow patches washed away. So did their hair. When they came out, they were both bald all over, save for eyebrows.

  The bathmaster made them gargle, showing them what he wanted and spitting into the whirlpool. They gargled three times—a pleasant, pungent liquid—and when it was over, Hugh found that his teeth seemed cleaner than they had ever been in his life. He felt utterly clean, lively, glowing with well being—but humiliated.

  They were taken to another room and examined.

  Their examiner wore the conventional white nightshirt and a small insigne on a thin gold chain but he needed no diplomas on the wall to show his profession. His bedside manner would never make him rich, Hugh decided; he had the air of military surgeons Hugh had known—not unkind but impersonal.

  He seemed surprised by and interested in a removable bridge he found in Hugh’s mouth. He examined it, looked in Hugh’s mouth at the gaps it had filled, gave it to one of his assistants with instructions. The assistant went away and Hugh wondered if his chewing was going to be permanently hampered.

  The physician took an hour or more over each of them, using instruments Hugh did not recognize—weight, height, and blood pressure were the only familiar tests. Things were done to them, too, none of them really unpleasant—no hypodermic needles, no knives. During this, Hugh’s bridge was returned and he was allowed to put it back in.

  But the tests and/or treatments often seemed to be indignities even though not painful. Once, when Hugh was stretched out on a table from which Duke had just been released, the younger man said, “How do you like it, Dad?”

  “Restful.”

  Duke snorted.

  The fact that both men had appendicitis scars seemed to interest the physician as much as the removable bridge. By acting he indicated a bellyache, then jabbed a thumb into McBurney’s point. Hugh conveyed agreement—with difficulty, as nodding the head seemed to be a negative.

  An assistant came in and handed the physician a contrivance which turned out to be another dental bridge. Hugh was required to open his mouth; the old one was again taken and the new one seated. It felt to Hugh’s tongue as if he again had natural teeth there. The physician probed cavities, cleaned them and filled them—without pain but without anesthesia so far as Hugh was aware.

  After that Hugh was suddenly “strapped” (an invisible field) to a table, supine, and his legs were elevated. Another table was wheeled up and Hugh realized that he was being prepared for surgery—and with horror he was sure what sort. “Duke! Don’t let them grab you! Get that whip!”

  Duke hesitated too long. The therapist did not carry a whip; he merely kept one at hand. Duke lunged for it, the physician got it first. Moments later Duke was on his back, still gasping his agony at the punishment he had taken and having his knees elevated and spread. They both went on protesting.

  The physician looked at them thoughtfully and the straw boss who had fetched them was called in. Presently the waspish little man with the big medallion strode in, looked the situation over, stormed out.

  There was a long wait. The boss therapist filled in the time by having his assistants complete preparations for surgery and there was no longer the slightest doubt in Hugh’s mind, or Duke’s, as to what they were in for. Duke pointed out that it would have been better if they had fought—and died—earlier in the day, rather than wind up like this. As they would have fought, he reminded his father, if Hugh hadn’t turned chicken.

  Hugh didn’t argue, he agreed. He tried to tell himself that his docility in being captured was on account of the women. It afforded him little comfort. True, he hadn’t used his own much in recent years…and might never need them again. But, damn it, he was used to them. And it would be rough for Duke, young as he was.

  After a long time the little man stormed back in, angrier than ever. He snapped an order; Hugh and Duke were released.

  That ended it, save that they were rubbed all over with a fragrant cream. They were given a white nightshirt apiece, conducted through long bare passages and Hugh was shoved into a cell. The door was not locked but he could not open it.

  In one corner was a tray, with dishes and a spoon. The food was excellent and some of it unidentifiable; Hugh ate with good appetite, scraping the dishes and drinking the thin beer with it. Then he slept on a soft part of the floor, having blanked his mind of worry.

  He was prodded awake by a foot.

  He was taken to another plain, windowless room, which turned out to be a schoolroom. Two short white men in nightshirts were there. They were equipped with props, the equivalent of a blackboard (it could be cleared instantly by some magic), patience—and a whip, for the lessons were “taught to the tune of a hickory stick.” No error went unnoted.

  They both could draw and both were imaginative pantomimists; Hugh was taught to speak.

  Hugh discovered that his memory was sharpened by the stimuli of pain; he had little tendency to repeat a mistake. At first he was punished only for forgetting vocabulary, but as he learned, he grew to expect flicks of pain for errors in inflection, construction, idiom, and accent.

  This Pavlovian treatment continued—if his mental records were correct—for seventeen days; he did nothing else and saw no one but his teachers. They worked in shifts; Hugh worked every possible minute, about sixteen hours a day. He was never allowed quite enough sleep although he never felt sleepy—he didn’t dare—during lessons. Once a day he was bathed and given a clean nightshirt, twice a day he was fed, tasty food and plentiful, three times a day he was policed to the toilet. All other minutes were spent learning to speak, with ever-sharp awareness that any bobble would be punished.

  But he learned how to duck punishment. A question, quickly put, would sometimes do. “Teacher, this one understands that there are protocol modes for each status rising and falling, but what this one in its ignorance lacks is knowledge of what each status is—being wholly without experience through the inscrutable ways of Uncle the Mighty—and also is sometimes not aware of the status assumed for teaching purposes by my charitable teacher and of the status this humble one is expected to assume in reply. More than that, this one does not know its own status in the great family. May it please its teacher.”

  The whip was put down and for the next hour he was lectured. The problem was more involved than Hugh’s question showed. The lowest status was stud. No, there was one lower: servant children. But since children were expected to make mistakes, it did not matter. Next higher was slut, then tempered servant—a category with subtle and unlimited gradations of rank so involved that speech of equals was used if the gradient was not clearly evident.

  High above all servants were the Chosen, with unlimited and sometimes changing variations of rank, including those ritual circumstances in which a lady takes precedence over a lord. But that was not usually a worry; always use protocol rising mode. However—

  “If two of the Chosen speak to you at once, which one do you answer?”

  “The junior,” Hugh answered.

  “Why?”

  “Since the Chosen do not make mistakes, this one’s ears were at fault. The senior did not actually speak, for his junior would never have interrupted.”

  “Correct. You are a tempered gardener and you encounter a Chosen of the same rank as your lord uncle. He speaks. ‘Boy, what sort of a flower is that?’”

  “As Their Charity knows much better than this one can ever know, if this one’s eyes are not mistaken, that plant may be a hydrangea.”

  “Good. But drop your eyes when you say it. Now about your status—” The teacher looked pained. “You haven’t any.”

  “Please, teacher?”

  “Uncle! I’ve tried to find out. Nobody knows but our Lord Uncle and they have not ruled. You’re not a child, you’re not a stud, you’re not a tempered, you don’t belong anywhere. You’re a savage and you don’t fit.”

  “But what protocol mode must I use?”

  “Always the rising. Oh, n
ot to children. Nor to sluts, no need to overdo it.”

  Except for changes in inflection caused by status, Hugh found the language simple and logical. It had no irregular verbs and its syntax was orderly; it probably had been tidied up at some time. He suspected, from words that he recognized—“simba,” “bwana,” “wazir,” “étage,” “trek,” “oncle”—that it had roots in several African languages. But that did not matter; this was “Speech” and, according to his teachers, the only language spoken anywhere.

  In addition to protocol modes, quite a chunk of vocabulary was double, one word being used down, its synonym although different in root used up. He had to know both—be able to recognize one and to use the other.

  The pronunciation gave him trouble at first, but by the end of the week he could lip smack, click, make the fast glottal stop, and hear and say vowel distinctions he had never suspected existed. By the sixteenth day he was chattering freely, beginning to think in it, and the whip was rarely used.

  Late next day the Lord Protector sent for him.

  12

  Although he had been bathed that day, Hugh was rushed through another bath, rubbed down with fragrant cream, and issued a fresh robe, before being whizzed to the lord’s private apartments. There he was bounced past a series of receptionists close on Memtok’s heels, and into a large and very sumptuous retiring room.

  The lord was not there; Joseph and Dr.-Livingstone-I-Presume were. Joe called out, “Hugh! Wonderful!” and added to the Chief Domestic, “You may go.”

  Memtok hesitated, then backed away and left. Joe ignored him, slipped his arm in Hugh’s, and led him to a divan. “Gosh, it’s good to see you! Sit down, we’ll talk until Ponse gets here. You look well.” Doctor Livingstone checked Hugh’s ankles, purred and stropped against them.

  “I am well. ‘Ponse’?” Hugh scratched the cat’s ears.

  “Don’t you know his name? The Lord Protector, I mean. No, I guess you wouldn’t. That’s one of his names, one he uses en famille. Never mind, have they been treating you right?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “They had better. Ponse gave orders for you to be pampered. Look, if you aren’t treated okay, you tell me. I can fix it.”

  Hugh hesitated. “Joe, have you had one of those odd whips used on you?”

  “Me?” Joe seemed astonished. “Of course not. Hugh, have they been abusing you? Peel off that Mother Hubbard and let me have a look.”

  Hugh shook his head. “There are no marks on me. I haven’t been hurt. But I don’t like it.”

  “But if you’ve been stroked for no reason—Hugh, that’s one thing that Ponse does not tolerate. He’s a very humane sort of guy. All he wants is discipline. If anybody—anybody at all, even Memtok—has been cruel to you, somebody is going to catch it.”

  Hugh thought about it. He rather liked his teachers. They had worked hard and patiently and had been sparing of him once it became possible to talk instead of using the whip. “I haven’t been hurt. Just reminded.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Actually, Hugh, I didn’t see how you could be. That quirt Ponse carries—you could kill a man with it at a thousand feet; it takes skill to use it gently. But those toys the upper servants carry, all they do is tingle and that’s all they are supposed to do.”

  Hugh decided not to argue over what constituted a tingle; he had urgent things on his mind. “Joe, how are the others? Have you seen them?”

  “Oh, they’re all right. You heard about Barbara?”

  “I haven’t heard a damn thing! What about Barbara?”

  “Slow down. Having her babies, I mean.”

  “She had her baby?”

  “‘Babies.’ Twin boys, identical. A week ago.”

  “How is she? How is she?”

  “Easy, man! She’s fine, couldn’t be better. Of course. They are way ahead of us in medicine; losing a mother, or a baby, is unheard of.” Joe suddenly looked sad. “It’s a shame they didn’t run across us months back.” He brightened. “Barbara told me that she had intended to name it Karen, if it was a girl. When it turned out to be twin boys, she named one—the one five minutes the elder—‘Hugh’ and the other ‘Karl Joseph.’ Nice, eh?”

  “I’m flattered. Then you’ve seen her. Joe, I’ve got to see her. Right away. How do I arrange it?”

  Joe looked astonished. “But you can’t, Hugh. Surely you know that.”

  “Why can’t I?”

  “Why, you’re not tempered, that’s why. Impossible.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.” Joseph suddenly grinned. “I understand that you were almost made eligible by accident. Ponse laughed his head off at how close you came and how you and Duke yelped.”

  “I don’t see the humor of it.”

  “Oh, Hugh, he simply has a robust sense of humor. He laughed when he told me about it. I didn’t laugh and he decided that I have no sense of humor. Different people laugh at different things. Karen used to use a fake Negro dialect that set my teeth on edge, the times I overheard it. But she didn’t mean any harm. Karen—Well, they just don’t come any better, and you and I know it and I’ll shut up about it. Look, if the vet had gone ahead, without orders, it would have cost him his hands; Ponse sent that word to him. Might have suspended the sentence—good surgeons are valuable. But his assumption was only natural, Hugh; both you and Duke are too tall and too big for stud. However, Ponse doesn’t tolerate sloppiness.”

  “All right, all right. I still don’t see the harm in my calling on Barbara and seeing her babies. You saw her. And you’re not tempered.”

  Joe looked patiently exasperated. “Hugh, it’s not the same thing. Surely you know it.”

  “Why isn’t it?”

  Joe sighed. “Hugh, I didn’t make the rules. But I’m Chosen and you’re not, and that’s all there is to it. It’s not my fault that you’re white.”

  “All right. Forget it.”

  “Let’s be glad that one of us is in a position to get us some favors. Do you realize that all of you would have been executed? If I hadn’t been along?”

  “The thought has crossed my mind. Lucky you knew French. And that he knows French.”

  Joe shook his head. “French didn’t enter into it, it merely saved time. The point was that I was there…and the rest of you were excused of any responsibility on that account. What had to be settled then was the degree of my criminality, my neck was in a noose.” Joe frowned. “I’m still not in the clear. I mean, Ponse is convinced but my case has to be reviewed by the Supreme Lord Proprietor; it’s his preserve—Ponse is just custodian. I could be executed yet.”

  “Joe, what in the world is there about it to cause you to talk about being executed?”

  “Plenty! Look, if you four ofays—whites—had been alone, Ponse would have tried you just by looking at you. Two capital crimes and both self-evident. Escapees. Servants who had run away from their lord. Destructive trespass in a personal domain of the Supreme Proprietor. Open-and-shut on both counts and death for each of them. Don’t tell me that wasn’t the way it was because I know it and it took me long enough to make Ponse see it, using a language neither one of us knows too well. And my neck is still in jeopardy. However—” He brightened. “Ponse tells me that the Supreme Proprietor is years behind in reviewing criminal cases and that it has been more years since he last set foot on this preserve or even cruised over it…and that long before my case can come up there won’t be a trace of destruction. They are putting the trees back and there’s never an accurate count of bears and deer and other game. He tells me not to worry.”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  “But maybe you think I haven’t done some sweating over it! Just letting your shadow fall across the Supreme Lord Proprietor means your neck and sneezing in his presence is even worse—so you can figure for yourself that trespassing on land that is his personally is nothing to take lightly. But I shan’t worry as long as Ponse says not to. He’s been treating me
as a guest, not as a prisoner. But tell me about yourself. I hear you’ve been studying the language. So have I—a tutor every day I’ve had time for it.”

  Hugh answered, “May it meet with their approval, this one’s time has, as they know, been devoted to nothing else.”

  “Whoo! You speak it better than I do.”

  “I was given incentive,” Hugh said, relapsing into English. “Joe, have you seen Duke? Grace?”

  “Duke, no. I haven’t tried to. Ponse has been away most of the time and took me along; I’ve been terribly busy. Grace, yes. It’s possible that you might see Grace. She’s often in these apartments. That’s the only way you could see her, of course. Right here. And in the presence of Ponse. Might happen. He’s not a stickler for protocol. In private, I mean; he keeps up appearances in public.”

  “Hmm—Joe, in that case, couldn’t you ask him to let me see Barbara and the twins? Here? In his presence?”

  Joe looked exasperated. “Hugh, can’t you understand that I’m just a guest? I’m here on sufferance. I don’t have a single servant of my own, no money, no title. I said you might see Grace; I did not say you would. If you did, it would be because he had sent for you and it suited him not to send her out—not for your convenience. As for asking him to let you see Barbara, I can’t. And that’s that! I advise you not to, either. You might learn that his quirt doesn’t just tingle.”

  “All I meant was—”

  “Watch it! Here he comes.”

  Joe went to meet his host. Hugh stood with head bowed, eyes downcast, and waited to be noticed. Ponse came striding in, dressed much as Hugh had seen him before save that the helmet was replaced by a red skullcap. He greeted Joe, sat heavily down on a large divan, stuck out his legs. Doctor Livingstone jumped up into the lord’s lap; he stroked it. Two female servants appeared from nowhere, pulled off his boots, wiped his feet with a hot towel, dried them, massaged them, placed slippers on them, and vanished.

  While this was going on, the Lord Protector spoke to Joe of matters Hugh could not follow other than as words, but he noticed that the noble used the mode of equals to Joe and that Joe talked in the same fashion to him. Hugh decided that Joe must be in as solid as Doctor Livingstone. Well, Joe did have a pleasing personality.