Farnham's Freehold (24 page)

“Blood will tell,” Hugh said smugly. “I am not the only one of my bloodline to live a very long time.”

He was saved from further evasions by the return of Memtok. Everyone stood up. Hugh didn’t notice in time, so he remained seated and brazened it out. If Memtok resented it, he did not let it show. He clapped Hugh on the shoulder as he sat down. “No doubt they’ve told you how I eat my own young?”

“I was given the impression of a happy family presided over by a beloved uncle.”

“Liars, all of them. Well, I’m through for the evening—until some emergency. Their Charity knows that we are welcoming you; he commanded me not to return to the Grand Hall. So now we can relax and be merry.” The Chief Domestic tapped his goblet with a spoon. “Cousins and nephews, a toast to our newest cousin. Possibly you heard what I said—the Lord Protector is pleased at our modest effort to make Cousin Hugh feel at home in Their Family. But I am sure that you already guessed that…since one cannot miss that Cousin Hugh carries, not a least whip, but a lesser whip exactly like mine!” Memtok smiled archly. “Let us trust that he will never need to use it.”

Loud applause greeted the boss’s brilliant sally. He went on solemnly, “You all know that not even my chief deputy carries such authority, much less the ordinary department head…and from that I am sure you conclude that a hint from Cousin Hugh, Chief Researcher and Aide in Scholarship to Their Charity by direct appointment—a hint from him is an order from me—so don’t let me have to make it a direct order.

“And now the toasts! All cousins together and let Happiness flow freely…so let the junior among us give the first toast. Who claims it, who claims it?”

The party got rowdy. Hugh noted that Memtok drank sparingly. He remembered the warning and tried to emulate him. It was impossible. The Chief Domestic could drop out of any toast, merely raise his glass, but Hugh as guest of honor felt compelled to drink them all.

Some unknown time later Memtok led him back to his newly acquired, luxurious quarters. Hugh felt drunk but not unsteady—it was just that the floor was so far away. He felt illuminated, possessed of the wisdom of the ages, floating on silvery clouds, and soaked through with angelic happiness. He still had no idea what was in Happiness drinks. Alcohol? Maybe. Betel nut? Mushrooms? Probably. Marijuana? It seemed certain. He must write down the formula while it was fresh in his mind. This was what Grace should have had! He must—But of course, she
did
have it now. How very nice! Poor old Grace—He had never understood her—all she needed was a little Happiness.

Memtok took him into his bedroom. Sleeping across the foot of his lovely new bed was a female creature, blond and cuddly.

Hugh looked down at her from about a hundred-foot elevation and blinked. “Who
she?
”

“Your bedwarmer. Didn’t I say?”

“But—”

“It’s quite all right. Yes, yes, I know you are technically a stud. But you can’t harm her; this is what she is for. No danger. Not even altered. A natural freemartin.”

Hugh turned around to discuss it, wheeling slowly because of his great width and high sail area. Memtok was gone. Hugh found that he could just make it to the bed. “Move over, Kitten,” he muttered, and fell asleep.

He overslept but the kitten was still there; she had his breakfast waiting. He looked at her with unease—not because he had a hangover; he did not. Apparently Happiness did not exact such payments. He felt physically strong, mentally alert, and morally straight—and very hungry. But this teen-ager was an embarrassment.

“What’s your name, kitten?”

“May it please them, this one’s name is of such little importance that whatever they please to call it will be a boon.”

“Cut it, cut it! Use equals speech.”

“I don’t really have a name, sir. Mostly they just say, ‘Hey, you.’”

“All right, I’ll call you ‘Kitten.’ Does that suit you? You look like a kitten.”

She dimpled. “Yes, sir. It’s ever so much nicer than ‘Hey, you.’”

“All right, your name is ‘Kitten.’ Tell everybody and don’t answer to ‘Hey, you.’ Tell them that is official because the Chief Researcher says so and if anybody doubts it, tell them to check with the Chief Domestic. If they dare.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Kitten, Kitten, Kitten,” she repeated as if memorizing it, then giggled. “Pretty!”

“Good. Is that my breakfast?”

“Yes, sir.”

He ate in bed, offering her bits, and discovered that she expected to be fed, or at least allowed to eat. There was enough for four; between them they ate enough for three. Then he learned that she expected to assist him in the bathroom; he put a stop to that.

Later, ready to go to his assigned duties, he said to her, “What do you do now?”

“I go back to sluts’ quarters, sir, as soon as you release me. I come back at bedtime—whatever time you say.”

He was about to tell her that she was charming and that he almost regretted passing out the night before but that he did not require her services on future—He stopped. An idea had hit him. “Look. Do you know a tall slut named Barbara? Oh, this much taller than you are. She was adopted something over two weeks ago and she had babies, twin boys, about a week ago.”

“Oh, yes, sir. The savage.”

“That’s the one. Do you know where she is?”

“Oh, yes, sir. She’s still in lying-in quarters. I like to go in there and look at the babies.” She looked wistful. “It must be nice.”

“Uh, yes. Can you take a message to her?”

Kitten looked doubtful. “She might not understand. She’s a savage, she can’t talk very well.”

“Mmm—Damn. No, maybe it’s a help. Wait a moment.” His quarters were equipped with a desk; he went to it, got one of those extraordinary pens—they didn’t stain and didn’t wear out and appeared to be solid—found a piece of paper. Hastily he wrote a note, asking Barbara about herself and the twins, reporting his odd promotion, telling her that soon, somehow, he would see her—be patient, dear—and assuring her of his undying devotion.

He added a P.S. “The bearer of this note is ‘Kitten’—if the bearer is short, blond, busty, and about fourteen. She is my bedwarmer—which means nothing and you’ve got an evil mind, wench! I’m going to hang onto her because she is a way—the
only
way, it would appear—for me to communicate with you. I’ll try to write every day, I’ll darn well expect a note from you every day. If you can. And if anybody does
anything
you don’t like, tell me and I’ll send you his head on a platter. I think. Things are looking up. Plenty of paper and a pen herewith. Love, love, love—H.

“PPS—go easy on ‘Happiness.’ It’s habit-forming.”

He gave the girl the note and writing materials. “You know the Chief Domestic by sight?”

“Oh, yes, sir. I’ve warmed his bed. Twice.”

“Really? I’m amazed.”

“Why, sir?”

“Well, I didn’t think he would be interested.”

“You mean because he’s tempered? Oh, but several of the executives like to have a bedwarmer anyhow. I like it better than being sent upstairs; it’s less trouble and you get lots more sleep. The Chief Domestic doesn’t usually send for a bedwarmer, though—it’s just that he checks us and teaches us manners before we are allowed to serve upstairs.” She added, “You see, he knows all about it; he used to be a stud, you know.” She looked at Hugh with innocent curiosity. “Is it true what they say about you? May one ask?”

“Uh…one may not.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” She looked crushed. “I didn’t mean any harm.” She glanced fearfully at his whip, dropped her eyes.

“Kitten.”

“Yes, sir.”

“See this whip?”

“Uh,
yessir!
”

“You will never, never, never feel my whip. That’s a promise. Never. We’re friends.”

Her face lit up and she looked angelically beautiful instead of pretty. “Oh, thank you, sir!”

“Another thing. The only whip you need fear from now on is the Chief Domestic’s—so stay out of his way. Anyone else—any ‘least whip’—you tell him, or her, that this lesser whip is what he’ll get if he touches you. Tell him to check with the Chief Domestic. Understand me?”

“Yes, sir.” She looked smugly happy.

Too smug, Hugh decided. “But you stay out of trouble. Don’t do anything to deserve a tingle—or I might turn you over to the Chief Domestic for a real tingling, the sort he is famous for. But as long as you work for me, don’t allow anyone but him to tingle you. Now git and deliver that. I’ll see you tonight, about two hours after evening prayer. Or come earlier if you are sleepy, and go to bed.” Must remember to have a little bed put here for her, he reminded himself.

Kitten touched her forehead and left. Hugh went to his office and spent a happy day learning the alphabet and dictating three articles from the
Britannica.
He found his vocabulary inadequate, so he sent for one of his teachers and used the man as a dictionary. Even so, he found it necessary to explain almost endlessly; concepts had changed.

Kitten went straight to the Chief Domestic’s office, made her report, turned over the note and writing materials. Memtok was much annoyed that he held in his hand what might be important evidence—and no way to read it. It did occur to him that that other one—Duke? Juke? Some such—might be able to read these hen scratches. But not likely, of course, and even under tingling there would be no certainty that Juke would translate honestly, and no way to check on him.

Asking Joe never crossed his mind. Nor did asking Their Charity’s new bedwarmer. But the impasse had one intriguing aspect. Was it possible that this savage slut actually could
read?
And perhaps even essay to write a reply?

He stuck the note in his copier, gave it back to the girl. “All right, your name is Kitten. And do exactly as he tells you about not letting yourself be tingled—and be sure to gossip about it; I want it known all over. But get this—” He gave Kitten the gentlest of reminders; she jumped. “
This
whip is waiting for you, if you make any mistakes.”

“This one hears and obeys!”

Hugh returned from the executives’ dining room rather late; he had sat around and gossiped. He found Kitten asleep in his bed and remembered that he had forgotten to ask for another bed for her.

Clutched in her hand was a folded paper. Gently he worked it out without waking her:

Darling!

How utterly wonderful to see your handwriting! I knew from Joe that you were safe, hadn’t heard about your promotion, didn’t know whether you knew about the twins. First about them—They are thriving, they both look like their papa, both have his angelic disposition. Six pounds each at birth is my guess, but, although they were weighed, weights here mean nothing to me. Me? I’m a prize cow, dearest, no trouble at all—and the care I received (and am receiving) is fantastically good. I started to labor, was given something to drink, never hurt again although I remember all details of having two babies—as if it had happened to somebody else. So trouble free and actually
pleasant
that I’d be willing to do it every day. And would, if the rewards were as nice as little Hugh and Karl Joseph.

As for the rest, boring except for our fine boys, but I’m learning the language as fast as I can. And somebody should tell the Borden Company about me—which is good, as our scamps are greedy eaters. I’m even able to help out the girl in the next bed, who is short on milk. Just call me Elsie.

I’ll be patient. I’m not surprised at your new honors; I expect that you’ll be bossing the place in a month. I have confidence in my man. My husband. Such a beautiful word—

As for Kitten, I don’t believe your Boy Scout assertions, my lecherous darling; your record shows that you take advantage of innocent young girls. And she’s awfully cute.

Seriously, dearest, I know how noble you are and I didn’t have an evil-minded thought. But I would not blame you if your nobility slipped—especially as I’ve picked up enough words to be aware of her odd category in this strange place. I mean, Kitten is not vulnerable and can’t go set. If you
did
slip, I would not be jealous—not much, anyhow—but I would not want it to become a habit. Not to the exclusion of me, at least; my hormones are rearranging themselves very rapidly. But I
don’t
want you to get rid of her when she is our only way of communicating. Be nice to her; she’s a nice kid. But you’re always nice to everyone.

I will write every day—and I will cry into my pillow and be worried to death any day I don’t hear from you.

My love forever and forever,
B

P.S. The smear is little Hugh’s right footprint.

Hugh kissed the letter, then got into bed, clutching it. Kitten did not wake.

Hugh found learning to read and write Language not difficult. Spelling was phonetic, a sign for every sound. There were no silent letters and never any question about spelling or pronunciation. Accent was on the penultima unless marked; the system was as free from traps as Esperanto. He could sound out any word as soon as he had learned the 47-letter alphabet, and, with thought, he could spell any word he could pronounce.

Writing and printing were alike, cursive, and a printed page looked like one written by a skilled penman. He was not surprised to find that it looked like Arabic and a search in the
Britannica
confirmed that the alphabet must have derived from Arabic of his time. Half a dozen letters had not changed; some were similar although changed. There were many new letters to cover the expansion into a system of one sound, one sign—plus letters for sounds XXth century Arabic had never used. Search in the
Britannica
convinced him that Arabic, French, and Swahili were the main roots of Language, plus Uncle alone knew what else. He could not confirm this; a dictionary with derivations, such as he had been used to for English, apparently did not exist—and his teachers seemed convinced that Language had
always
been just as they knew it. The concept of change baffled them.

It was only of intellectual interest; Hugh knew neither Arabic, French, nor Swahili. He had learned a little Latin and less German in high school, and had struggled to learn Russian in his later years. He was not equipped to study the roots of Language, he was merely curious.