Farnham's Freehold (26 page)

And since when were the Chinese classed as “white” and the Hindus as “black”? Yes, purely on skin color Chinese and Japanese were as light as the average “white” of his time, and Hindus were certainly as dark as most Africans—but it was not the accepted anthropological ordering of his day.

Of course, if all they meant was skin shade—and apparently that was what they did mean—he couldn’t argue. The story maintained that the whites, with their evil ways, destroyed each other almost to the last man…leaving the innocent, charitable, merciful dark race—beloved by Uncle the Mighty—to inherit the Earth.

The few white survivors, spared by Uncle’s mercy, had been succored and cherished as children and now again were waxing numerous under the benevolent guidance of the Chosen. So it read.

Hugh could see that a war which smeared North America, Europe, all of Asia except India, could kill off most whites and almost all Chinese. But what had happened to the white minority in South America, the whites of the Union of South Africa, and the Australians and New Zealanders?

Search as he would, Hugh could not find out. All that seemed certain was that the Chosen were dark whereas servants were pale faces—and usually small. Hugh and his son towered over the other servants. Contrariwise, the few Chosen he had seen were big men.

If present-day whites were descended from Australians, mostly—No, couldn’t be, Aussies had not been runts. And those “Expeditions of Mercy”—were they slave raids? Or pogroms? Or, as the scrolls said, rescue missions for survivors?

The book burnings might account for these discrepancies. It wasn’t clear to Hugh whether all books had been put to the torch, or possibly technical books had been spared—for it was clear that the Chosen had technology superior to that of his time; it seemed unlikely that they had started from scratch.

Or was it unlikely? All the technology of his own time that had amounted to a damn had been less than five hundred years old, most of it less than a hundred, and the most amazing parts less than a generation. Could the world have gone back to a dark ages, then pulled out of it and more, in two thousand years? Of course it could!

Either way, the Koran had been the only book officially exempt from the torch—and Hugh harbored a suspicion that the Koran had not been spared either. He had owned a translation of the Koran, had read it several times.

He wished now that he had put it into the shelter, for the Koran as he now read it in “Language” did not match his memory. For one thing, he had thought that Mahomet was a redheaded Arab; this “Koran” mentioned his skin color repeatedly, as black. And he was sure that the Koran was free of racism. This “improved” version was rabid with it.

Furthermore, this Koran had a new testament with a martyred Messiah. He had taught and had been hanged for it—religious scrolls were all marked with a gallows. Hugh did not object to a new testament; there had been time for a new revelation and religions had them as naturally as a cat has kittens. What he objected to was some revisionist working over the words of the Prophet, apparently to make them fit this new book. That wasn’t fair, that was cheating.

The social organization Hugh found almost as puzzling. He was beginning to get a picture of a complex culture, stable, even static—high technology, few innovations, smooth, efficient—and decadent. Church and State were one—“One Tongue, One King, One People, One God.” The Lord Proprietor was sovereign and supreme pontiff and owned everything under Uncle’s grant, and the Lords Protector such as Ponse were his bishops and held only fiefs. Yet there were plenty of private citizens (Chosen, of course—a white was not a person), shopkeepers, landowners, professional men, etc. A setup for an absolute totalitarian communism yet streaked through with what appeared to be private enterprise—Hell, there were even corporations if he understood what he was reading.

The most interesting point to Hugh (aside from the dismal fact that his own status was fixed by law and custom at zero) was the inheritance system. Family was everything, yet marriage was almost nothing—present but not important. Descent was through the female line—but power was exercised by males.

This confused Hugh until it suddenly fell into place. Ponse was Lord Protector because he was eldest son of an eldest daughter—whose oldest brother had been Lord Protector before Ponse. Ponse’s heir therefore was his oldest sister’s oldest son—title went down through mother and daughter endlessly, with power vested in the oldest brother of each female heir. It did not matter who Ponse’s father was and it mattered even less what sons he had; none of them could inherit. Ponse inherited from his mother’s brother; his heir was his sister’s son.

Hugh could see that, under this system, marriage would never be important—bastardy might be a concept so abstract as to be unrecognized—but
family
would be more important than ever. Women (of the Chosen) could never be downgraded; they were more important than males even though they ruled through their brothers—and Religion recognized this; the One God, Uncle the Mighty, had an elder sister, the Eternal Mamaloi…so sacred that she was not prayed to and her name was never used in cursing. She was just
there
, the Eternal Female Principle that gave all life and being.

Hugh had a feeling that he had read about this sort of descent before, uncle to nephew through the female line, so he searched the
Britannica
. He was surprised to discover that the setup had prevailed at one time or another in every continent and many cultures.

The Great Change had been when Mamaloi had at last succeeded—working indirectly, as always—in uniting all Her children under one roof and placing their Uncle in charge. Then She could rest.

Hugh’s comment was: “And God help the human race!”

Hugh kept expecting Their Charity to send for him. But two months passed and he did not, and Hugh was beginning to fret that he would never have a chance to ask to see Barbara—apparently Ponse had no interest in him as long as he kept on grinding out translations. Translating the
Britannica
looked like a job for several lifetimes; he resolved to stir things up, so he sent one day’s batch with a letter to Their Charity.

A week later the Lord Protector sent for him. Memtok came for Hugh, dancing with impatience but insisting that Hugh wash his armpits, rub himself with deodorant, and put on a clean robe.

The Lord Protector did not seem to care how Hugh smelled; he let him wait while he did something else. Hugh stood in silence…although Grace was present. She was lounging on a divan, playing with cats and chewing gum. She glanced at Hugh, then ignored him, save that her face took on a secret smile that Hugh knew well—He called it “canary that ate the cat.”

Dr.-Livingstone-I-Presume greeted Hugh, jumping down, coming over and rubbing against his ankles. Hugh knew that he should ignore it, wait for the lord to recognize his presence—but this cat had been his friend a long time; he could not snub it. He bent down and stroked the cat.

The skies did not split, Their Charity ignored the breach.

Presently the Lord Protector said, “Boy, come here. What’s this about making money from your translations? What in Uncle gave you the notion I needed money?”

Hugh had got the notion from Memtok. The Chief Domestic had growled about how difficult it was to run things, with pennypinching from on high getting worse every year.

“May it please Their Charity, this one’s opinions are of no value, it is true, but—”

“Cut the flowery talk, damn you!”

“Ponse, back where—when—I came from there never was a man so rich but what he needed more money. Usually, the richer he was, the more he needed.”

The lord grinned. “
‘Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.’
Hugh, you aren’t just sniffing Happiness. Things are the same now. Well? What’s your idea? Spit it out.”

“It seems to me that there are things in your encyclopaedia which might be turned to a profit. Processes and such that have been lost in the last two thousand years—but might be worth money now.”

“All right, do it. The stuff you send up is satisfactory, what I’ve had time to read. But some of it is trivial. ‘Smith, John, born and died—a politician who did nothing much and did that little poorly.’ Know what I mean?”

“I think so, Ponse.”

“All right, skip that garbage and dig me up four or five juicy ideas I can cash in on.”

Hugh hesitated. Ponse said, “Well? Didn’t you understand?”

“I think I need help. You see, I don’t know anything really, except what goes on belowstairs. I thought Joe might help.”

“How?”

“I understand that he has traveled with you, seen things. He is more likely to be able to pick out subjects that merit study. He could pick the articles, I will translate them, and you can judge whether there is anything to exploit. I can synopsize them, so that you needn’t waste time wading through details if the subject doesn’t merit it.”

“Good idea. I’m sure Joe will be happy to help. All right, send up the encyclopaedia. All.”

Hugh was dismissed so abruptly that he had no chance to mention Barbara. But, he reflected, he could not have risked it with Grace present.

He considered digging out Duke, telling him that his mother was fat and happy—both literally—but decided against it. He wasn’t sure how pleased Duke would be with a truthful report. They didn’t see eye to eye and that was that.

Joe sent down a volume every day for many days, with pages marked; Hugh slaved to keep up and to make useful translations. After two weeks Hugh was again sent for.

He expected a conference over some business idea. What he found was Ponse, Joe, and a Chosen he had never seen. Hugh instantly prepared to speak protocol mode, rising.

The Lord Protector said, “Come here, Hugh. Cut the cards. And don’t start any of that tiresome formality, this is family. Private.”

Hugh hesitantly approached. The other Chosen, a big dark man with a permanent scowl, didn’t seem pleased. He was carrying his quirt and twitched it. But Joe looked up and smiled. “I’ve been teaching them contract, Hugh, and our fourth had to be away. I’ve been telling Ponse that you are the best player any where or when. So don’t let me down.”

“I’ll try not to.” Hugh recognized one deck of cards, they had once been his. The other deck appeared to be hand painted and were beautiful. The card table was not from the shelter; fabulous hand craftsmanship had gone into it.

The cut made Hugh partner of the strange Chosen. Hugh tried not to show how nervous it made him, as his partner clearly did not like it. But the Chosen grunted and accepted it.

His partner’s contract, at three spades—by a fluke distribution they made four. His partner growled, “Boy, you underbid, you wasted game. Don’t let it happen again.”

Hugh kept quiet and dealt.

On the next hand Joe and Ponse made five clubs. Hugh’s partner was furious—at Hugh. “If you had led diamonds, we would have set them!
And
you washed out our leg. I warned you. Now I’m—”

“Mrika!” Ponse said sharply. “This is contract. Play it as such. And put that tickler down. The servant played correctly.”

“It did not! And I’m damned if I care for letting it in the game anyhow. I can smell the rank, sharp stink of a buck servant no matter how much it’s scrubbed. I don’t think this one is scrubbed at all.”

Hugh felt sweat breaking out in his armpits and flinched. But Ponse said evenly, “Very well, we excuse you. You may leave.”

“That suits me!” The Chosen stood up. “Just one thing before I do—If you don’t quit stalling, Their Mercy will let the North Star Protectorate—”

“Are you planning to put up the money?” Their Charity said sharply.

“Me? It’s a Family matter. Not but what I wouldn’t jump at the chance! Forty million hectares and most of it in prime timber? Of course I would! But I hardly have one bullock to jingle against another—and you know why.”

“Certainly we know. You gamble.”

“Oh, come now! A businessman has to take chances. You can’t call it gambling when—”

“We do call it gambling. We do not object to gambling but we have a vast distaste for losing. If you must lose, you will do it with your own bullocks.”

“But this isn’t gambling, it’s a sure thing—as well as getting us in solid with Their Mercy. The Family—”

“We decide what is good for the Family. Your turn will come soon enough. In the meantime we are as anxious to please the Lord Proprietor as you are. But not with bullocks the Family doesn’t have in the treasury.”

“You could borrow it. The interest would only come to—”

“You wanted to leave, Mrika. We note that you have left.” Ponse picked up cards and began to shuffle.

The younger Chosen snorted and left.

Ponse laid out a solitaire game, started to play. Presently he said to Joe, “Sometimes that young man gets me so annoyed that I would happily change my will.”

Joe looked puzzled. “I thought you could not disinherit him?”

“Oh, no!” Their Charity looked shocked. “Not even a peasant can do that. Where would we be if there were no stability here on Earth? I wouldn’t dream of it, even if the law permitted it; he’s my heir. I was just thinking of the servants.”

Joe said, “I don’t follow you.”

“Why, you know—No, perhaps you don’t. I keep forgetting that you didn’t grow up among us. My will disposes of things personally mine. Not much—jewelry, scrolls, such. Value probably less than a million. Trivia. Except household servants. Just the household, I’m not talking about servants in mines or on ranches, or in our shipping lines. It’s customary to list all household servants in a will—otherwise they escort their uncle.” He grinned. “It would be a good joke on Mrika if he found that he was going to have to raise the money to adopt fifteen hundred, two thousand servants—or shut the house and live in a tent. I can just see that. Why, the lad can’t take a pee without four servants to shake it. I doubt if he knows how to put on his boots. Hugh, if you tell me to put the black lady on the red lord, I’ll tingle you. I’m not in a good mood.”

Hugh said hastily, “Did you miss a play? I hadn’t noticed.”