Farnham's Freehold

by Robert A. Heinlein

  She shouted: “Hello! Hello! Anybody!”

  Duke answered, “Barbara?”

  “Yes, yes!”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m all right. Hugh is hurt. I think he’s dead.”

  “Take it easy. When I find my trousers, I’ll light a match—if I can get off my shoulders. I’m standing on them.”

  “Hubert! Hubert!”

  “Yes, Mother! Wait.” Grace continued to scream; Duke alternated reassurances and cursing the darkness. Barbara felt around, slipped on loose oxygen bottles, hurt her shin, and found a flat surface. She could not tell what it was; it was canted steeply.

  Duke called out, “Got ’em!” A match flared up, torch bright in oxygen-rich air.

  Joe’s voice said, “Better put that out. Fire hazard.” A flashlight beam cut the gloom.

  Barbara called out, “Joe! Help me with Hugh!”

  “Got to see about lights.”

  “He may be dying.”

  “Can’t do a thing without light.” Barbara shut up, tried again to find heartbeat—found it and clutched Hugh’s head, sobbing.

  Lights came on in the men’s bay; enough trickled in so that Barbara could make out her surroundings. The floor sloped about thirty degrees; she, Hugh, steel bottles, water tank, and other gear were jumbled in the lower corner. The tank had sprung a leak and was flooding the toilet space. She saw that, had the tilt been the other way, she and Hugh would have been buried under steel and water.

  Minutes later Duke and Joe joined her, letting themselves down through the door. Joe carried a camp lamp. Duke said to Joe, “How are we going to move him?”

  “We don’t. It might be his spine.”

  “Still have to move him.”

  “We don’t move him,” Joe said firmly. “Barbara, have you moved him?”

  “I took his head in my lap.”

  “Well, don’t move him anymore.” Joe looked his patient over, touching him gently. “I can’t see any gross injuries,” he decided. “Barbara, if you can stay put, we’ll wait until he comes to. Then I can check his eyes for concussion, see if he can wiggle his toes, things like that.”

  “I’ll hold still. Anybody else hurt?”

  “Not to speak of,” Duke assured her. “Joe thinks he’s cracked some ribs and I wrenched a shoulder. Mother just got rolled into the corner of her bunk. Sis is soothing her. Sis is okay—a lump on her head where a can conked her. Are you all right?”

  “Just bruises. Hugh and I were playing double solitaire and trying to keep cool when it hit.” She wondered how long the lie would stand up. Duke had no more on than she did and didn’t seem troubled by it; Joe was dressed in underwear shorts. She added, “The cat? Is he all right?”

  “Dr.-Livingstone-I-Presume,” Joe answered seriously, “escaped injury. But he is vexed that his sandbox was dumped over. He’s cleaning himself and criticizing.”

  “I’m glad he wasn’t hurt.”

  “Notice anything about this blast?”

  “What, Joe? It was the hardest of the three. Much the hardest.”

  “Yes. But no rumbling. Just one great, big, grand slam, then…nothing.”

  “What does that indicate?”

  “I don’t know. Barbara, can you stay here and not move? I want to get more lights on, check the damage, and see what to do about it.”

  “I won’t move.” Hugh seemed to be breathing easily. In the silence she could hear his heart beat. She decided that she didn’t have anything to be unhappy about.

  Karen joined her, carrying a flashlight and moving carefully on the slant. “How’s Daddy?”

  “No change.”

  “Knocked cold, I guess. So was I. You okay?” She played the flashlight over Barbara.

  “Not hurt.”

  “Well! I’m glad you’re in uniform, too. I can’t find my pants. Joe ignores it so carefully, it’s painful. Is that boy square!”

  “I don’t know where my clothes are.”

  “Joe has the only pants among us. What happened to you? Were you asleep?”

  “No. I was here. We were talking.”

  “Hmm—Further deponent sayeth not. I’ll keep your grisly secret. Mother won’t know; I gave her another hypo.”

  “Aren’t you jumping at conclusions?”

  “My favorite exercise. I hope my nasty suspicions are correct. I wish I had had something better to do than sleep last night. Since it’s probably our last night.” She leaned over and kissed Barbara. “I like you.”

  “Thanks, Karen. Me, too. You.”

  “Let’s hold a funeral and preach about what nice guys we are. You made my daddy happy when you had the guts to bid that slam. If you made him happier still, I’m in favor of it.” She straightened up. “’Bye. I’ll go sort groceries. If Daddy wakes up, yell.” She left.

  “Barbara?”

  “Yes, Hugh? Yes!”

  “Keep your voice down. I heard what my daughter said.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. She’s a gentleman. Barbara? I love you. I may not have another chance to say so.”

  “I love you.”

  “Darling.”

  “Shall I call the others?”

  “Shortly. Are you comfortable?”

  “Oh, very!”

  “Then let me rest a bit. I feel woozy.”

  “As long as you like. Uh, can you wiggle your toes? Do you hurt anyplace?”

  “I hurt lots of places, but not too much. Let me see—Yes, I can move everything. All right, call Joe.”

  “No hurry.”

  “Better call him. Work to do.”

  Shortly Mr. Farnham was back in charge. Joe required him to move himself—a mass of bruises but no break, sprain, nor concussion. It seemed to Barbara that Hugh had landed on the bottles and that she had landed on him. She did not discuss her theory.

  Hugh’s first act was to bind Joe’s ribs with elastic bandage. Joe gasped as it tightened but seemed more comfortable with it. The lump on Karen’s head was inspected; Hugh decided that there was nothing he could do for it.

  “Will somebody fetch the thermometer?” he asked. “Duke?”

  “It’s busted.”

  “It’s a bimetal job. Shockproof.”

  “I looked for it,” Duke explained, “while you were doctoring. Seems cooler to me. While it may be shockproof, it couldn’t stand being mashed between two tanks.”

  “Oh. Well, it’s no big loss.”

  “Dad? Wouldn’t this be a good time to try the spare radio? Just a suggestion.”

  “I suppose so, but—I hate to tell you, Duke, but you’ll probably find it smashed, too. We tried it earlier. No results.” He glanced at his wrist. “An hour and half ago. At two A.M. Has anyone else the time?”

  Duke’s watch agreed.

  “We seem to be in fair shape,” Hugh decided, “except for water. There are some plastic jugs of water but we need to salvage the tank water; we may have to drink it. With Halazone tablets. Joe, we need utensils of any sort, and everybody bail. Keep it as clean as you can.” He added, “When Joe can spare you, Karen, scrounge some breakfast. We’ve got to eat, even if this is Armageddon.”

  “And Armageddon sick of it,” Karen offered.

  Her father winced. “Baby girl, you will write on the blackboard one thousand times: ‘I will not make bad puns before breakfast.’”

  “I thought it was pretty good, Hugh.”

  “Don’t encourage her, Barbara. All right, get with it.”

  Karen returned shortly, carrying Dr. Livingstone. “I wasn’t much help,” she announced, “because somebody has to hang onto this damn cat. He wants to help.”

  “Kablerrrrt!”

  “You did so! I’m going to entice him with sardines and get breakfast. What do you want, Daddy Hugh Boss? Crêpes Suzettes?”

  “Yes.”

  “What you’ll get is Spam and crackers.”

  “All right. How’s the bailing going?”

  “Daddy, I won�
�t drink that water even with Halazone.” She made a face. “You know where it wound up.”

  “We may have to drink it.”

  “Well…if you cut it with whisky—”

  “Mmm—Every case of liquor is leaking. The two I’ve opened each has one fifth, unbroken.”

  “Daddy, you’ve ruined breakfast.”

  “The question is, do I ration it evenly? Or save it all for Grace?”

  “Oh.” Karen’s features screwed up in painful decision. “She can have my share. But the others shouldn’t be deprived just because Gracie has a yen.”

  “Karen, at this stage it’s not a yen. In a way, for her it’s medicine.”

  “Yeah, sure. And diamond bracelets and sable coats are medicine for me.”

  “Baby, there’s no point in blaming her. It may be my fault. Duke thinks so. When you are my age, you will learn to take people as they are.”

  “Hush mah mouf. Maybe I’m harsh—but I get tired of bringing friends home and having Mom pass out about dinnertime. Or try to kiss my boy friends in the kitchen.”

  “She does that?”

  “Haven’t you seen? No, you probably haven’t. Sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too. But only on your account. It’s a peccadillo, at most. As I was saying, when you get to be my age—”

  “Daddy, I don’t expect to get to be your age—and we both know it. If we’ve got even two fifths of liquor, it’s probably enough. Why don’t you just serve it to whoever needs it?”

  The lines in his face got deeper. “Karen, I haven’t given up. It’s distinctly cooler. We may get out of this yet.”

  “Well—I guess that’s the proper attitude. Speaking of medicine, didn’t you squirrel away some Antabuse when we built this monster?”

  “Karen, Antabuse doesn’t stop the craving; it simply makes the patient deathly ill if he drinks. If your estimate of our chances is correct, can you see any reason why I should force Grace to spend her last hours miserably? I’m not her judge, I’m her husband.”

  Karen sighed. “Daddy, you have an annoying habit of being right. All right, she can have mine.”

  “I was merely asking your opinion. You’ve helped. I’ve decided.”

  “Decided how?”

  “None of your business, half pint. Get breakfast.”

  “I’m going to put kerosene in yours. Give me a kiss, Daddy.”

  He did. “Now pipe down and get to work.”

  Five of them gathered for breakfast, sitting on the floor as chairs would not stand up. Mrs. Farnham was still lethargic from heavy sedation. The others shared canned meat, crackers, cold Nescafé, canned peaches, and warm comradeship. They were dressed, the men in shorts, Karen in shorts and halter, and Barbara in a muumuu belonging to Karen. Her underwear had been salvaged but was soaked and the air was too moist to dry it.

  Hugh announced, “Time for a conference. Suggestions are welcome.” He looked at his son.

  “One item, Dad—Hugh,” Duke answered. “The backhouse took a beating. I patched it and rigged a platform out of boards that had secured the air bottles. Just one thing—” He turned to his sister. “You setter types be careful. It’s shaky.”

  “You be careful. You were the one hard to housebreak. Ask Daddy.”

  “Stow it, Karen. Good job, Duke. But with six of us I think we should rig a second one. Can we manage that, Joe?”

  “Yes, we could. But…”

  “But what?”

  “Do you know how much oxy is left?”

  “I do. We must shift to blower and filter soon. And there is not a working radiation counter left. So we won’t know what we’ll be letting in. However, we’ve got to breathe.”

  “But did you look at the blower?”

  “It looked all right.”

  “It’s not. I don’t think I can repair it.”

  Mr. Farnham sighed. “I’ve had a spare on order for six months. Well, I’ll look at it, too. And you, Duke; maybe one of us can fix it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Let’s assume we can’t repair it. Then we use the oxygen as sparingly as possible. After that we can get along, for a while, on the air inside. But there will come a time when we have to open the door.”

  Nobody said anything. “Smile, somebody!” Hugh went on. “We aren’t licked. We’ll rig dust filters out of sheets in the door—better than nothing. We still have one radio—the one you mistook for a hearing aid, Barbara. I wrapped it and put it away; it wasn’t hurt. I’ll go outside and put up an antenna and we can listen to it down here; it could save us. We’ll rig a flagpole, from the sides of a bunk perhaps, and fly a flag. A hunting shirt. No, the American flag; I’ve got one. If we don’t make it, we’ll go down with our colors flying!”

  Karen started clapping. “Don’t scoff, Karen.”

  “I’m not scoffing, Daddy! I’m crying. ‘The rockets’ red glare—the bombs bursting in air—gave proof through the night—that our flag was still—’” Her voice broke and she buried her face in her hands.

  Barbara put an arm around her. Hugh Farnham went on as if nothing had happened. “But we won’t go down. Soon they will search this area for survivors. They’ll see our flag and take us out—helicopter, probably.

  “So our business is to be alive when they come.” He stopped to think. “No unnecessary work, no exercise. Sleeping pills for everybody and try to sleep twelve hours a day and lie down all the time; it will make the air last as long as possible. The only work is to repair that blower and we’ll knock that off if we can’t fix it. Let’s see—Water must be rationed. Duke, you are water marshal. See how much pure water there is; work out a schedule to stretch it. There is a one-ounce glass with the medicines; use it to dispense water. That’s all, I guess: repair the blower, minimum exercise, maximum sleep, rationed water. Oh, yes! Sweat is wasteful. It’s still hot and, Barbara, you’ve sweat right through that sack. Take it off.”

  “May I leave the room?”

  “Certainly.” She left, walking carefully on the steep floor, went into the tank room, and returned wearing her soaked underwear. “That’s better,” he approved. “Now—”

  “Hubert! Hubert! Where are you? I’m thirsty.”

  “Duke, give her one ounce. Charge it to her.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t forget that the cat has to have water.”

  “The dirty water, maybe?”

  “Hmm. We won’t die through playing fair with our guest. Let’s keep our pride.”

  “He’s been drinking the dirty water.”

  “Well—You boss it. Suggestions, anyone? Joe, do the plans suit you?”

  “Well—No, sir.”

  “So?”

  “No exercise, least oxygen used, makes sense. But when it comes time to open the door, where are we?”

  “We take our chances.”

  “I mean, can we? Short on air, panting, thirsty, maybe sick—I’d like to be certain that anyone, Karen say, with a broken arm, can get that door open.”

  “I see.”

  “I’d like to try all three doors. I’d like to leave the armor door open. A girl can’t handle that crank. I volunteer to try the upper door.”

  “Sorry, it’s my privilege. I go along with the rest. That’s why I asked for suggestions. I’m tired, Joe; my mind is fuzzy.”

  “And if the doors are blocked? Probably rubble against the upper door—”

  “We have the jack.”

  “Well, if we can’t use the doors, we should make sure of the escape tunnel. Duke’s shoulder isn’t so good. My ribs are sore but I can work—today. Tomorrow Duke and I will be stiff and twice as sore. There are those steel bottles cluttering the hatch and plunder stored in the hole. Takes work. Boss, I say we’ve got to be sure of our escape—while we’re still in pretty good shape.”

  “I hate to order heavy work. But you’ve convinced me.” Hugh stood up, suppressing a groan. “Let’s get busy.”

  “I’ve got one more suggestion.”

 
“So?”

  “You ought to sack in. You haven’t been to bed at all and you got banged up pretty hard.”

  “I’m okay. Duke has a bad shoulder, you’ve got cracked ribs. And there’s heavy work to be done.”

  “I plan to use block and tackle to skid those bottles aside. Barbara can help. She’s husky, for a girl.”

  “Certainly I can,” agreed Barbara. “I’m bigger than Joe is. Excuse me, Joe.”

  “No argument. Boss. Hugh. I don’t like to emphasize it but I thought of this. You admit you’re tired. Not surprising, you’ve been on the go twenty-four hours. Do you mind my saying that I would feel more confident you could get us through if you would rest?”

  “He’s right, Hugh.”

  “Barbara, you haven’t had any sleep.”

  “I don’t have to make decisions. But I’ll lie down and Joe can call me when he needs me. Okay, Joe?”

  “Fine, Barbara.”

  Hugh grinned. “Ganging up on me. All right, I’ll take a nap.”

  A few minutes later he was in the bottom bunk in the men’s dormitory, his feet braced against the footboard. He closed his eyes and was asleep before he could get his worries organized.

  Duke and Joe found that five of the bolts of the inner door were stuck. “We’ll let them be,” Joe decided. “We can always drift them back with a sledgehammer. Let’s crank back the armor door.”

  The armor door, beyond the bolted door, was intended to withstand as much blast as the walls. It was cranked into place, or out, by a rack and gear driven by a long crank.

  Joe could not budge it. Duke, heavier by forty pounds, put his weight on it—no results. Then they leaned on it together.

  “Frozen.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Joe, you mentioned a sledgehammer.”

  The young Negro frowned. “Duke, I would rather your father tried that. We could break the crank. Or a tooth on the rack.”

  “The trouble is, we’re trying to crank a ton or so of door uphill, when it was meant to move on the level.”

  “Yes. But this door always has been pesky.”

  “What do we do?”

  “We get at the escape tunnel.”

  A block and tackle was fastened to a hook in the ceiling; the giant bottles were hauled out of the jumble and stacked, with Barbara and Karen heaving on the line and the men guiding them and then bracing them so that the stack could not roll. When the middle of the floor was clear they were able to get at the manhole cover to the tunnel. It was the massive, heavy-traffic sort and the hook in the ceiling was for lifting it.