“Uh…no.”
“Well, there’s another choice. I’ll have the slut spayed.”
“No!”
Ponse sighed. “You’re hard to please. Be practical, Hugh; I can’t change a scientific breeding system to pamper one servant. Do you know how many servants are in this family? Here and at the Palace? Around eighteen hundred, I believe. Do you know what would happen if I allowed unrestricted breeding? In ten years there would be twice that number. And what would happen next? They would starve! I can’t support them in unlimited breeding. Would if I could, but it’s wishing for the Moon. Worse, for we can go to the Moon any time it’s worth while but nobody can cope with the way servants will breed if left to their own devices. So which is better? To control it? Or let them starve?”
Their Charity sighed. “I wish you were a head shorter, we would work something out. You’ve been in studs’ quarters?”
“I visited it once, with Memtok.”
“You noticed the door? You had to stoop; Memtok walked straight in—he used to be a stud. The doors are that height in every studs’ barracks in the world—and no servant is chosen if he can’t walk in without stooping. And the slut in this case is too tall, too. A wise law, Hugh. I didn’t make it; it was handed down a long time ago by Their Mercy of that time. If they are allowed to breed too tall they start needing to be tingled too often and that’s not good, for master or servant. No, Hugh. Anything within reason. But don’t ask for the impossible.” He moved from the divan where he had been sitting tête-a-tête with Hugh and sat down at the card table, picked a deck. “So we’ll say no more about it. Do you know how to play double solitaire?”
“Yes.”
“Then come see if you can beat me and let’s be cheerful. A man gets upset when his efforts aren’t appreciated.”
Hugh shut up. He was thinking glumly that Ponse was not a villain. He was exactly like the members of every ruling class in history: honestly convinced of his benevolence and hurt if it was challenged.
They played a game; Hugh lost, his mind was not on it. They started to lay out another. Their Charity remarked, “I must have more cards painted. These are getting worn.”
Hugh said, “Couldn’t it be done more quickly, using a printer such as we use for scrolls?”
“Eh? Hadn’t thought about it.” The big man rubbed one of the XXth century cards. “This doesn’t seem much like printing. Were they printed?”
“Oh, yes. Thousands at a time. Millions, I should say, figuring the enormous numbers that used to be sold.”
“Really? I wouldn’t have thought that bridge, with its demand on the intellect, would have attracted many people.”
Hugh suddenly put down his cards. “Ponse? You wanted a way to make money.”
“Certainly.”
“You have it in your hand. Joe! Come here and let’s talk about this. How many decks of cards were sold each year in the United States?”
“Gosh, Hugh, I don’t know. Millions, maybe.”
“So I would say. At a gross profit of about ninety percent. Mmm—Ponse, bridge and solitaire aren’t the only games that can be played with these cards. The possibilities are unlimited. There are games simple as solitaire but played by two or three or more players. There are games a dozen people can play at once. There are hard games and easy games, there is even a form of bridge—‘duplicate,’ it’s called—harder than contract. Ponse, every family—little family—kept one or two or even dozens of decks on hand; it was a rare home that didn’t own a deck. I couldn’t guess how many were sold. Probably a hundred million decks in use in the United States alone. And you’ve got a virgin market. All it needs is to get people interested.”
“Ponse, Hugh is right,” Joe said solemnly. “The possibilities are unlimited.”
Ponse pursed up his lips. “If we sold them for a bullock a deck, let us say…mmm—”
“Too much,” Joe objected. “You would kill your market before you got started.”
Hugh said, “Joe, what’s that formula for setting a price to maximize profits rather than sales?”
“Works only in a monopoly.”
“Well? How is that done here? Patents and copyrights and such? I haven’t seen anything about it in what I’ve read.”
Joe looked troubled. “Hugh, the Chosen don’t use such a system, they don’t need to. Everything is pretty well worked out, things don’t change much.”
Hugh said, “That’s bad. Two weeks after we start, the market will be flooded with imitations.”
Ponse said, “What are you two jabbering about? Speak Language.” Hugh’s question had necessarily been in English; Joe had answered in English.
Joe said, “Sorry, Ponse,” and explained the ideas behind patent rights, copyright, and monopoly.
Ponse relaxed. “Oh, that’s simple. When a man gets an inspiration from Heaven, the Lord Proprietor forbids anyone else to use it without his let. Doesn’t happen often, I recall only two cases in my lifetime. But Mighty Uncle has been known to smile.”
Hugh was not surprised to learn how scarce invention was. It was a static culture, with most of what they called “science” in the hands of tempered slaves—and if patenting a new idea was that difficult, there would be little incentive to invent. “Would you say that this idea is an inspiration from Heaven?”
Ponse thought about it. “An inspiration is whatever Their Mercy, in Their wisdom, recognizes as an inspiration.” Suddenly he grinned. “In my opinion, anything that will stack bullocks in the Family coffers is an inspiration. The problem is to make the Proprietor see it. But there are ways. Keep talking.”
Joe said, “Hugh, the protection should extend not only over playing cards but over the games themselves.”
“Of course. If they don’t buy Their Charity’s cards, they must not play his games. Hard to stop, since anybody can fake a deck of cards. But the monopoly should make it illegal.”
“And not just cards like these, but any sort of playing cards. You could play bridge with cards just with numbers on them.”
“Yes.” Hugh pondered. “Joe, there was a Scrabble set in the shelter.”
“It’s still around. Ponse’s scientists saved everything. Hugh, I see what you’re driving at, but nobody here could learn Scrabble. You have to know English.”
“What’s to keep us from inventing Scrabble all over again—in Language? Let me set my staff to making a frequency count of the alphabet as it appears in Language and I’ll have a set of Scrabble, board and tiles and rules, suited to Language, the following day.”
“What in the name of Uncle is Scrabble?”
“It’s a game, Ponse. Quite a good one. But the point is that it’s a game that we can charge more for than we can for a deck of cards.”
“That’s not all,” said Hugh. He began ticking on his fingers. “Parcheesi, Monopoly, backgammon, Old Maid for kids—call it something else—dominoes, anagrams, poker chips and racks, jigsaw puzzles—have you seen any?”
“No.”
“Good for young and old, and all degrees of difficulty. Tinker Toy. Dice—lots of games with dice. Joe, are there casinos here?”
“Of sorts. There are places to gamble and lots of private gambling.”
“Roulette wheels?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“It gets too big to think about. Ponse, you are going to have to sit up nights, counting your money.”
“Servants for such chores. I wish I knew what you two are talking about. May one ask?”
“Sorry, sir. Joe and I were talking about ancient games…and not just games but all sorts of recreations that we used to have and have now been lost. At least I think they have been. Joe?”
“The only one I’ve seen that looks familiar is chess.”
“Chess would hold up if anything would. Ponse, the point is that every one of these things has money in it. Surely, you have games now. But these will be novelties. So old they are new again. Ping-Pong…bowling alleys! Joe, have you see
n—”
“No.”
“Billiards. Pocket pool. I’ll stop, we’ve got a backlog. Ponse, the first problem is to get a protection from Their Mercy to cover it all—and I see a theory that makes it an inspiration from on high. It was a miracle.”
“What? Garbage. I don’t believe in miracles.”
“You don’t have to believe in it. Look, we were found on the Proprietor’s personal land—and you found us. Doesn’t that look as if Uncle intended for the Proprietor to know about this? And for you as Lord Protector to protect it?”
Ponse grinned. “An argument could be made for such a theory. Might be expensive. But you can’t boil water without feeding the fire, as my aunt used to say.” He stood up. “Hugh, let’s see that Scrabble game. Soon. Joe, we’ll find time for you to explain these other things. We excuse you both. All.”
Kitten was asleep when Hugh returned but she was clutching a note:
Oh, darling, it was so wonderful to see you!!! I can’t wait until Their Charity asks us to play bridge again! Isn’t he an old dear? Even if he was thoughtless at one point. He corrected his mistake and that’s the mark of a true gentleman.
I’m so excited at seeing you that I can hardly write, and Kitten is waiting to take this to you.
The twins send you kisses, slobbery ones. Love, love, love!
Your own B.
Hugh read Barbara’s note with mixed feelings. He shared her joy in their reunion, limited as it had been, and eagerly looked forward to the next time Ponse’s pleasure would permit them to be together. As for the rest—Better get her out of here before she acquired a slave mentality! Surely, Ponse was a gentleman within the accepted meaning of the term. He was conscientious about his responsibilities, generous and tolerant with his inferiors. A gentleman.
But he was a revolving son of a bitch, too! And Barbara ought not to be so ready to overlook the fact. Ignore it, yes—one had to. But not forget it.
He must get her free.
But how?
He went to bed.
An aching hour later he got up, went into his living room, stood at his window. He could make out against black sky the blacker blackness of the Rocky Mountains.
Somewhere out there, were free men.
He could break this window, go toward the mountains, be lost in them before daylight—find free companions. He need not even break the window—just slip past a nodding watchman, or use the authority symbolized by his whip to go out despite the watch. No real effort was made to keep house servants locked up. A watch was set more to keep intruders out. Most house servants would no more run away than a dog would.
Dogs—One of the studmaster’s duties was keeper of the hounds.
If necessary, he could kill a dog with his hands. But how do you run when burdened with two small babies?
He went to a cupboard, poured himself a stiff drink of Happiness, gulped it down, and went back to bed.
16
For the next many days Hugh was busy redesigning the game of Scrabble, translating Hoyle’s Complete Book of Games, dictating rules and descriptions of games and recreations not in Hoyle (such as Ping-Pong, golf, water skiing), attending conferences with Ponse and Joe—playing bridge.
The last was by far the best. With Joe’s help he taught several Chosen the game, but most sessions were play, with Joe, Ponse, and always Barbara. Ponse had the enthusiasm of a convert; when he was in residence he played bridge every minute he could spare, and always wanted the same four, the best players available.
It seemed to Hugh that Their Charity was honestly fond of Barbara, as fond as he was of the cat he called “Doklivstnipsoom”—never “Doc.” Ponse extended to cats the courtesy due equals, and Doc, or any cat, was free to jump into his lap even when he was bidding a hand. He extended the same courtesy and affection to Barbara as he knew her better, always called her “Barba,” or “Child,” and never again referred to her as “it.” Barbara called him “Ponse,” or “Uncle,” and clearly felt happy in his company.
Sometimes Ponse left Barbara and Hugh alone, once for twenty minutes. These were jewels beyond price; they did not risk losing such a privilege by doing more than hold hands.
If it was time to nurse the boys, Barbara said so and Ponse always ordered them fetched. Once he ordered them fetched when it wasn’t necessary, said that he had not seen them for a week and wanted to see how much they had grown. So the game waited while their “Uncle” Ponse got down on the rug and made foolish noises at them.
Then he had them taken away, five minutes of babies was enough. But he said to Barbara, “Child, they’re growing like sugar cane. I hope I live to see them grow up.”
“You’ll live a long time, Uncle.”
“Maybe. I’ve outlived a dozen food tasters, but that salts no fish. Those brats of ours will make magnificent matched footmen. I can see them now, serving in the banquet hall of the Palace—the Residence, I mean, not this cottage. Whose deal is it?”
Hugh saw Grace a few times, but never for more than seconds. If he showed up when she was there, she left at once, displeasure large on her face. If Barbara arrived before Hugh did, Grace was always out of sight. It was clear that she was an habituée of the lord’s informal apartments; it was equally clear that she resented Barbara as much as ever, with bile left over for Hugh. But she never said anything and it seemed likely that she had learned not to cross wills with Their Charity.
It was now official that Grace was bedwarmer to Their Charity. Hugh learned this from Kitten. The sluts knew when the lord was in residence (Hugh often did not) by whether Grace was downstairs or up. She was assigned no other duties and was immune to all whips, even Memtok’s. She was also, the times Hugh glimpsed her, lavishly dressed and bejeweled.
She was also very fat, so fat that Hugh felt relieved that he no longer had even a nominal obligation to share a bed with her. True, all bedwarmers were fat by Hugh’s standards. Even Kitten was plump enough that had she been a XXth century American girl, she would have been at least pretending to diet—Kitten fretted that she was unable to put on weight—and did Hugh like her anyhow?
Kitten was so young that her plumpness was somewhat pleasing, as with a baby. But Hugh found Grace’s fatness another matter—somewhere in that jiggling mass was buried the beautiful girl he had married. He tried not to think about it and could not see why Ponse would like it—if he did. But in truth, Hugh admitted, he did not know that Grace was anything more than nominally Ponse’s bedwarmer. After all, Ponse was alleged to be more than a century old. Would Ponse have any more use for one than Memtok had? Hugh did not know—nor care. Ponse looked to be perhaps sixty-five and still strong and virile. But Hugh held a private opinion that Grace’s role was odalisque, not houri.
While the question did not matter to him, it did to Duke. Hugh’s first son came storming into Hugh’s office one day and demanded a private interview; Hugh led him to his apartment. He had not seen Duke for a month. Translations had been coming in from him; there had been no need to see him.
Hugh tried to make the meeting pleasant. “Sit down, Duke. May I offer you a drink of Happiness?”
“No, thanks! What’s this I hear about Mother?”
“What do you hear, Duke?” (Oh, Lord! Here we go—)
“You know damned well what I mean!”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
Hugh made him spell it out. Duke had his facts correct and, to Hugh’s surprise, had learned them just that day. Since more than four hundred servants had known all along that one of the slut savages—the other one, not the tall skinny one—lived upstairs with Their Charity more than she lived in sluts’ quarters, it seemed incredible that Duke had taken so long to find out. However, Duke had little to do with the other servants and was not popular—a “troublemaker,” Memtok had called him.
Hugh neither confirmed nor denied Duke’s story.
“Well?” Duke demanded. “What are you going to do about it?”
“About what, Duke? Are
you suggesting that I put a stop to servants’ hall gossip?”
“I don’t mean that at all! Are you going to sit there like a turd on a rock while your wife is being raped?”
“Probably. You come in here with some story you’ve picked up from a second assistant dishwasher and expect me to do something. I would like to know, first, why do you think this gossip is true? Second, what has what you have told me got to do with rape? Third, what would you expect me to do about it? Fourth, what do you think I can do about it? Take them in order and be specific. Then we may talk about what I will do.”
“Quit twisting things.”
“I’m not twisting anything. Duke, you had an expensive education as a lawyer—I know, I picked up the tab. You used to lecture me about ‘rules of evidence.’ Now use that education. Take those questions in order. Why do you think this gossip is true?”
“Uh… I heard it and checked around. Everybody knows it.”
“So? Everybody knew the Earth was flat, at one time. But what is the allegation? Be specific.”
“Why, I told you. Mother is assigned as that bastard’s bedwarmer.”
“Who says so?”
“Why, everybody!”
“Did you ask the slutmaster?”
“Do you think I’m crazy?”
“I’ll take that as rhetorical. To shorten this, what ‘everybody knows,’ as you put it, is that Grace is assigned duties upstairs. This could be verified, if true. Possibly in attendance on Their Charity, possibly waiting on the ladies of the household, or perhaps other duties. Do you want an appointment with the slutmaster, so that you can ask him what duties your mother has? I do not know her duties.”
“Uh, you ask him.”
“I shan’t. I feel sure that Grace would regard it as snooping. Let’s assume that you have asked him and that he has told you, as you now suspect only from gossip, that her assignment is as bedwarmer. To Their Charity. On this assumption, made solely for the sake of argument since you haven’t proved it—on this assumption, where does rape come in?”
Duke looked astonished. “I would not have believed it, even of you. Do you mean to sit there and say baldly that you think Mother would do such a thing voluntarily?”
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