Baslim went on, “That’s the best I can do. You’ll have to behave as a slave between the sale and being shipped out. But what’s a few weeks against a chance –”
“No!”
“Don’t be foolish, son.”
“Maybe I am. But I won’t do it I’m staying.”
“So? Son . . . I hate to remind you — but you can’t stop me.”
“Huh?”
“As you pointed out, there’s a paper that says I can.”
“Oh.”
“Go to bed, son.”
Baslim did not sleep. About two hours after they had put out the light he heard Thorby get up very quietly. He could follow every move the lad made by interpreting muffled sounds. Thorby dressed (a simple matter of wrapping his clout), he went into the adjoining room, fumbled in the bread safe, drank deeply, and left. He did not take his bowl, he did not go near the shelf where it was kept.
After he was gone, Baslim turned over and tried to sleep, but the ache inside him would not permit It had not occurred to him to speak the word that would keep the boy; he had too much self-respect not to respect another person’s decision.
Thorby was gone four days. He returned in the night and Baslim heard him but again said nothing. Instead he went quietly and deeply asleep for the first time since Thorby had left. But he woke at the usual time and said, “Good morning, son.”
“Uh, good morning. Pop.”
“Get breakfast started. I have something to attend to.”
They sat down presently over bowls of hot mush. Baslim ate with his usual careful disinterest; Thorby merely picked at his. Finally he blurted out, “Pop, when are you going to sell me?”
“I’m not.”
“Huh?”
“I registered your manumission at the Archives the day you left. You’re a free man, Thorby.”
Thorby looked startled, then dropped his eyes to his food. He busied himself building little mountains of mush that slumped as soon as he shaped them. Finally he said, “I wish you hadn’t.”
“If they picked you up, I didn’t want you to have ‘escaped slave’ against you.”
“Oh.” Thorby looked thoughtful. “That’s ‘F&B,’ isn’t it? Thanks, Pop. I guess I acted land of silly.”
“Possibly. But it wasn’t the punishment I was thinking of. Flogging is over quickly, and so is branding. I was thinking of a possible second offense. It’s better to be shortened than to be caught again after a branding.”
Thorby abandoned his mush entirely. “Pop? Just what does a lobotomy do to you?”
“Mmm . . . you might say it makes the thorium mines endurable. But let’s not go into it, not at meal times. Speaking of such, if you are through, get your bowl and let’s not dally. There’s an auction this morning.”
“You mean I can stay?”
“This is your home.”
Baslim never again suggested that Thorby leave him. Manumission made no difference in their routine or relationship. Thorby did go to the Royal Archives, paid the fee and the customary gift and had a line tattooed through his serial number, the Sargon’s seal tattooed beside it with book and page number of the record which declared him to be a free subject of the Sargon, entitled to taxes, military service, and starvation without let or hindrance. The clerk who did the tattooing looked at Thorby’s serial number and said, “Doesn’t look like a birthday job, kid. Your old man go bankrupt? Or did your folks sell you just to get shut of you?”
“None of your business!”
“Don’t get smart, kid, or you’ll find that this needle can hurt even more. Now give me a civil answer. I see it’s a factors mark, not a private owner’s, and from the way it has spread and faded, you were maybe five or six. When and where was it?”
“I don’t know. Honest I don’t.”
“So? That’s what I tell my wife when she asks personal questions. Quit wiggling; I’m almost through. There . . . congratulations and welcome to the ranks of free men. I’ve been free a parcel of years now and I predict that you will find it looser but not always more comfortable.”