Farnham’s Freehold By Robert A. Heinlein

Yes. He himself-when he built that shelter.

Prepare every way he could. . . and pray for a miracle. He started saving food from meals served in his rooms, such sorts as would keep a while. He kept his eyes open to steal a knife- or anything that could be made into a knife. He kept what he was doing from Kitten’s eyes.

Much sooner than he had hoped he got a chance to acquire makeup. A feast day always meant an orgy of Happiness in servants’ hall; one came that featured amateur theatricals. Hugh was urged to clown the part of Lord Protector in a comic skit. He did not hesitate to do so, Memtok himself had pointed out that his size made him perfect for the part. Hugh roared through it, brandishing a quirt three times as big as Their Charity ever carried.

He was a dramatic success. He saw Ponse watching from the balcony from which Hugh had first seen Happiness issued, watching and laughing. So Hugh ad-libbed, calling out, “Hey, less noise in the balcony! Memtok! Tingle that critter!”

Their Charity laughed harder than ever, the servants were almost hysterical and, at bridge the following day, Ponse patted him and told him that he was the best Lord of Nonsense the pageant had ever had.

Result: one stolen package of pigment which needed only to be mixed with the plentiful deodorant cream to make him the exact shade of the Lord Protector; one wig which covered his baldness with black wavy hair. It was not the wig he had worn in the skit; he had turned that one back to the chief housekeeper, picking a time under Memtok’s eyes and urging Memtok to try it on. No, it was a wig he had tried on out of several saved from year to year-and which had fitted him just as well. He tried it on, dropped it, kicked it into a corner, recovered it in private-and kept it under his robe for several days until it seemed certain that it hadn’t been missed. It wound up under a file case in his outer office one night when he chose to work later than his clerks.

He was still looking for something he could grind into a knife.

He did not see Duke during the three weeks following their row. Sometimes Duke’s translations came in, sometimes he skipped a day or two; Hugh let him get away with it. But when Hugh could not recall having seen any scrolls come through of the sort Duke was concerned with for a full week, Hugh decided to check up.

Hugh walked to the cubicle that was Duke’s privilege for being a “researcher in history.” He scratched on the door- no answer.

He scratched again, decided that Duke was sleeping, or not in; he slid the door up and looked in.

Duke was not asleep but he was out of this world. He was sprawled naked on his bunk in the most all-out Happiness jag Hugh had ever seen. Duke looked up when the door opened, giggled foolishly, made a gesture, and said, “Hiyah, y’ole bas’ard! How’s tricks?”

Hugh stepped closer for a better look at what he thought he saw, and felt sick at his stomach. “Son, son!”

“Still crepe-hanging, Hughie? Old hooey Hugh, the fake fart!”

Gulping, Hugh started to back out, and backed almost into the Chief Veterinarian. The surgeon smiled and said, “Visiting my patient? He hardly needs it.” He moved past Hugh with a muttered apology, leaned over Duke, peeled an eyelid back, examined him in other ways, said to him jovially, “You’re doing fine, cousin. Let’s give you another little treatment, then I’ll send you in another big meal. How does that sound?”

“Jus’ fine, Doe. Jus’ dandy! You’re m’ frien’. Bes’ frien’ never had!”

The vet set a dial on a little instrument, pressed it against Duke’s thigh, waited a moment, and came out. He smiled at Hugh. “Practically recovered. He’ll dream a few hours now, wake up hungry, and not know any time has passed. Then we’ll feed him and give him another dose. A fine patient, he’s raffled beautifully. Doesn’t know what’s happened-and by the time we’re ready to taper him off, he won’t be interested.”