Farnham’s Freehold By Robert A. Heinlein

“Well. . . legally speaking, a servant can’t have a wife.”

“I wasn’t speaking legally, I was speaking the truth. But even though Grace is no longer my wife, I’m somewhat comforted to know that she probably didn’t know what it would cost Duke.”

Joe looked thoughtful. “Hugh, I don’t think she did but I don’t think she really cares, either. . . and I’m not sure that you can properly say that it cost Duke anything.”

“You might explain. Perhaps I’m dense.”

“Well, if Grace minds that Duke has been tempered, she doesn’t show it. She’s pleased as punch. And he doesn’t seem to mind.”

“You’ve seen them? Since?”

“Oh, yes. I had breakfast with Their Charity yesterday morning. They were there.”

“I thought Ponse was away?”

“He was back and now he’s gone out to the West Coast. Business. We’re really tearing into it. He was here only a couple of days. But he had this birthday present for Grace. Duke, I mean. Yes, I know it wasn’t her birthday, and anyhow birthdays aren’t anything nowadays; it’s nameday that counts. But she told Ponse she was about to have a birthday and kept wheedling hiin-.-and you know Ponse, indulgent with animals and kids. So he set it up as a surprise for her. The minute he was back, he made a present of Duke to her. Shucks, they’ve even got a room off Ponse’s private quarters; neither of them sleeps belowstairs, they live up here.”

“Okay, I don’t care where they sleep. You were telling me how Grace felt about it. And Duke.”

“Oh, yes. Can’t say just when she found out what had been done to Duke, all I can say is that she is so happy about it all that she was even cordial with me-telling me what a dear Ponsie was to arrange it and doesn’t Dukie look just grand? In his new clothes? Stuff like that. She’s got him dressed in the fancy livery the servants wear up here, not a robe like that you’re wearing. She’s even put jewelry on him. Ponse doesn’t mind. He’s an outright gift, a servant’s servant. I don’t think he does a lick of work, he’s just her pet. And she loves it that way.”

“But how about Duke?”

“That’s what I’ve been telling you, Hugh; Duke hasn’t lost by it. He’s snug as a bug in a rug and he knows it. He was almost patronizing to me. You might have thought that I was the one wearing livery. With Grace in solid with the big boss and with her wound around his finger, Duke thinks he’s got it made. Well, he has, Hugh. And I didn’t mind his manner; I could see he was hopped on this tranquilizer you servants use.”

“You call it ‘got it made’ when a man is grabbed and drugged and tempered and then kept drugged so that he doesn’t care? Joe, I’m shocked.”

“Certainly I call it that! Hugh, put your prejudices aside and look at it rationally. Duke is happy. If you don’t believe it, let me take you in there and you talk to him. Talk to both of them. See for yourself.”

“No, I don’t think I could stomach it. I’ll concede that Duke is happy. I’m well aware that if you feed a man enough of that Happiness drug, he’ll be happy as a lark even if you cut off his arms and legs and then start on his head. But you can be that sort of ‘happy’ on morphine. Or heroin. Or opium. That doesn’t make it a good thing. It’s a tragedy.”

“Oh, don’t be melodramatic, Hugh. These things are all relative. Duke was certain to be tempered eventually. It’s not lawful for a servant as big as he is to be kept for stud, I’m sure you know that. So what difference does it make whether it’s done last week, or next year, or when Ponse dies? The only difference is that he is happy in a life of luxury, instead of hard manual labor in a mine, or a rice swamp, or such. He doesn’t know anything useful, he could never hope to rise very high. High for a servant, I mean.”