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Farnham’s Freehold By Robert A. Heinlein

Ponse looked at the collection. “Was there anything else?” He slid the loaded clip from the pistol, held it in his hand. “If not, get dressed.”

The invisible field let them loose.

Chapter 21

“I don’t see what there is to be surprised about,” Ponse told them. “Hugh, you will remember that I told my scientists that I wanted to know how you got here. No miracles. I told them rather firmly. They understood that I would be most unhappy-and vexed-if the Protectorate’s scientists could not solve it when they had so many hints, so much data. So they did. Probably. At least they were able to move this little fellow. He arrived today, which is why I sent for you. Now we will find out if it works backwards in time as well as forwards-and if the big apparatus works as well as the bench model. I understand it is not so much the amount of power-no atom-kernel bombs necessary -as the precise application of power. But we’ll soon know.” Hugh asked, “How will you know? We will know-if it works. But how will you know?”

“Oh, that. My scientists are clever, when they have incentive. One of them will explain it.”

The scientists were called in, two Chosen and five servants. There was no introduction; Hugh found himself treated as impersonally as the little white mouse who still tried to meet his death on the floor. Hugh was required to take off his shirt and two servant-scientists taped a small package to Hugh’s right shoulder. “What’s that?” It seemed surprisingly heavy for its size.

The servants did not answer; the leading Chosen said, “You will be told. Come here. See this.”

“This” turned out to be Hugh’s former property, a U. S. Geodetic Survey map of James County. “Do you understand this? Or must we explain it?”

“I understand it.” Hugh used the equals mode, the Chosen ignored it while continuing to speak in protocol mode, falling.

“Then you know that here is where you arrived.”

Hugh agreed, as the man’s finger covered the spot where Hugh’s home had once stood. The Chosen nodded thoughtfully and added, “Do you understand the meaning of these marks?” He pointed to a tiny x-mark and very small figures beside it.

“Certainly. We call that a ‘bench mark.’ Exact location and altitude. It’s a reference point for all the rest of the map.”

“Excellent.” The Chosen pointed to a similar mark at the summit of Mount James as shown by the map. “Now, tell us, if you know-but don’t lie about it; it will not advantage you-how much error there would be, horizontally and vertically, between these two reference points.”

Hugh thought about it, held up his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. The Chosen blinked. “It would not have been that accurate in those primitive times. We assume that you are lying. Try again. Or admit that you don’t know.”

“And I suggest that you don’t know what you are talking about. It would be at least that accurate.” Hugh thought of telling him that he had bossed surveying parties in the Seabees and had done his own surveying when he was getting started as a contractor-and that while he did not know how accurate a geodetic survey was, he did know that enormously more accurate methods had been used in setting those bench marks than were ever used in the ordinary survey.

He decided that explanation would be wasted.

The Chosen looked at him, then glanced at Their Charity. The old man had been listening but his face showed nothing. “Very well. We will assume that the marks are accurate, each to the other. Which is fortunate, as this one is missing”-he pointed to the first one, near where Hugh’s home had been- “whereas this one”-he indicated the summit of Mount James-”is still in place, in solid rock. Now search your memory and do not lie again, as it will matter to you . . . and it will matter to Their Charity, as a silly lie on your part could waste much effort and Their Charity would be much displeased, we are certain. Where, quite near this reference mark and the same height-certainly no higher!-is-was, I mean, in those primitive times-a flat, level place?”

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Categories: Heinlein, Robert
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