Farnham’s Freehold By Robert A. Heinlein

Mr. Farnham was fiftyish, she decided. And looked it. Hair thinning and already gray, himself thin, almost gaunt, but with a slight potbelly, tired eyes, lines around them, and deep lines down his cheeks. Not handsome- With sudden warmth she realized that if Duke Farnham had half the strong masculine charm his father had, a panty girdle wouldn’t be much protection. She dismissed it by being quickly angry with Grace Farnham. What excuse did a woman have for being an incipient alcoholic, fretful and fat and self-indulgent, when she had this man?

The thought was chased away by realization that Mrs. Farnham was what Karen might become. Mother and daughter looked alike, save that Karen had not gone to pot. Barbara did not like this thought. She liked Karen better than any other sorority sister she had found when she went back to finish college. Karen was sweet and generous and gay- But perhaps Grace Farnham had been so, once. Did women have to become fretful and useless?

Hubert Farnham looked up from the last trick. “Three spades, game and rubber. Well bid, partner.”

She flushed again. “Well played, you mean. I invited too much.”

“Not at all. At worst we would have been down one. If you don’t bet, you can’t win. Karen, has Joseph gone to bed?”

“Studying. He’s got a quiz.”

“I thought we might invite him to cut in. Barbara, Joseph is the best player in this house-always audacity at the right time. Plus the fact that he is studying to be an accountant and never forgets a card. Karen, can you find us something without disturbing Joseph?”

“’Spect ah kin, Boss. Vodka and tonic for you?”

“And munching food.”

“Come on, Barbara. Let’s bottle.”

Hubert Farnham watched them go, while thinking it was a shame that so nice a child as Mrs. Wells should have had a sour marriage. A sound game of bridge and a good disposition- Gangly and horse faced, perhaps- But a nice smile and a mind of her own. If Duke had any gumption-

But Duke didn’t have any. He went to where his wife was nodding by the television receiver, and said, “Grace? Grace darling, ready for bed?”-then helped her into her bedroom.

When he came back, he found his son alone. He sat down and said, “Duke, I’m sorry about that difference of opinion at dinner.”

“That? Oh, forget it.”

“I would rather have your respect than your tolerance. I know that you disapprove of my ‘panic hole.’ But we have never discussed why I built it.”

“What is there to discuss? You think the Soviet Union is going to attack. You think that hole in the ground will save your life. Both ideas are unhealthy. Sick. Especially unhealthy for Mother. You are driving her to drink. I don’t like it. I liked it still less to have you remind me-me, a lawyer!-that I must not interfere between husband and wife.” Duke started to get up. “I’ll be going.”

“Please, Son! Doesn’t the defense get a chance?”

“Uh- All right, all right!” Duke sat down.

“I respect your opinions. I don’t share them but many people do. Perhaps most people, since most Americans have made no effort to save themselves. But on the points you made, you are mistaken. I don’t expect the USSR to attack- and I doubt if our shelter is enough to save our lives.”

“Then why go around with that plug in your ear scaring Mother out of her wits?”

“I’ve never had an automobile accident. But I carry auto insurance. That shelter is my insurance policy.”

“But you just said it wouldn’t save your life!”

“No, I said I doubted that it would be enough. It could save our lives if we lived a hundred miles away. But Mountain Springs is a prime target . . . and no citizen can build anything strong enough to stop a direct hit.”

“Then why bother?”

“I told you. The best insurance I can afford. Our shelter won’t stop a direct hit. But it will stand up to a near miss-and Russians aren’t supermen and rockets are temperamental. I’ve minimized the risk. That’s the best I can do.”