Farnham’s Freehold By Robert A. Heinlein

“All night? I want to have this little bastard and get it over with.”

“I want it over with, too, but babies have minds of their own.” He added, “You’ll be busy a while and so will I. I’m dirty.” He started to leave.

“Daddy, wait a minute. Do I have to stay back here? It’s hot.”

“No. The light is better by the door. Especially if young Tarzan has the decency to arrive during daylight. Barbara, turn that used bear over; it’ll be cooler. Put this sheet on it. Or a clean one if there is one.”

“The sterilized one?”

“No. Don’t unpack the boiled sheet until the riot starts.” Hugh patted his patient’s hand. “Try not to have a pain until I’m clean.”

“Daddy, you should have been a doctor.”

“I am a doctor. The best doctor in the world.”

As he left the house he encountered Duke, soaked from a long run. “I heard three shots. Sis?”

“Yes. No hurry, labor just started. I’m about to take a bath. Want to join me?”

“I want to say hello to Sis first.”

“Hurry up; they’re about to bathe her. And grab Joe; he’s incarcerating cats. They’ll want us out of the way.”

“Shouldn’t we be boiling water?”

“Do so, if it will calm you. Duke, my O.B. kit, such as it is, has been ready for a month. There are six jars of boiled water, for this and that. Go kiss your sister and don’t let her see that you’re worried.”

“You’re a cold fish, Dad.”

“Son, I’m scared silly. I can list thirteen major complications-and I’m not prepared to cope with any of them. Mostly I pat her hand and tell her that everything is dandy-and that’s what she needs. I examine her, solemn as a judge, and don’t know what to look for. It’s just to reassure her . . . and I’ll thank you to help out.”

Duke said soberly, “I will, sir. I’ll kid her along.”

“Don’t overdo it. Just let her see that you share her confidence in old Doe Farnham.”

“I will.”

“If Joe gets the jitters, get him out. He’s the worst. Grace is doing fine. Hurry up or they won’t let you in.”

Later, bathed and calmed down, Hugh climbed out of the stream ahead of Joe and Duke, walked back carrying his clothes and letting the air dry him. He paused outside, put on clean shorts. “Knock, knock!”

“Stay out,” Grace called. “We’re busy.”

“Then cover her. I want to scrub.”

“Don’t be silly, Mother. Come in, Daddy.”

He went in, squeezing around Barbara and Grace, and on into the bathroom. He trimmed his nails very closely, scrubbed his hands with ditch water-then again with boiled water, and repeated it. He shook them dry and went into the main room, being careful not to touch anything.

Karen was on the bed at the door, a ragged half sheet over her. Her shoulders were swaddled in a grayish garment that had been the shirt Hugh had worn the night of the attack. Grace and Barbara were seated on the bed, Duke stood outside the door, and Joe sat mournfully on the bunk beyond the bed.

Hugh smiled at her. “How is it going? Any twinges?”

“Nary a twinge, damn it. I want to have him before dinner.”

“You will. Because you don’t get any dinner.”

“Beast. My daddy is a beast.”

“Doctor Beast, please. Skedaddle, friends, I want to examine my patient. Everyone but Grace. Barbara, go lie down.”

“I’m not tired.”

“You may be awake most of the night. Take a nap. I don’t want to cope with a seven-month preemie.”

He folded back the sheet, looked Karen over, and palpated her swollen belly. “Has he been kicking?”

“Has he! I’m going to sign him up with the Green Bay Packers. I think he’s wearing shoes.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised. Did you have shoes on when you started him?”

“What? Daddy, you are a nasty man. Yes.”

“Prenatal influence. Next time take them off.” He tried to judge whether the child was in the head-down position, or whether it was-God forbid!-a breech presentation. He was unable to decide. So he smiled at Karen and lied. “Shoes won’t bother us, as he is head down, just as he should be. It’s going to be an easy birth.”