“So he says. Or so you say he says. I want to see it myself. I damn well insist on it.”
“Very well, insist on it. Go see Memtok about it. But I must warn you, I can’t protect you from him.”
“Rats. I know what that slimy little bastard would say-and what he would do.” Duke scowled and rubbed his injured leg. “It’s up to you to arrange it. You’ve got such an unholy drag around here, the least you can do is use it to protect Mother.”
“Duke, I don’t have that sort of drag. I’m being pampered for the reason a race horse is pampered . . . and I have just as little to say about it as a race horse has. But I can cut you in on pampering if you cooperate-decent quarters, immunity from mistreatment, a pleasant place to work. But I can no more get you into women’s quarters, or have Grace sent here, than I can go to the Moon. They have harem rules here, as you know.”
“And you are content to sit here and be a trained seal for that ape, and neglect Mother? Count me out!”
“Duke, I won’t argue. I’ll assign you a room and send you a volume of the Britannica each day. Then it’s up to you. If you won’t work, I’ll try to keep Memtok from knowing it. But I think he has spies all over the place.”
Hugh let it go at that. At first he got no help out of Duke. But boredom worked where argument failed; Duke could not stand to be shut up in a room with nothing to do. He was not locked up but he did not venture out much because there was always the chance that he might run into Memtok, or some other whip-carrying upper servant, who might want to know what he was doing, and why-servants were expected to look busy even if they weren’t, from morning prayer to evening prayer.
Duke began to produce translations and, with them, a complaint that he was short on vocabulary. Hugh was able to have assigned to him a tempered clerk who had worked in Their Charity’s legal affairs.
But he rarely saw Duke-it seemed to be the only way they could stay out of arguments. Duke’s output speeded up after the first week but fell off in quality-Duke had discovered the sovereign power of “Happiness.”
Hugh considered warning Duke about the drug, decided against it. If it kept Duke contented, who was he to deny him this anodyne? The quality of Duke’s translations did not worry Hugh; Their Charity had no way to judge-unless Joe rendered an opinion, which seemed unlikely. He himself was not trying too hard to turn out good translations; “not good, but Wednesday” was the principle he used: Give the boss lucid copy in great quantity-and leave out the hard parts.
Besides, Hugh found that a couple of drinks of Happiness at dinner topped off the day. It allowed him to read Barbara’s daily letter in a warm glow, write a cheerful answer for Kitten to carry back, then to bed and sound sleep.
But Hugh did not use much of it; he was afraid of the stuff. Alcohol, he reasoned, had the advantage of being a poison. It gave fair warning if one started drinking heavily. But this stuff exacted no such price; it merely turned anxiety, depression, worry, boredom, any unpleasant emotion, into an uncritical happy glow. Hugh wondered if it was principally methyl meprobamate? But he knew little chemistry and that little was two thousand years behind times.
As a member of the executive servants’ mess Hugh could have all he wanted. But he noted that Memtok was not the only boss who used the stuff abstemiously; a man did not fight his way up in the servants’ hierarchy by dulling himself with drugs-but sometimes a servant did get high up, then skidded to the bottom, unable to stand prosperity in the form of unrationed Happiness. Hugh never learned what became of them.
Hugh could even keep a bottle in his rooms-and that solved the problem of Kitten.
Hugh had decided not to ask for a bed for Kitten; he did not want to rub Memtok’s nose in the fact that he was using the child only as a go-between to women’s quarters. Instead he required the girl to make up a bed each night on the divan in his living room.