The Number of the Beast

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “Sure thing!” agreed Pop.

  “Cap’n Zebbie,” Aunt Hilda drawled, “I’m science officer if you say so. But I had better be ship’s cook, too. And cabin boy.”

  “Certainly, we all have to wear more than one hat. Log it, Copilot. ‘Here’s to our jolly cabin girl, the plucky little nipper—’”

  “Don’t finish it. Zebbie,” Aunt Hilda cut in, “I don’t like the way the plot develops.”

  “‘—she carves fake ranger,

  ‘Dubs planet stranger,

  ‘And dazzles crew and skipper.’”

  Aunt Hilda looked thoughtful. “That’s not the classic version. I like the sentiment better…though the scansion limps.”

  “Sharpie darling, you are a floccinaucinihilipilificatrix.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  “Certainly! Means you’re so sharp you spot the slightest flaw.”

  I kept quiet. It was possible that Zebadiah meant it as a compliment. Just barely—

  “Maybe I’d better check it in a dictionary.”

  “By all means, dear—after you are off watch.” (I dismissed the matter. Merriam Microfilm was all we had aboard and Aunt Hilda would not find that word in anything less than the O.E.D.)

  “Copilot, got it logged?”

  “Captain, I didn’t know we had a log.”

  “No log? Even Vanderdecken keeps a log. Deety, the log falls in your department. Take your father’s notes, get what you need from Gay, and let’s have a taut ship. First time we pass a Woolworth’s we’ll pick up a journal and you can transcribe it—notes taken now are your rough log.”

  “Aye aye, sir. Tyrant.”

  “‘Tyrant,’ sir, please. Meanwhile let’s share the binoculars and see if we can spot any colorful exotic natives in colorful exotic costumes singing colorful exotic songs with their colorful exotic hands out for baksheesh. First one to spot evidence of intelligent life gets to wash the dishes.”

  XV

  “We’ll hit so hard we’ll hardly notice it.”

  Hilda:

  I was so flattered by Cap’n Zebbie’s crediting me with “discovering” Barsoom that I pretended not to understand the jibe he added. It was unlikely that Deety would know such a useless word, or my beloved Jacob. It was gallant of Zeb to give in all the way, once he realized that this planet was unlike its analog in “our” universe. Zebbie is a funny one—he wears rudeness like a Hallowe’en mask, afraid that someone will discover the Galahad underneath.

  I knew that “my” Barsoom was not the planet of the classic romances. But there are precedents: The first nuclear submarine was named for an imaginary undersea vessel made famous by Jules Verne; an aircraft carrier of the Second Global War had been named “Shangri La” for a land as nonexistent as “Erewhon”; the first space freighter had been named for a starship that existed only in the hearts of its millions of fans—the list is endless. Nature copies art.

  Or as Deety put it: “Truth is more fantastic than reality.”

  During that hour Barsoom rushed at us. It began to swell and swell, so rapidly that binoculars were a nuisance—and my heart swelled with it, in childlike joy. Deety and I unstrapped so that we could see better, floating just “above” and behind our husbands while steadying ourselves on their headrests.

  We were seeing it in half phase, one half dark, the other in sunlight—ocher and umber and olive green and brown and all of it beautiful.

  Our pilot and copilot did not sightsee; Zebbie kept taking sights, kept Jacob busy calculating. At last he said, “Copilot, if our approximations are correct, at the height at which we will get our first radar range, we will be only a bit over half a minute from crashing. Check?”

  “To the accuracy of our data, Captain.”

  “Too close. I don’t fancy arriving like a meteor. Is it time to hit the panic button? Advise, please—but bear in mind that puts us—should put us—two klicks over a hot, new crater…possibly in the middle of a radioactive cloud. Ideas?”

  “Captain, we can do that just before crashing—and it either works or it doesn’t. If it works, that radioactive cloud will have had more time to blow away. If it doesn’t work—”

  “We’ll hit so hard we’ll hardly notice it. Gay Deceiver isn’t built to reenter at twenty-four klicks per second. She’s beefed up—but she’s still a Ford, not a reentry vehicle.”

  “Captain, I can try to subtract the planet’s orbital speed. We’ve time to make the attempt.”

  “Fasten seat belts and report! Move it, gals!”

  Free fall is funny stuff. I was over that deathly sickness—was enjoying weightlessness, but didn’t know how to move in it. Nor did Deety. We floundered the way one does the first time on ice skates—only worse.

  “Report, damn it!”

  Deety got a hand on something, grabbed me. We started getting into seats—she in mine, I in hers. “Strapping down, Captain!” she called out, while frantically trying to loosen my belts to fit her. (I was doing the same in reverse.)

  “Speed it up!”

  Deety reported, “Seat belts fastened,” while still getting her chest belt buckled—by squeezing out all her breath. I reached over and helped her loosen it.

  “Copilot.”

  “Captain!”

  “Along ‘L’ axis, subtract vector twenty-four klicks per second—and for God’s sake don’t get the signs reversed.”

  “I won’t!”

  “Execute.”

  Seconds later Jacob reported, “That does it, Captain. I hope.”

  “Let’s check. Two readings, ten seconds apart. I’ll call the first, you call the end of ten seconds. Mark!”

  Zeb added, “One point two. Record.”

  After what seemed a terribly long time Jacob said, “Seven seconds…eight seconds…nine seconds…mark!”

  Our men conferred, then Jacob said, “Captain, we are still falling too fast.”

  “Of course,” said Deety. “We’ve been accelerating from gravity. Escape speed for Mars is five klicks per second. If Barsoom has the same mass as Mars—”

  “Thank you, Astrogator. Jake, can you trim off, uh, four klicks per second?”

  “Sure!”

  “Do it.”

  “Uh…done! How does she look?”

  “Uh…distance slowly closing. Hello, Gay.”

  “Howdy, Zeb.”

  “Program. Radar. Target dead ahead. Range.”

  “No reading.”

  “Continue ranging. Report first reading. Add program. Display running radar ranges to target.”

  “Program running. Who blacked your eye?”

  “You’re a Smart Girl, Gay.”

  “I’m sexy, too. Over.”

  “Continue program.” Zeb sighed, then said, “Copilot, there’s atmosphere down there. I plan to attempt to ground. Comment? Advice?”

  “Captain, those are words I hoped to hear. Let’s go!”

  “Barsoom—here we come!”

  XVI

  —a maiden knight, eager to break a lance—

  Jake:

  My beloved bride was no more eager than I to visit “Barsoom.” I had been afraid that our captain would do the sensible thing: establish orbit, take pictures, then return to our own space-time before our air was stale. We were not prepared to explore strange planets. Gay Deceiver was a bachelor’s sports car. We had a little water, less food, enough air for about three hours. Our craft refreshed its air by the scoop method. If she made a “high jump,” her scoop valves sealed from internal pressure just as did commercial ballistic-hypersonic intercontinental liners—but “high jump” is not space travel.

  True, we could go from point to point in our own or any universe in null time, but how many heavenly bodies have breathable atmospheres? Countless billions—but a small fraction of one percent from a practical viewpoint—and no publication lists their whereabouts. We had no spectroscope, no star catalogs, no atmosphere testing equipment, no radiation instruments, no means of detecting dangerous
organisms. Columbus with his cockleshells was better equipped than we.

  None of this worried me.

  Reckless? Do you pause to shop for an elephant gun while an elephant is chasing you?

  Three times we had escaped death by seconds. We had evaded our killers by going to earth—and that safety had not lasted. So again we fled like rabbits.

  At least once every human should have to run for his life, to teach him that milk does not come from supermarkets, that safety does not come from policemen, that “news” is not something that happens to other people. He might learn how his ancestors lived and that he himself is no different—in the crunch his life depends on his agility, alertness, and personal resourcefulness.

  I was not distressed. I felt more alive than I had felt since the death of my first wife.

  Underneath the persona each shows the world lies a being different from the masque. My own persona was a professorial archetype. Underneath? Would you believe a maiden knight, eager to break a lance? I could have avoided military service—married, a father, protected profession. But I spent three weeks in basic training, sweating with the rest, cursing drill instructors—and loving it! Then they took my rifle, told me I was an officer, gave me a swivel chair and a useless job. I never forgave them for that.

  Hilda, until we married, I knew not at all. I had valued her as a link to my lost love but I had thought her a lightweight, a social butterfly. Then I found myself married to her and learned that I had unnecessarily suffered lonely years. Hilda was what I needed, I was what she needed—Jane had known it and blessed us when at last we knew it. But I still did not realize the diamond-hard quality of my tiny darling until I saw her dissecting that pseudo “ranger.” Killing that alien was easy. But what Hilda did—I almost lost my supper.

  Hilda is small and weak; I’ll protect her with my life. But I won’t underrate her again!

  Zeb is the only one of us who looks the part of intrepid explorer—tall, broad-shouldered, strongly muscled, skilled with machines and with weapons, and (sine qua non!) cool-headed in crisis and gifted with the “voice of command.”

  One night I had been forced to reason with my darling; Hilda felt that I should lead our little band. I was oldest, I was inventor of the time-space “distorter”—it was all right for Zeb to pilot—but I must command. In her eyes Zeb was somewhere between an overage adolescent and an affectionate Saint Bernard. She pointed out that Zeb claimed to be a “coward by trade” and did not want responsibility.

  I told her that no born leader seeks command; the mantle descends on him, he wears the burden because he must. Hilda could not see it—she was willing to take orders from me but not from her pet youngster “Zebbie.”

  I had to be firm: Either accept Zeb as commander or tomorrow Zeb and I would dismount my apparatus from Zeb’s car so that Mr. and Mrs. Carter could go elsewhere. Where? Not my business or yours, Hilda. I turned over and pretended to sleep.

  When I heard sobs, I turned again and held her. But I did not budge. No need to record what was said; Hilda promised to take any orders Zeb might give—once we left.

  But her capitulation was merely coerced until the gory incident at the pool. Zeb’s instantaneous attack changed her attitude. From then on my darling carried out Zeb’s orders without argument—and between times kidded and ragged him as always. Hilda’s spirit wasn’t broken; instead she placed her indomitable spirit subject to the decisions of our captain. Discipline—self-discipline; there is no other sort.

  Zeb is indeed a “coward by trade”—he avoids trouble whenever possible—a most commendable trait in a leader. If a captain worries about the safety of his command, those under him need not worry.

  Barsoom continued to swell. At last Gay’s voice said, “Ranging, Boss” as she displayed “1000 km,” and flicked at once to “999 km.” I started timing when Zeb made it unnecessary: “Smart Girl!”

  “Here, Zeb.”

  “Continue range display. Show as H-above-G. Add dive rate.”

  “Null program.”

  “Correction. Add program. Display dive rate soonest.”

  “New program dive rate stored. Display starts H-above-G six hundred klicks.”

  “You’re a smart girl, Gay.”

  “‘Smartest little girl in the County, Oh! Daddy and Mommy told me so!’ Over.”

  “Continue programs.”

  Height-above-ground seemed to drop both quickly and with stomach-tensing slowness. No one said a word; I barely breathed. As “600 km” appeared the figures were suddenly backed by a grid; on it was a steep curve, height-against-time, and a new figure flashed underneath the H-above-G figure: 1968 km/hr. As the figure changed, a bright abscissa lowered down on the grid.

  Our captain let out a sigh. “We can handle that. But I’d give fifty cents and a double-dip ice-cream cone for a parachute brake.”

  “What flavor?”

  “Your choice, Sharpie. Don’t worry, folks; I can stand her on her tail and blast. But it’s an expensive way to slow up. Gay Deceiver.”

  “Busy, Boss.”

  “I keep forgetting that I can’t ask her to display too many data at once. Anybody know the sea level—I mean ‘surface’ atmospheric pressure of Mars? Don’t all speak at once.”

  My darling said hesitantly, “It averages about five millibars. But, Captain—this isn’t Mars.”

  “Huh? So it isn’t—and from the looks of that green stuff, Barsoom must have lots more atmosphere than Mars.” Zeb took the controls, overrode the computer, cautiously waggled her elevons. “Can’t feel bite. Sharpie, how come you bone astronomy? Girl Scout?”

  “Never got past tenderfoot. I audited a course, then subscribed to ‘Astronomy’ and ‘Sky and Telescope.’ It’s sort o’ fun.”

  “Chief of Science, you have again justified my faith in you. Copilot, as soon as I have air bite, I’m going to ease to the east. We’re headed too close to the terminator. I want to ground in daylight. Keep an eye out for level ground. I’ll hover at the last—but I don’t want to ground in forest. Or in badlands.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Astrogator.”

  “Yessir!”

  “Deety darling, search to port—and forward, as much as you can see around me. Jake can favor the starboard side.”

  “Captain—I’m on the starboard side. Behind Pop.”

  “Huh? How did you gals get swapped around?”

  “Well…you hurried us, sir—any old seat in a storm.”

  “Two demerits for wrong seat—and no syrup on the hot cakes we’re going to have for breakfast as soon as we’re grounded.”

  “Uh, I don’t believe hot cakes are possible.”

  “I can dream, can’t I? Chief Science Officer, watch my side.”

  “Yes, Cap’n.”

  “While Deety backs up Jake. Any cow pasture.”

  “Hey! I feel air! She bites!”

  I held my breath while Zeb slowly brought the ship out of dive, easing her east. “Gay Deceiver.”

  “How now, Brown Cow?”

  “Cancel display programs. Execute.”

  “Inshallâh, ya sayyid.”

  The displays faded. Zeb held her just short of stalling. We were still high, about six klicks, still hypersonic.

  Zeb slowly started spreading her wings as air speed and altitude dropped. After we dropped below speed of sound, he opened her wings full for maximum lift. “Did anyone remember to bring a canary?”

  “A canary!” said Deety. “What for, Boss Man?”

  “My gentle way of reminding everyone that we have no way to test atmosphere. Copilot.”

  “Captain,” I acknowledged.

  “Uncover deadman switch. Hold it closed while you remove clamp. Hold it high where we all can see it. Once you report switch ready to operate, I’m going to crack the air scoops. If you pass out, your hand will relax and the switch will get us home. I hope. But—All hands!—if anyone feels dizzy or woozy or faint…or sees any of us start to slump, don’t
wait! Give the order orally. Deety, spell the order I mean. Don’t say it—spell it.”

  “G, A, Y, D, E, C, I, E, V, E, R, T, A, K, E, U, S, H, O, M, E.”

  “You misspelled it.”

  “I did not!”

  “You did so; ‘“i” before “e” except after “c.”’ You reversed ’em.”

  “Well…maybe I did. That diphthong has always given me trouble. Floccinaucinihilipilificator!”

  “So you understood it? From now on, on Barsoom, ‘i’ comes before ‘e’ at all times. By order of John Carter, Warlord. I have spoken. Copilot?”

  “Deadman switch ready, Captain,” I answered.

  “You gals hold your breaths or breathe, as you wish. Pilot and copilot will breathe. I am about to open air scoops.”

  I tried to breathe normally and wondered if my hand would relax if I passed out.

  The cabin got suddenly chilly, then the heaters picked up. I felt normal. Cabin pressure slightly higher, I thought, under ram effect.

  “Everybody feel right? Does everybody look right? Copilot?”

  “I feel fine. You look okay. So does Hilda. I can’t see Deety.”

  “Science Officer?”

  “Deety looks normal. I feel fine.”

  “Deety. Speak up.”

  “Golly, I had forgotten what fresh air smells like!”

  “Copilot, carefully—most carefully!—put the clamp back on the switch, then rack and cover it. Report completion.”

  A few seconds later I reported, “Deadman switch secured, Captain.”

  “Good. I see a golf course; we’ll ground.” Zeb switched to powered flight; Gay responded, felt alive. We spiraled, hovered briefly, grounded with a gentle bump. “Grounded on Barsoom. Log it, Astrogator. Time and date.”

  “Huh?”

  “On the instrument board.”

  “But that says oh-eight-oh-three and it’s just after dawn here.”

  “Log it Greenwich. With it, log estimated local time and Barsoom day one.” Zeb yawned. “I wish they wouldn’t hold mornings so early.”

  “Too sleepy for hot cakes?” my wife inquired.