The Number of the Beast

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “So I did it accurately by Pythagorean proposition by splitting the isosceles triangle into two right triangles. Hypotenuse is ten, one side is six and a quarter—and that gives the missing side as seven point eight-zero-six-two-four-seven plus—which gives you one course and you read off the other by the scandalous Fifth Axiom. But I did check by trig. Arc sine point seven-eight-zero-six-two-four-seven—”

  “Hold it! I believe you. What other ways can you program Gay to find you, using her present vocabulary?”

  “Uh…burn juice?”

  “If necessary.”

  “I would have her bounce a minimum, then maximize my signal. Home on me.”

  “Certainly. Now do the same thing without using juice. Just Jake’s twister.”

  Deety looked thoughtful and about twelve years old, then suddenly said, “‘Drunkard’s Walk’!”—added at once, “But I would place a locus around the Walk just large enough to be certain that I’m inside it. Gay should plot signal level at each vertex. Such a plot would pinpoint the signal source.”

  “Which way is faster? Home straight in under power? Or Drunkard’s Walk?”

  Deety answered, “Why, the—”—looked startled. “Those are solid-state relays.”

  “Jake sets verniers by hand—but when Gay is directing herself there are no moving parts. Solid state.”

  “Zebadiah, am I thinking straight? Using power, at that distance—call it twelve kilometers—Gay should be able to home on me in three or four minutes. But—Zebadiah, this can’t be right!—using no power and relying on random numbers and pure chance in a Drunkard’s Walk, Gay should find me in less than a second. Where did I go wrong?”

  “On the high side, Deety girl. Lost your nerve. The first fifty milliseconds should show the hot spot; in less than the second fifty she’ll part your hair. All over in a tenth of a second—or less. But, honey, we still haven’t talked about the best way. I said that you should trust your instincts. Gay is not an ‘it.’ She’s a person. You’ll never know how relieved I was when it turned out that you two were going to be friends. If she had been jealous of you—May the gods deliver us from a vindictive machine! But she’s not; she thinks you’re swell.”

  “Zebadiah, you believe that?”

  “Dejah Thoris, I know that.”

  Deety looked relieved. “I know it, too—despite what I said earlier.”

  “Deety, to me the whole world is alive. Some parts are sleeping and some are dozing and some are awake but yawning…and some are bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and always ready to go. Gay is one of those.”

  “Yes, she is. I’m sorry I called her an ‘it.’ But what is this ‘best way’?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? Don’t tell her how—just tell her. Say to her, ‘Gay, come find me!’ All four words are in her vocabulary; the sentence is compatible with her grammar. She’ll find you.”

  “But how? Drunkard’s Walk?”

  “A tenth of a second might strike her as too long—she likes you, hon. She’ll look through her registers and pick the optimum solution. She might not be able to tell you how she did it, since she wipes anything she’s not told to remember. I think she does; I’ve never been certain.”

  Jake and Hilda had wandered off while Deety and I had been talking. They had turned back, so we started toward them. Sharpie called out, “Zebbie, what happened to that hike?”

  “Right away,” I agreed. “Jake, we have about three hours. We ought to be buttoned up before sundown. Check?”

  “I agree. The temperature will drop rapidly at sundown.”

  “Yup. We can’t do real exploring today. So let’s treat it as drill. Fully armed, patrol formation, radio discipline, and always alert, as if there were a ‘Black Hat’ behind every bush.”

  “No bushes,” objected Hilda.

  I pretended not to hear. “But what constitutes ‘fully armed,’ Jake? We each have rifles. You have that oldstyle Army automatic that will knock down anything if you’re close enough but—how good a shot are you?”

  “Good enough.”

  “How good is ‘Good enough’?” (Most people are as accurate with a baseball as with a pistol.)

  “Skipper, I won’t attempt a target more than fifty meters away. But if I intend to hit, the target will be within range and I will hit it.”

  I opened my mouth…closed it. Fifty meters is a long range for that weapon. But hint that my father-in-law was boasting?

  Deety caught my hesitation. “Zebadiah—Pop taught me pistol in the campus R.O.T.C. range. I’ve seen him practice bobbing targets at thirty meters. I saw him miss one. Once.”

  Jake harrumphed. “My daughter omitted to mention that I skip most surprise targets.”

  “Father! ‘Most’ means ‘more than fifty percent.’ Not true!”

  “Near enough.”

  “Six occasions. Four strings, twenty-eight targets on three—”

  “Hold it, honey! Jake, it’s silly to argue figures with your daughter. With my police special I won’t attempt anything over twenty meters—except covering fire. But I hand-load my ammo and pour my own dumdums; the result is almost as lethal as that howitzer of yours. But if it comes to trouble, or hunting for meat, we’ll use rifles, backed by Deety’s shotgun. Deety, can you shoot?”

  “Throw your hat into the air.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that. Sharpie, we have five firearms, four people—is there one that fits you?”

  “Cap’n Zebbie, the one time I fired a gun, I went backwards, the bullet went that-a-way, and I had a sore shoulder. Better have me walk in front to trip land mines.”

  “Zebadiah, she could carry my fléchette gun.”

  “Sharpie, we’ll put you in the middle and you carry the first-aid kit; you’re medical officer—armed with Deety’s purse gun for defense. Jake, it’s time we stowed these swords and quit pretending to be Barsoomian warriors. Field boots. I’m going to wear that same sweaty pilot suit, about equivalent to jump suits you and Deety wore—which I suggest you wear now. We should carry water canteens and iron rations. I can’t think of anything that would serve as a canteen. Damn! Jake, we aren’t doing this by the book.”

  “What book?” demanded Hilda.

  “Those romances about interstellar exploration. There’s always a giant mother ship in orbit, loaded with everything from catheters to Coca-Cola, and scouting is by landing craft, in touch with the mother ship. Somehow, we aren’t doing it that way.”

  (All the more reason to conduct drill as realistically as possible. Jake or I, one of us, is honor bound to stay alive to take care of two women and unborn children; exterminating ‘Black-Hat’ vermin holds a poor second to that.)

  “Zebbie, why are you staring at me?”

  I hadn’t known that I was. “Trying to figure how to dress you, dear. Sharpie, you look cute in jewelry and perfume. But it’s not enough for a sortie in the bush. Take ’em off and put ’em away. You, too, Deety. Deety, do you have another jump suit that can be pinned up or stitched up for Hilda?”

  “A something, sure. But it would take hours to do a good job. My sewing kit isn’t much.”

  “‘Hours’ will have to be another day. Today we’ll make do with safety pins. But take time to do a careful job of padding her feet into your stoutest shoes. Confound it, she should have field boots. Sharpie, remind me when we make that shopping trip to Earth-without-a-J.”

  “To hear is to obey, Exalted One. Is it permitted to make a parliamentary inquiry?”

  She startled me. “Hilda, what did I do to cause that frosty tone?”

  “It was what you didn’t do.” Suddenly she smiled, reached high and patted my cheek. “You mean well, Zebbie. But you slipped. While Gay Deceiver is on the ground, we’re equal. But you’ve been giving orders right and left.”

  I started to answer; Jake cut in. “Hilda my love, for a scouting expedition the situation becomes equivalent to a craft in motion. Again we require a captain.”

  Sharpie turned toward her husband
. “Conceded, sir. But may I point out that we are not yet on that hike? Zebbie has consulted you; he has not consulted Deety and me. He asked us for information—darned seldom! Aside from that he has simply laid down the law. What are we, Zebbie? Poor little female critters whose opinions are worthless?”

  Caught with your hand in the cooky jar, throw yourself on the mercy of the court.

  “Sharpie, you’re right and I’m dead wrong. But before you pass sentence I claim extenuating circumstances: Youth and inexperience, plus long and faithful service.”

  “You can’t,” put in my helpful wife. “You can plead one or the other but not both. They can’t overlap.”

  Sharpie stood on tiptoes and kissed my chin. “In Zebbie’s case they do overlap. Do you still want to know what to use as water canteens?”

  “Certainly!”

  “Then why didn’t you ask?”

  “But I did!”

  “No, Cap’n Zebbie; you did not ask and did not even give us time to volunteer the answer.”

  “I’m sorry, Hilda. Too many things on my mind.”

  “I know, dear; Sharpie does not mean to scold. But I had to get your attention.”

  “That baseball bat?”

  “Almost. For an ersatz canteen—A hot-water bottle?”

  Again she startled me. “In the danger we were in when we left, you worried about cold feet in bed? And packed a hot-water bottle?”

  “Two,” answered Deety. “Aunt Hilda fetched one. So did I.”

  “Deety, you don’t have cold feet and neither do I.”

  Sharpie said, “Deety, is he actually that naïve?”

  “I’m afraid he is, Aunt Hilda. But he’s sweet.”

  “And brave,” added Hilda. “But retarded in spots. They do overlap in Zebbie’s case. He’s unique.”

  “What,” I demanded, “are you talking about?”

  “Aunt Hilda means that, when you refitted Gay, you neglected to install a bidet.”

  “Oh.” That was the wittiest I could manage. “It’s not a subject I give much thought to.”

  “No reason you should, Zebbie. Although men use them, too.”

  “Zebadiah does. Pop, too. Bidets, I mean. Not hot-water bottles.”

  “I meant hot-water bottles, dear. As medical officer I may find it necessary to administer an enema to the Captain.”

  “Oh, no!” I objected. “You’re not equipped.”

  “But she is, Zebadiah. We fetched both sorts of nozzles.”

  “But you didn’t fetch four husky orderlies to hold me down. Let’s move on. Sharpie, what was the advice you would have given if I had been bright enough to consult you?”

  “Some is not advice but a statement of fact. I’m not going for a hike on a hot day swaddled in a pinned-up jump suit eight sizes too big. While you all play Cowboys-and-Indians, I’m going to curl up in my seat and read ‘The Oxford Book of English Verse.’ Thank you for fetching it, Jacob.”

  “Hilda beloved, I will worry.”

  “No need to worry about me, Jacob. I can always tell Gay to lock her doors. But, were I to go with you, I would be a handicap. You three are trained to fight; I’m not.” Sharpie turned toward me. “Captain, since I’m not going, that’s all I have to say.”

  What was there for me to say? “Thank you, Hilda. Deety, do you have things on your mind?”

  “Yes, sir. I go along with field boots and jump suits and so forth even though they’ll be beastly hot. But I wish you would change your mind about your sword and Pop’s saber. Maybe they aren’t much compared with rifles but they’re good for my morale.”

  Hilda interjected, “Had I decided to go, Captain, I would have said the same. Possibly it is an emotional effect from what happened, uh—was it only yesterday?—but perhaps it is subconscious logic. Just yesterday bare blades defeated a man—a thing, an alien—armed with a firearm and ready to use it.”

  Jake spoke up. “Captain, I didn’t want to take off my saber.”

  “We’ll wear them.” Any excuse is a good excuse to wear a sword. “Are we through? We’ve lost an hour and the Sun is dropping. Deety?”

  “One more thing, Zebadiah—and I expect to be outvoted. I say to cancel the hike.”

  “So? Princess, you’ve said too much or not enough.”

  “If we do this, we spend the night here—sitting up. If we chase the Sun instead—There were lights on the night side that looked like cities. There was blue on the day side that looked like a sea. I think I saw canals. But whether we find something or not, at worst we’ll catch up with sunrise and be able to sleep outdoors in daylight, just as we did today.”

  “Deety! Gay can overtake the Sun. Once. You want to use all her remaining juice just to sleep outdoors?”

  “Zebadiah, I wasn’t planning on using any power.”

  “Huh? It sounded like it.”

  “Oh, no! Do transitions of three minima or more, bearing west. Aim us out of the atmosphere; we fall back in while looking for places of interest. As we reenter, we glide, but where depends on what you want to look at. When you have stretched the glide to the limit, unless you decide to ground, you do another transition. There is great flexibility, Zebadiah. You can reach sunrise line in the next few minutes. Or you could elect to stay on the day side for weeks, never land, never use any juice, and inspect the entire planet from pole to pole.”

  “Maybe Gay can stay up for weeks—but not me. I’m good for several more hours. With that limitation, it sounds good, How about it? Hilda? Jake?”

  “You mean that female suffrage is permanent? I vote Yes!”

  Jake said, “You have a majority; no need for a male vote.”

  “Jacob!” his wife said reproachfully.

  “Joking, my dear. It’s unanimous.”

  I said, “Somebody just cancelled the election. Look there.”

  We all looked. Deety said, “What is it? A pterodactyl?”

  “No, an ornithopter. A big one.”

  XIX

  Something is gained in translation—

  Hilda:

  Jacob tightened his arm around me. “Zeb,” he said softly, “I don’t believe it.” He was staring (we all were) at this mechaniwockle pteranodon coming at us over the hills in the west.

  “Neither do I,” Zebbie answered. “Wrong wing loading. Impossible articulation. There’s a second one. A third! All hands! Grab your clothes! Man the ship! Prepare to lift! Move! Jake, unbuckle your saber and into your jump suit, fast!”

  Cap’n Zebbie was unhooking his sword belt and grabbing his coveralls as he yelped. I was inside first as I didn’t stop to dress—grabbed Deety’s baby shoes with one hand, my dress and panties with the other.

  I wiggled into panties, slid the dress over my head, slipped on Deety’s Keds.

  I anticipated the order to fasten seat belts—stopped suddenly and eased my belt. I had not stopped to take off the doodads that proclaimed me a Barsoomian “princess.” Now it seemed that every item of frippery was about to imprint me for life.

  Deety was cursing softly over the same problem. Deety’s jump suit was harder to reach into, even when she unbelted and opened the zipper all the way. I helped readjust the hardware but cautioned her not to remove it and to close the zipper clear to her chin. “Deety, if you get holes in your hide, you’ll get well. But if something loose catches our captain in the eye, the culprit will be broken on the wheel.”

  I clucked-clucked at her answer but big ones do get in the way. Meanwhile our men were having problems. That space under the instrument board could not be seen by a full-sized male. The best position to reach it was impossible for Jacob, ridiculously impossible for Zebbie.

  Zebbie’s profanity was louder than Deety’s but not as colorful. My own darling was keeping quiet which meant that he was really in trouble. I said, “Gentlemen—”

  Zebbie grunted, “Shut up, Sharpie; we’ve got problems! Deety! How did you get these toadstickers into this compartment?”

  “I didn’t. Aunt Hilda d
id.”

  “Sharpie, can I apologize later? Those Martians are circling us now!”

  So they were, at least a dozen flapping monstrosities. One appeared about to ground. “Captain, I’ll do it—but there is a faster way.”

  “How?”

  “Unhook your scabbards, put on your sword belts. Saber and sword in scabbards fit easily if you point one right, the other left. They will rattle unless you stuff clothing around them.”

  “They can bloody well rattle!” In seconds, our gallants had blades and scabbards stowed. As Cap’n Zebbie resumed sword belt and started on his seat belt he called out, “Fasten belts, prepare to lift! Sharpie, have I told you today that in addition to loving you, I admire you?”

  “I think not, Captain.”

  “I do. Enormously. Report! Science Officer?”

  “Seat belt fastened. Thank you, Zebbie.”

  “Seat belt fastened,” reported Deety. “Bulkhead door dogged.”

  “Seat belt fastened, starboard door seal checked, copilot ready, sir!”

  “Port door seal checked, pilot strapped down; we’re ready—and none too soon! One has grounded and somebody is getting out. Hey! They’re human!”

  “Or disguised aliens,” said my darling.

  “Well…yes, there’s that. I may lift any second. Deety—that new program: Just G, A, Y, B, O, U, N, C, E? No ‘do-it’ word?”

  “Check.”

  “Good. I won’t use it unless forced to. This may be that ‘first contact’ the world has been expecting.”

  “Cap’n Zebbie, why would aliens disguise themselves when they outnumber us? I think they are human.”

  “I hope you’re right. Copilot, should I open the door? Advice, please.”

  “Captain, you can open the door anytime. But if it is open, it takes a few seconds to close it and the ship won’t lift with a door open.”

  “Too right. Gay Deceiver.”

  “Hi, Boss. Where did you pick up the tarts?”

  “Gay, check and report.”

  “All circuits checked, all systems go, juice point seven-eight—and I’m in the mood.”

  “Cast loose L-gun. Prepare to burn.”