The Number of the Beast

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “Oh, dear!”

  “It’s not tragic. We simply elect a new C.O.”

  My father picked this moment to get hairy. “Zeb, you’re being pretty damned stiff-necked and self-righteous with Hilda. I don’t think she has misbehaved.”

  “Jake, you are in no position to judge. First, because she’s your bride. Second, because you haven’t been sitting in the worry seat; I have. And you have supplied some of the worst guff yourself.”

  “I was not aware of it… Captain.”

  “You’re doing it now…by calling me ‘Captain’ when I’m not. But do you recall a couple of hours ago when I asked my second-in-command for advice—and got some back chat about ‘written orders’?”

  “Mmm… I was out of line. Yes, sir.”

  “Do you want other examples?”

  “No. No, I stipulate that there are others. I understand your point, sir.” Pop gave a wry smile. “Well, I’m glad Deety hasn’t given you trouble.”

  “On the contrary, she has given me the most.”

  I had been upset—I had never really believed that Zebadiah would resign. But now I was shocked and bewildered and hurt. “Zebadiah, what have I done?”

  “The same sort of nonsense as the other two…but harder for me because I’m married to you.”

  “But—But what?”

  “I’ll tell you in private.”

  “It’s all right for Pop and Aunt Hilda to hear.”

  “Not with me. We can share our joys with others but difficulties between us we settle in private.”

  My nose was stuffy and I was blinking back tears. “But I must know.”

  “Dejah Thoris, you can list the incidents if you choose to be honest with yourself. You have perfect memory and it all took place in the last twenty-four hours.”

  He turned his face away from me. “One thing I must urge before we choose a captain. I let myself be wheedled and bullied into surrendering authority on the ground. That was a bad mistake. A sea captain is still captain when his ship is anchored. Whoever becomes captain should profit by my mistake and not relinquish any authority merely because Gay is grounded. She can relax the rules according to the situation. But the captain must decide. The situation can be more dangerous on the ground than in air or in space. As it was today when the Russians showed up. Simply grounding must not be: ‘School’s out! Now we can play!’”

  “I’m sorry, Zebbie.”

  “Hilda, I was more at fault than you. I wanted to be free of responsibility. I let myself be talked into it, then my brain went on vacation. Take that ‘practice hike.’ I don’t recall who suggested it—”

  “I did,” said my father.

  “Maybe you did, Jake; but we all climbed on the bandwagon. We were about to run off like a bunch of Scouts with no Scoutmaster. If we had started as quickly as we had expected to, where would we be now? In a Russian jail? Or dead? Oh, I’m not giving myself high marks; one reason I’ve resigned is that I haven’t handled it well. Planning to leave Gay Deceiver and everything we own unguarded while we made walkabout—good God! If I had felt the weight of command I would never have considered it.”

  Zebadiah made a sour face, then looked at my father. “Jake, you’re eldest. Why don’t you take the gavel while we pick a new C.O.? I so move.”

  “Second!”

  “Question!”

  “White ballot!”

  “What gavel? I’ll bet there isn’t a gavel on this planet.” In a moment Father quit stalling. We all voted, using a page from Zebadiah’s notebook torn in four. They were folded and handed to me and I was required to declare the vote. So I did:

  Zeb

  Zebadiah

  Zebbie

  Sharpie

  Zebadiah reached back, got the ballots from me, handed back the one that meant “Aunt Hilda,” took the other three and tore them into small pieces. “Apparently you did not understand me. I’ve stood my watch; someone else must take it—or we’ll park on this bank until we die of old age. Sharpie seems to have an overwhelming lead—is she elected? Or do we ballot again?”

  We balloted again:

  Sharpie

  Jacob

  Jacob

  Hilda

  “A tie,” Father said. “Shall we invite Gay to vote?”

  “Shut up and deal the cards.”

  Sharpie

  Deety

  Deety

  Hilda

  “Hey!” I protested. “Who switched?” (I certainly didn’t vote for me.)

  Sharpie

  Hilda

  Zebbie

  Hilda

  “One spoiled ballot,” said my husband. “A non-candidate. Will you confirm that, Mr. Chairman?”

  “Yes,” Pop agreed. “My dear… Captain Hilda. You are elected without a dissenting vote.”

  Aunt Hilda looked as if she might cry again. “You’re a bunch of stinkers!”

  “So we are,” agreed my husband, “But we are your stinkers, Captain Hilda.”

  That got him a wan smile. “Guess maybe. Well, I’ll try.”

  “We’ll all try,” said Pop.

  “And we’ll all help,” said my husband.

  “Sure we will!” I said, and meant it.

  Pop said, “If you will excuse me? I’ve been anxious to find a handy bush since before this started.” He started to get out.

  “Just a moment!”

  “Eh? Yes, my dear? Captain.”

  “No one is to seek out a bush without an armed guard. Not more—and not less—than two people are to leave the car’s vicinity at one time. Jacob, if your need is urgent, you must ask Zebbie to hurry—I want the guard to carry both rifle and pistol.”

  I think it worked out that Pop got the use of a bush last—and must have been about to burst his bladder. Later I overheard Pop say, “Son, you’ve read Aesop’s Fables?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Does anything remind you of King Log and King Stork?”

  XXII

  “‘From each according to his ability,

  to each according to his needs.’”

  Hilda:

  I could tell from the first ballot that Zebbie was determined to make me take a turn as captain. Once I realized that, I decided to be captain—let them get sick of me and anxious to have Zebbie back.

  Then suddenly I was captain—and it’s different. I did not ever again think of trying to make them sick of me; I just started to worry. And try.

  First my husband wanted to find a bush for the obvious reason—and I suddenly realized that a banth might get him. Not a Barsoomian banth but whatever this planet held in dangerous carnivores.

  So I ordered armed guards. With rules about not getting separated. It was a nuisance but I was firm…and knew at last what a crushing load there had been on Zebbie.

  But one thing I could improve: Arrange for us to sleep inside the car.

  The space back of the bulkhead behind the rear seats was not organized. We had about six hours till sundown (having gained on the Sun in going west), so I had everything in that space pulled out.

  Space enough for Zebbie and Deety, on his sleeping bag opened out, blankets over them. Jacob and I? The piloting chairs we moved forward all the set screws would allow, laid them back almost flat and padded the cracks with pillows, and, to support our legs, the cushions from the rear seats were placed on boxes we would otherwise discard once I had the car organized. It wasn’t the best bed but low gravity and my cuddlesome husband made it a most attractive one.

  Baths—In the stream and cold! Same rules as for bushes: armed guards. Soap thoroughly on the bank, get in and rinse fast, bounce out and towel till you glowed. Primitive? Luxurious!

  This did not go smoothly. Take the “handy bush” problem. I did not have to be told that a latrine should be downstream or that our shovel should be carried every time without fail—rules for a clean camp are as old as the Old Testament.

  But my first order called for no more than two and no less than two to leave
the car at any time, and one must be armed—the other rifle and pistol must guard Gay.

  I blurted out that order when the truth landed on me like a load of bricks that I, the runt who had never grown up, was now responsible for the lives of four people. At the time my orders seemed not only logical but necessary and feasible: Jacob would guard me, Zebbie would guard Deety, our men would guard each other.

  There was a flaw. I did not realize that my edict required: a) one rifleman always to be at the car; b) both men to be away from the car from time to time.

  Since this is not possible I amended it: When the men had to answer calls of nature, we women would lock ourselves in. I didn’t know that this planet had anything more dangerous than Alice’s Bread-and-Butter Fly. But that was the point: I didn’t know and until I did, I must assume that something as dangerous as a tiger lurked behind every bush.

  Heavens! the bush might be carnivorous.

  I was learning, with breath-snatching speed, something that most people never learn: A commanding officer’s “unlimited” authority isn’t freedom; it’s a straitjacket. She can’t do as she pleases; she never can—because every minute, awake and asleep, she must protect those under her command.

  She can’t take any avoidable risk herself; her life does not belong to her; it belongs to her command.

  When the captaincy was thrust on me, I decided that we would stay where we were until Gay Deceiver was reorganized so that all four of us could sleep comfortably and safely—no swollen ankles.

  Sharpie hadn’t thought of this; Captain Hilda Burroughs thought of it at once. Captain Zebbie had thought of it when we first grounded, then had let himself be overruled.

  I knew that I could rearrange the car to let us all sleep behind locked doors. But it would take time, sweat, and muscles, and I had just proclaimed an order that would take one or both sets of big muscles off the job for…how many times a day? Four people? Such needs can’t be hurried. I had a horrid suspicion that having someone standing over you with a rifle, even your nearest and dearest, might cause a healthy reflex to fail.

  What to do?

  Cancel the order?

  No!

  Cancel if a better scheme turned up. But don’t cancel without finding something better. This was a pretty spot, but there still might be that “banth.” Or bandersnatch. Or boojum. Especially a boojum. What if Zebbie should wander off that distance dictated by modesty and/or relaxation of nerves…and “softly and silently vanish away”?

  And it was Zebbie I was having trouble with—Zebbie, who wasn’t going to give the new captain any back talk whatsoever. “Cap’n Hilda honey, I don’t need a chaperon, honest. I’ll carry my rifle and guard myself. No problem. Safety off and a cartridge under the firing pin. Promise.”

  “Zebbie, I am not asking you, I am telling you.”

  “But I don’t like to leave you girls unguarded!”

  “Chief Pilot.”

  “Ma’am. Captain.”

  “I am not a girl. I am eleven years your senior.”

  “I simply meant—”

  “Pipe down!”

  The poor dear’s ears turned red but he shut up. I said, “Astrogator!”

  “Huh? Yes, Captain Auntie.”

  “Can you use a rifle?”

  “Oh, sure, Pop made me learn. But I don’t like a rifle; I like my shotgun.”

  “Take the Chief Pilot’s rifle and guard the camp—”

  “Look, I can do it better with my shotgun.”

  “Pipe down and carry out your orders.”

  Deety looked startled, trotted over to Zebbie, who surrendered his rifle without comment, face frozen. “Copilot,” I said to my husband, “arm yourself with rifle and pistol, go with the Chief Pilot, guard him while he does what he has to do.”

  Zebbie swallowed. “Sharpie—I mean ‘Captain Sharpie.’ It won’t be necessary. The golden moment has passed. All this talk.”

  “Chief Pilot, please refrain from using my nickname while I am your commanding officer. Copilot, carry out your orders. Remain with the Chief Pilot and guard him continuously as long as necessary to accomplish the purpose of the trip.” (If Zebbie meant “constipation”—an emotional to-do can have that effect—I would act later in my capacity as “medical officer”—and it would not take four husky orderlies to make Zebbie hold still. The authority of a commanding officer almost never requires force. Odd but true—I wondered how I knew that.)

  Once our men were out of earshot, I said, “Deety, could I learn to shoot that rifle?”

  “I’m not sure I’m speaking to you. You humiliated my husband…when we all owe him so much.”

  “Astrogator!”

  Deety’s eyes got wide. “Good God—it’s gone to your head!”

  “Astrogator.”

  “Uh…yes, Captain.”

  “You will refrain from personal remarks to me or about me during my tenure as commanding officer. Acknowledge that order, then log it.”

  Deety’s face assumed the expression that means that she has shut out the world. “Aye aye, Captain. Gay Deceiver!”

  “Hello, Deety!”

  “Log mode. The Captain has ordered the Astrogator to refrain from personal remarks to her or about her during her tenure as commanding officer. I acknowledge receipt of order and will comply. Log date, time, and Bingo code. I tell you three times.”

  “Deety, I hear you three times.”

  “Back to sleep, Gay.”

  “Roger and out.”

  Deety turned to me, face and voice normal again. “Captain, I can teach you to shoot in such a way that you won’t get a sore shoulder or be knocked down. But to become a good shot with a rifle takes a long time. My shotgun doesn’t kick as hard…and you won’t need skill.”

  “I thought a shotgun was more difficult.”

  “Depends. A shotgun is usually for surprise targets in the air. That takes skill. But for a stationary target—within range—it’s about like a garden hose. The shot spreads in a cone. So easy that it’s not sporting.”

  “‘Not sporting’ suits me. Will you show me how? What kind of target do we need?”

  “It ought to be a large sheet of paper to show how the shot spreads. But, Captain, you know what will happen if I fire a gun?”

  “What?”

  “We will have two men back here at a dead run—one of them trying to dress as he runs. I don’t think he’ll be pleased.”

  “Meaning I shouldn’t get Zebbie angry twice in ten minutes.”

  “It might be your husband. Stands to reason that they’ll both take care of needs before returning. If I fire a shot, I’d better have a dead body to show for it, or one or the other will blow his top. Or both.”

  “Both! Thanks, Deety—I didn’t think it through.”

  “But also, the Captain will recall that she ordered me to guard camp. I can’t teach shooting at the same time.”

  (Sharpie, can’t you do anything right?) “No, of course you can’t! Deety, I’m off to a bad start. All of you annoyed at me and one, maybe two, really angry.”

  “Does the Captain expect me to comment?”

  “Deety, can’t you call me ‘Aunt Hilda’?” I wasn’t crying—I’ve trained myself not to. But I needed to. “Yes, I want your comment.”

  “Captain Aunt Hilda, I need to call you by your title to keep myself reminded that you are captain. Since you ordered me to refrain from personal remarks to you or about you, I needed a second order before I could comment.”

  “As bad as that? Don’t spare me but make it quick.”

  “The Captain hasn’t done badly.”

  “I haven’t? Deety, don’t fib to Hilda; you never used to.”

  “And I’m not going to now. Captain, I think you are off to a good start.”

  “But you said it had gone to my head!”

  “I was wrong. I realized how wrong when I was logging your order to me. What I said was worse than anything I said to Zebadiah while he was captain—he required me to r
eview in my mind all the things I’ve said…and at least twice he should have given me a fat lip”—Deety smiled grimly—“’cept that Zebadiah couldn’t bring himself to strike a woman even if she weren’t pregnant. Captain—Captain Aunt Hilda honey—Zebadiah didn’t crack down on us when he should have. He turned over to you a gang of rugged individualists, not one with any concept of discipline. I certainly had none. But I do now.”

  “I’m not sure that I do,” I said miserably.

  “It means obeying orders you don’t like and strongly disagree with—with no back talk. ‘Into the jaws of death rode the six hundred.’ Zebadiah would not do that to us…but he did let us annoy him into testing my new Bug-Out program. He had told me that the test was a useless risk; I should have agreed because it was useless. Instead I gave him a snooty ‘No comment,’ and you were as bad and Pop was worse. Mmm… I don’t think Zebadiah has had much experience as a commanding officer.”

  “Why so, Deety? He is a captain.”

  “That doesn’t mean that he has ever been a commanding officer. He has soloed quite a lot, in fighters. He has logged control time in larger craft or he wouldn’t hold a command pilot rating. But has he ever actually commanded? Nothing he has said to me indicated it…but he did tell me that before the last war a major was often captain of an air-and-space craft but now it almost always took a lieutenant colonel while majors wound up as copilots. He was explaining why he liked one-man fighters so well. Aunt Hilda—Captain—I think commanding was as new to Zebadiah as it is to you. Like sex, or having a baby, you can’t understand it till you’ve tried it.” She suddenly grinned. “So don’t hold Zebadiah’s mistakes against him.”

  “What mistakes? He’s saved our lives again and again. I don’t blame him—now—for wanting a rest from commanding. Deety, it’s the hardest work possible even if you don’t lift a finger. I never suspected it. I don’t expect to sleep a wink tonight.”

  “We’ll guard you!”

  “No.”

  “Yes, we will!”

  “Pipe down.”

  “Sorry, Ma’am.”

  “What mistakes did Zebbie make?”

  “Well…he didn’t crack down. You wasted no time in letting us know who is boss. You didn’t let us argue; you slapped us down at once. I hate to say this but I think you have more talent for command than Zebadiah has.”