The Number of the Beast

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “So do you, Zebbie. I’m still Sharpie till we get to your car.” We reached the top of the bank. “Ten seconds to catch my breath. Zebbie—”

  “Yes, Sharpie?”

  “Four years ago—I’m sorry I turned away your pass.”

  He patted my bottom. “So am I, dear. But it has worked out quite well. And”—he grinned that irresistible, ugly grin—“who knows?—we aren’t dead yet.”

  When we arrived, Jacob was slurping soup. “You’re late,” he stated. “So we waited.”

  “So I see.”

  “Don’t listen to Pop, Captain Auntie; you are two minutes seventeen seconds ahead of time. Are you sure you stayed in long enough to get clean?”

  “I stayed in long enough to get freezing cold. Aren’t you chilly?” Deety had worn skin most of the day and so had I; we had been doing sweaty work. But she had been dressed when I last saw her. “Jacob, is there no soup for Zebbie and me?”

  “A smidgen. You get this pan as soon as I’m through—now!—and that means one less dish to wash.”

  “And Zebadiah gets mine—also now—and I took that jump suit off because it’s dirty and I’m clean. I still haven’t figured out how to do a laundry. Nothing for a tub, no way to heat water. What’s that other way? Pound them on a rock the way it shows in National Geographic? I don’t believe it!”

  We were in bed by sundown, Gay’s doors locked—pitch dark in minutes. According to Deety and Gay sunrise was ten hours and forty-three minutes away. “Deety, please tell Gay to wake us at sunrise.”

  “Aye aye, Captain Auntie.”

  “Zebbie, you told us that the air in the car was good for about four hours.”

  “In space; The scoops are open now.”

  “But do you get air back there? Should the bulkhead door be open?”

  “Oh. Top scoop serves this space. The cabin is ventilated by the chin scoop. Scoops stay open unless internal pressure closes them.”

  “Can anything get in through them? Snakes or such?”

  “Hilda my dear, you worry too much.”

  “My very own darling Copilot, will you please pipe down while I’m speaking to the Chief Pilot? There are many things about this car that I do not know—yet I am responsible.”

  Zebbie answered, “Each scoop has a grid inside and a fine screen at the inner end; nothing can get in. Have to clean ’em occasionally. Remind me, Deety.”

  “I’ll tell Gay.” She did—and almost at once there was a crash of metal. I sat up abruptly. “What’s that?”

  “Hilda, I am afraid that I have kicked over the supper dishes.” My husband added, “Zeb, how do I find the cabin light?”

  “No, no! Jacob, don’t try to find it. No light at all until sunrise. Don’t fret about dishes. But what happened? I thought they were under the instrument board.”

  “I couldn’t quite reach with this bed made up. But the carton that supports my feet sticks out beyond the seat cushion on it. So I stacked them there.”

  “No harm done. We can expect bobbles as we shake down.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “We can cope. Jacob, that was an excellent dinner.”

  Deety called out, “Good night, chatterboxes! We want to sleep.” She closed the bulkhead door, dogged it.

  XXIII

  “The farce is over.”

  Jake:

  For me, the best soporific is to hold Hilda in my arms. I slept ten hours.

  I might have slept longer had I not been blasted by a bugle call: Reveille.

  I thought I was back in basic, tried to rouse out fast—banged my head. That slowed me; I reoriented, saw my lovely bride beside me, yawning prettily—realized that we were on Mars.

  Mars! Not even our own Mars but another universe.

  That hateful tune started to repeat, louder.

  I banged on the bulkhead. “How do you shut this thing off?”

  Shortly I saw dogs of the bulkhead door turning, then the door swung—as the call went into its third time around still louder. Zeb showed, blinking. “Do you have a problem?”

  I couldn’t hear but I could piece out what he meant.

  “HOW DO YOU SHUT OFF THIS RACKET?”

  “No problem.” (I think that’s what he said.) “Good morning, Gay.”

  The bugle faded into the distance. “Good morning, Boss.”

  “I’m awake.”

  “Ah, but will you stay awake?”

  “I won’t go back to bed. Promise.”

  “I’ve dealt with your sort before, me bucko. If you aren’t out of here before my landlady wakes up, I’ll lose this room. Then another hassle with the cops. It’s not worth it…you cheapskate!”

  “You’re a smart girl, Gay.”

  “So smart I’m looking for another job.”

  “Back to sleep, Gay. Over.”

  “Roger and out, Boss”—and blessed silence.

  I said to my daughter, “Deety, how could you do this to us?”

  Her husband answered. “Deety didn’t, Jake. She was told to place a call for sunrise. But didn’t know what a morning call means to Gay.”

  I grumped, and opened the starboard door. Hilda’s rearrangements had given me the best rest I had had in days. But two double beds in a sports car left no room on arising to do anything but get out.

  So I slid out the door, groped for the step, paused to ask Hilda for shoes and coverall—caught sight of something and said quietly, “Hilda. My rifle. Quickly!”

  My little treasure is always reliable in emergency; her clowning is simply persona. (A most pleasant one; the worst aspect of the jest of making her “captain” was that she lost her smile—I hoped that Zeb would soon resume command. We had needed the lesson—but no need to go on.)

  I digress—I asked for my rifle; she whispered, “Roger,” and had it in my hand at once with the quiet report: “Locked, one in the chamber. Wait—I’m getting Zeb.”

  That made sense. By staying on the step in the corner formed by door and car, my rear was safe and I need cover only a small sector. I prefer a bolt action—correction: I have a bolt-action rifle I inherited from my father’s eldest brother, who had “liberated” it on leaving the Marine Corps.

  I unlocked it, opened the bolt slightly, saw that a cartridge was in the chamber, closed the bolt, left the piece unlocked.

  Zeb said at my ear, softly, “What’s the excitement?”

  “Over there.” I pulled my head out of the way, saw Hilda and Deety almost on top of Zeb—Hilda with Deety’s shotgun, Deety with her husband’s police special.

  Zeb said, “Pixies. They may still be around; let’s check. Cover me from here?”

  “No, Zeb. You to the right, me to the left, we check the port side, meet back at the dump. Make it fast.”

  “Say the word.” Zeb said over his shoulder, “You girls stay in the car. Jake?”

  “Now!” We came bursting out like greyhounds, guns at high port. The reason for my disquiet was simple: The dump of wrappings and cartons was no longer a heap. Something had spread it over many meters, and the litter was not nearly enough to account for the pile. Wind? Zeb had left the wings extended; the slightest wind would wake him, warn him of change in weather. The car had not rocked in the night; ergo, no wind. Ergo, nocturnal visitors. Nor were they small.

  I rounded the car to the left, seeing nothing until I spotted Zeb—waved at him, started back around to join him at the dump.

  He arrived before I did. “I told you girls to stay in the car!” He was quite angry, and the cause, both of them, were also at the dump.

  My darling answered, “Chief Pilot.”

  Zeb said, “Huh? Sharpie, there’s no time for that; there’s something dangerous around! You girls get inside before I—”

  “Pipe DOWN!”

  One would not believe that so small a body could produce such a blast. It caught Zeb mouth open and jammed his words down his throat.

  Hilda did not give him opportunity to answer. She continued, forcefully:
“Chief Pilot, there are no ‘girls’ here; there are four adult humans. One of them is my second-in-command and executive officer. My executive officer; I am in command.” Hilda looked at my daughter. “Astrogator, did you tell anyone to remain in the car?”

  “No, Captain.” Deety was wearing her “Name, rank, and serial number” face.

  “Nor did I.” Hilda looked at Zeb. “There is no need to discuss it.” She stirred litter with a toe. “I had hoped that we could find salvage. But three fourths of it has been eaten. By large animals from those tooth marks. I would have trouble visualizing a large animal that eats cellulose but is nevertheless carnivorous—save that I know one. So we will get as much done as possible while keeping a tight guard. I have the program planned but I’m open to advice.”

  “Hilda!” I let my tone get a bit sharp.

  My wife looked around with features as impassive as those of my daughter. “Copilot, are you addressing me officially or socially?”

  “Uh…as your husband! I must put my foot down! Hilda, you don’t realize the situation. We’ll lift as soon as possible—and Zeb will be in command. The farce is over.”

  I hated to speak to my beloved that way but sometimes one must. I braced myself for a blast.

  None came. Hilda turned to Zeb and said quietly, “Chief Pilot, was my election a farce?”

  “No, Captain.”

  “Astrogator, did you think of it as farce?”

  “Me? Heavens, no, Captain Auntie!”

  Hilda looked at me. “Jacob, from the balloting you voted for me at least once, possibly three times. Were you joking?”

  I could not remember how I had felt when it dawned on me that Zeb really did intend to resign—panic, I think, that I was about to be stuck with the job. That was now irrelevant as I knew that I was not more than one micron from again being a bachelor…so I resorted to Higher Truth.

  “No, no, my darling—my darling Captain! I was dead serious!”

  “Did you find some malfeasance?”

  “What? No! I—I made a mistake. Jumped to conclusions. I assumed that we would be leaving at once…and that Zeb would command once we lifted. After all, it’s his car.”

  Hilda gave me the briefest smile. “There is something to that last argument. Zebbie, did you intend—”

  “Wait a half! Cap’n, that car belongs to all of us just like Jake’s Milky Way bars; we pooled resources.”

  “So I have heard you all say. Since I had nothing to pool but a fur cape, I took it with a grain of salt. Zebbie, do you intend to resume command when we lift?”

  “Captain, the only way you can quit is by resigning…whereupon Deety would be captain.”

  “No, sirree!” (My daughter is not often that shrill.)

  “Then Jake would wind up holding the sack. Captain, I’ll pilot when ordered, chop wood and carry water between times. But I didn’t sign up to boss a madhouse. I think you’re finding out what I mean.”

  “I think so, too, Zebbie. You thought there was an emergency and started giving orders. I would not want that to happen in a real emergency—”

  “It won’t! Captain.”

  “And I find to my chagrin that my husband considers me to be a play captain. I think I must ask for a vote of confidence. Will you please find something to use as white and black balls?”

  “Captain Auntie!”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “I am required to advise you. A commanding officer commands; she doesn’t ask for votes. You can resign—or—die—or lose to a mutiny and get hanged from your own yardarm. But if you take a vote, you’re not a captain; you’re a politician.”

  “Deety’s right, Captain,” Zeb told my wife. “Had a case-law case in R.O.T.C. Naval vessel. Department told the skipper to pick one of two ports for holidays. He let his crew vote on it. Word got back to Washington and he was relieved at sea by his second-in-command and never again ordered to sea. C.O.’s don’t ask; they tell ’em. However, if it matters to you, I’m sorry I goofed, and you do enjoy my confidence.”

  “Mine, too!”

  “And mine, Hilda my dear Captain!” (In truth I wanted Zeb and only Zeb to command when the car was off the ground. But I made myself a solemn vow never again to say or do anything that might cause Hilda to suspect it. We would crash and die together rather than let her suspect that I thought her other than the ideal commanding officer.)

  Hilda said, “The incident is closed. Who can’t wait? Speak up.”

  I hesitated—my bladder is not used to bedtime right after dinner. When no one else spoke, I said, “Perhaps I had better be first; I have breakfast to prepare.”

  “Dear, you are not First Cook today; Zebbie is. Deety, grab a rifle and take your father to his ‘handy bush’—and do make it handy; that giant termite might be lurking. Then hand Jacob the rifle and it’s your turn. Don’t dally.”

  It was a busy day. Water tanks had to be topped off. Zeb and I used two collapsible buckets, taking turns (that hill got steeper every trip, even at 0.38 gee), while Deety guarded us. Endless trips—

  That afternoon I was a ladies’ tailor. Hilda had something for Deety to do; Zeb had a job to complete. The space behind the bulkhead has padeyes every 30 cms or so. No one wants the center of gravity to shift when one is in the air. Zeb’s arrangements were Samson cord in many lengths with snap hooks. Zeb told Hilda he wanted to secure the bed aft for air or space, and to store items used in rigging the forward bed so that they would be secure but available—and where were his Samson ties?—Gay didn’t know. He had to explain to Hilda what they looked like—whereupon Hilda said, “Oh! Thingammies! Gay Deceiver. Inventory. Incidentals. Small. Thingammies.” Zeb spent the afternoon making certain that the “bed” could not slide, then built a net of Samson cord to hold the items for turning seats into a bed, then, finding that he had Samson ties left, Zeb removed the wires with which I had secured the aftermost storage, and replaced them with ties. When he was through, he relieved me as guard, and I wound up as seamstress.

  Our wives had decided that one of Deety’s jump suits should be altered for Hilda until we reached some place where clothes could be purchased. Hilda had vetoed Earth-without-a-J. “Jacob, as captain I look at things from another perspective. It is better to be a lively frump than a stylish corpse. Wups! You pinned Sharpie.”

  “Thorry,” I said, around a mouthful of pins. Hilda was wearing the suit inside out; I was pinning excess material. Once this caused it to fit, lines held by pins would be tacked, pins removed, tacked lines sewed in short stitches (by hand; Deety’s sewing machine was ashes in another universe), and excess cloth trimmed away.

  Such was theory.

  I tackled reducing the waist line by pinning darts on both sides. Then I folded up the trousers so that the crease came at the instep—but had to pin them up 17 cms!

  Seventeen centimeters! I had taken in the waist first, knowing that doing so would, in effect, shorten the trousers. It did—one centimeter.

  The appearance was as if I were trying to fit her with a chimpanzee suit for a masquerade. Lift it at the shoulders? I tried, almost cutting off circulation. Still a horrid case of droopy drawers—

  Take a tuck all the way around the waist? That suit closed with one zipper. Have you ever tried to take a tuck in a zipper?

  I stepped back and looked at my creative artistry.

  Ghastly.

  “Hilda my love, Deety was better at this by the age of ten. Shall I fetch her?”

  “No, no!”

  “Yes, yes. If at first you don’t succeed, find the mistake. I’m the mistake. You need Deety.”

  “No, Jacob. It would be better for me to get along without clothes than to interrupt the work I have assigned to the Astrogator. With you at the verniers and Zebbie at the controls, Gay can do almost anything and quickly. Yes?”

  “I wouldn’t phrase it that way. But I understand you.”

  “If she’s been preprogrammed, she can do it even faster?”

  “Certain
ly. Why the quiz, dear?”

  “How much faster?”

  “Without preprogramming, it takes a few seconds to acknowledge and set it, about as long to check what I’ve done, then I report ‘Set!’ Zeb says ‘Execute!’ I punch the button. Five to fifteen seconds. With a preprogram—is it debugged in all ways, no conflicts, no ambiguities, no sounds easy to confuse?”

  “Darling, that is why I won’t let Deety be disturbed. Yes.”

  “So. Maximum time would be with Gay asleep. Wake her, she acknowledges, you state the preprogram in the exact words in her memory, then say ‘Execute!’ Call it three seconds. Minimum—That would be an emergency preprogram with ‘Execute’ included in the code word. My dear, we saw minimum time yesterday. When that Russian tried to shoot Zeb.”

  “Jacob, that is what caused me to put Deety to work. I saw his pistol in the air. His fingers were curled to catch it. Then we were in the sky. How long?”

  “I saw him start to reverse his weapon, and bent over my verniers to bounce us by switch…then stopped. Not needed. Mmm—A tenth of a second? A fifth?”

  “Whichever, it is the fastest we can manage. While you dears were carrying water, I was preparing a list of preprograms. Some are to save juice or time or to carry out something we do frequently; those require ‘Execute!’ Some are intended to save our lives and don’t require ‘Execute.’ Like ‘Bounce’ and ‘Bug Out’ and ‘Take us home!’ But more. Jacob, I did not tell Deety how to phrase these; that’s her specialty. I wrote out what I thought we ought to be able to do and told her to add any she wished.”

  “Did you consult Zeb?”

  “Copilot, the Captain did not consult the Chief Pilot.”

  “Whew! I beg your pardon—Captain.”

  “Only if I get a kiss—mind the pins! Deety will post a copy on the instrument board. After you and Zebbie read them, I want your advice and his.”

  I gave up on that jump suit. I took out eighty-five or a thousand pins. Hilda was covered with sweat so I invited her to order me to take her down to bathe. She hesitated.