The Number of the Beast

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “Roger Wilco.”

  “If-when one hundred klicks H-above-G, alert me.”

  “Roger Wilco.”

  “If-when air drag exceeds zero, alert me.”

  “Roger Wilco.”

  “Remain in piloting mode. Ignore voices including program code words until you are called by your full name. Acknowledge by reporting your full name.”

  “‘Gay Deceiver,’” answered Gay Deceiver.

  “Is that okay, Captain? Smart Girl can’t hear the short-form programs now, until she hears her full name first. Then you would still have to say ‘Gay’ to alert her, and ‘Home’ or whatever to scram. But there should be loads of time, as she’ll tell me if anything starts to go wrong. You heard her.”

  “That’s fine, Astrogator.”

  “I turned her ears off because there may be discussion in which you might not want to have to be careful to use code words…but still be able to put her ears back fast if you need them. Faster than the switch and besides the switch can be reached only from the left front seat.”

  Deety had a touch of nervous chattering; I understood the reasons for each step. And I understood why she was chattering.

  “Well done. Thank you. Remain at the conn. Chief Pilot, Copilot, the Second-in-Command has the conn. I am going aft and do not wish to be disturbed.” I lowered my voice, spoke directly to Deety. “You are free to call me. You only.”

  “Aye aye, Captain,” Deety acknowledged quietly. “I must remind you: air for four hours only.”

  “If I fall asleep, call me in three hours.” I kissed her quickly, floated out of my chair and started to undog the bulkhead door—got nowhere; Deety had to help me. Deety flipped a light switch for me. She closed me in and dogged one dog.

  I got a blanket out of the cradle, took off my clothes, tried to wrap myself in the blanket. It kept slithering away.

  No seat belts—But the web straps used to make a bedroll of Zebbie’s sleeping bag were attached through loops and tucked under thingammies. Soon I had a belt across my waist and the blanket around me.

  Being a runt, the only way I can fight is with words. But best for me is to walk away. Fight with Jacob? I was so angry I wanted to slap him! But I never slap anyone; a woman who takes advantage of her size and sex to slap a man is herself no gentleman. So I walked away—got out of there before I said something that would tear it—lose me my lovable, cuddly, thoughtful—and sometimes unbearable!—husband.

  I wept in my pillow—no pillow and no Kleenex. After a while I slept.

  XXV

  “—leave bad enough alone!”

  Deety:

  After I helped Aunt Hilda with the bulkhead door, I got back into my seat—and said nothing. If I opened my mouth, I would say too much. I love Pop a heap, and respect him as a mathematician.

  Pop is also one of the most selfish people I’ve ever known.

  Doesn’t mean he’s tight with money; he isn’t. Doesn’t mean he wouldn’t share his last crust of bread—he would. With a stranger.

  But if he doesn’t want to do something, he won’t. When Jane died, I had to take over money management at once. At seventeen. Because Pop ignored it. It was all I could do to get him to sign his name.

  I was bucking for my doctorate. Pop seemed to think that I should cook, clean house, shop, keep financial records, manage our businesses, cope with taxes—and earn my doctorate simultaneously.

  Once I let dishes stack to see how long it would take him to notice. About two weeks later he said, “Deety, aren’t you ever going to do the dishes?”

  I answered, “No, sir.”

  “Eh? Why not?”

  “I don’t have time.”

  He looked puzzled. “Jane didn’t seem to find keeping house difficult. Is something wrong, dear?”

  “Pop, Mama wasn’t bucking for a doctorate against a committee of dunderheads. My research subject was approved two years ago…but I’ve got men judging me—four out of seven—who can’t tell Fortran from Serutan, hate computers, and have dark fears that computer scientists are going to take their jobs away from them. They make me do work over because they don’t understand it. And besides—Well, Mama Jane always had help, mine, and a housekeeper toward the end.”

  Pop is okay. He hired a housekeeper who stuck with us till I got my Ph.D. He investigated, discovered that the head of the department had put men on my committee who knew nothing about computers—not on purpose; the department head did not know computers. I wound up with an even tougher committee but they knew computers. Fair enough.

  Pop means to be good to me and he adores Aunt Hilda and means to pamper her. Pop is one of those men who sincerely believe in Women’s Lib, always support it—but so deep down that they aren’t aware of it, their emotions tell them that women never get over being children.

  A mistake easy to make with Aunt Hilda—There are twelve-year-old girls bigger than she is and with more curves.

  For a horrid time, we three said nothing. Zebadiah watched his instruments; Pop stared straight ahead.

  At last my husband gave my father the chewing out that Pop would never have taken from me, “Jake. Tell me how you do it.”

  “Eh?”

  “You’re a genius. You aren’t the absent-minded sort who needs a boy to lead him around. You can hammer a nail with the best of them and can use power tools without chopping your fingers. You’re good company and you managed to attract one of the three finest women I’ve ever known so much that she married you. Yet you have publicly insulted her twice in one day. Twice. Tell me: Do you have to study to be that stupid? Or is it a gift, like your genius for mathematics?”

  Pop covered his face with his hands. Zebadiah shut up.

  I could see Pop’s shoulders shake. Presently his sobbing stopped. He wiped his eyes, unfastened his seat belt. When I realized he was heading for the bulkhead door, I unstrapped fast and placed myself in his way. He said, “Please move out of my way, Deety.”

  “Copilot, return to your seat.”

  “But, Daughter, you can’t come between husband and wife!”

  “Address me as ‘Astrogator.’ The Captain does not wish to be disturbed. Gay Deceiver!”

  “Here, Deety!”

  “Log mode. Copilot, I will not permit you to disobey the Captain’s orders. Return to your seat, strap down—and stay there!”

  “Or would you rather be placed in it?” Zebadiah growled. “With your arms strapped under the belts, and the buckles where you can’t reach them.”

  “Chief Pilot, do not intervene unless I call on you. Copilot, move!”

  Pop turned in the air, almost kicking me in the face and unaware of it. He was speaking through sobs. “But I must apologize to Hilda! Can’t you understand that?” But he was getting back into his seat.

  “Jake, you’ll be a worse damn’ fool if you do.”

  “What? Zeb, you can’t mean that.”

  “I do mean it. You apologized once today. Hypocrisy, as Sharpie realizes. Jake, your only chance of staying married is to shut up and soldier; your word is no longer worth a fiat dollar. But if you behave yourself for four or five years, she might forget it. Correction: forgive it. She’ll never forget it. Establish a long record of good behavior and she might allow you some minor faults. But don’t ever hint that she is not as competent as any man. Sure, she’d be picked last for a tug-o’-war team, and she has to stand on a stool to reach a high shelf—does that affect her brain? Hell’s bells, if size mattered, I would be the supergenius around here—not you. Or perhaps you think being able to grow a beard confers wisdom? Jake, leave bad enough alone! Mess with it, you’ll make it worse.”

  Time for a diversion: Pop must not be given a chance to answer. If Pop started defending himself, he would wind up self-righteous. The ability of the male mind to rationalize its deeds—and misdeeds—cannot be measured.

  (And some female minds. But we females have more wild animal in us; mostly we don’t feel any need to justify ourselves. We just do it
, whatever it is, because we want to. Is there ever any other reason?)

  “Gentlemen,” I added, close on Zebadiah’s last remark before Pop could attempt rebuttal, “speaking of beards, you each have a three-day growth. If we are about to ask sanctuary, shouldn’t we be neat? I’m going to comb my hair and dig the dirt out from under my nails, and—Glory be!—I’ve got one spandy-clean jump suit. In light green, Zebadiah; matches your pilot suits. Got a clean one, dear?”

  “I believe so.”

  “I know so; I packed it when Aunt Hilda and I rearranged inventory. Pop, your light green jump suit is clean. That one you are wearing has wrinkles in the wrinkles and a big soup spot. We three will look as if we were in uniform. Aunt Hilda won’t but the captain-and-owner of a yacht doesn’t dress like her crew.”

  “‘Owner’?” said Pop.

  “‘“Owner,”’” Zebadiah said firmly. “We pooled our resources. Sharpie is captain; she’ll stand as owner for all of us. Simpler.”

  “She cautioned us not to tell lies, Zeb.” (Pop sounded normal—his usual argumentative self.)

  “No lie. But if she finds it necessary to lie for us, we back her up. Come on, Jake, let’s put on our squeakin’ shoes; the Captain might decide to land any orbit. How long are these orbits, Deety?”

  “One hundred minutes, plus a bit. But Gay could ground us from the far side in five minutes if the Captain asked for it.”

  “So let’s get shipshape and Bristol style. Deety, will you keep an eye on the board while Jake and I shave?”

  Pop said, “I’m sorry but I can’t shave until the Captain joins us. My gear is aft.”

  “Jake, use mine. Glove compartment. Remington okay?” My husband added, “You first; I want to read the news.”

  “The ‘news’?”

  “Smart Girl has been sampling all frequencies, AM and FM, twice a second. If there is pattern, she copies.”

  “But Deet—The Astrogator switched off the autopilot’s ears.”

  “Jake, you just flunked Physics One-Oh-One. Deety told S.G. to shut off audio. I had in mind the electromagnetic spectrum. You’ve heard of it?”

  Pop chuckled. “Touché! That makes us even for the one you pulled while we were calibrating.”

  (I heaved a sigh of relief. I had not been trying to save Pop’s marriage—that’s his problem. Even my own marriage was secondary; I was trying to save the team, and so was Zebadiah. We were two marriages and that is important—but most important we were a survival team and either we worked together smoothly or none would live through it.)

  While Pop shaved and Zebadiah read the news, I cleaned my nails. If I clean them before each meal and again at bedtime, they are dirty only in between—dirt likes me. Mama Jane told me that centuries ago, while ouching my hair for school—not a criticism; a statement of fact.

  The men swapped headset for shaver and I combed my hair and pinned it into place—no longer an “ouch” job as I keep it short, ringlets rather than curls. Men like it long—but caring for long hair is a career in itself, and I’ve been pushed for time since I was twelve.

  Zebadiah stopped to feel his chin—so I deduced as the buzzing stopped. I asked, “What did Smart Girl have to say?”

  “Not much. Le’me finish this. BBC Third Program mostly.”

  “From London?” He had resumed shaving and couldn’t hear me.

  Zebadiah finished shaving and passed his shaver to Pop, who stowed it, then took off the headset and handed it back. Zebadiah racked and secured it. I was about to ask for it, when I heard Aunt Hilda’s sweet voice:

  “Hello, everyone! What did I miss?”

  “Halley’s Comet.”

  “Halley’s—Zebbie, you’re a tease. Jacob—Oh! You shaved! How very nice! Hold still, my darling; you’re going to be kissed, ready or not.”

  A kiss in free fall is interesting to watch when one participant is safety-belted and the other half is floating free. Hilda held Pop’s cheeks, he had her head in his hands, and Aunt Hilda drifted like a flag in a breeze. She was dressed but barefooted; I was intrigued when she curled her toes, hard. Was Pop that good?—my cubical father, so I had thought until recently. Did Jane teach him? Or—Shut up, Deety, you’re a voyeuse with a nasty curiosity.

  They broke and Hilda floated between the pilot seats, a hand on each, and looked at the board. My husband said—to her, not to me—“Don’t I get a kiss? It was my razor.”

  Aunt Hilda hesitated. Pop said, “Kiss him, beloved, or he’ll sulk.” So she did. It occurs to me that Aunt Hilda may have taught Zebadiah and that Mama Jane and Aunt Hilda may have been trained by the same coach before Pop came along—if so, who was my Unknown Benefactor?

  “Not a whole lot,” Zebadiah was saying. “Mostly tapes from BBC. Five minutes of news from Windsor City—which may be the city we bingoed—as exciting as local news from any town you’ve never been in. Chatter in Russian. The Smart Girl saved that for you.”

  “I’ll listen to it. But I must learn something. I was tempery a while ago, but a nap fixed me up and now I am filled with sweetness and light. I must have a report from each of you. We all have had cumulative fatigue. It is now bedtime at Termite Terrace but about lunchtime in Windsor City if that is its name. We can go back to our stream or we can tackle the British. I am not taking a vote; I shall decide and I have a way to take care of anyone who is tired. But I insist on honest data. Deety?”

  “Captain Auntie, sleep is never my problem.”

  “Zebbie?”

  “I was a zombie. Until you recharged me. Now I’m rarin’ to go!”

  She mussed his hair. “Zebbie, quit teasing.”

  “Captain, on an earlier occasion I told you the facts: My alert time exceeds twenty-four hours. Forty-eight if I must. If that kiss did not stimulate you as much as it did me, let’s try it again and find out what went wrong.”

  Aunt Hilda turned away abruptly. “Jacob dear, how do you feel? With the time difference this may be equivalent to staying up all night, possibly under great tension.”

  “Hilda my love, were we to return to our streamside, I would not sleep, knowing that this contact was coming. A night without sleep does not strain me.”

  “Pop’s not exaggerating, Captain Auntie. I get my night-owl capacity from Pop.”

  “Very well. But I have a method of taking care of anyone who may have exaggerated. I can leave one person aboard as guard.”

  “Captain, this wagon does not need a guard.”

  “Chief Pilot, I was offering sleep—under pretext of guarding. Car locked and sleep where I just napped—outsiders would not know. Anyone? Speak up.”

  (I wouldn’t have missed it for a Persian kitten! Did Hilda expect anyone to stay behind? I don’t think so.)

  “Very well. No firearms. Gentlemen, please hide your pistols and belts with the guns, aft. Zebbie, is there a way to lock that door in addition to dogging it?”

  “Sure. Tell Gay. May I ask why? No one can break into the cabin without damaging the old girl so much that she won’t lift.”

  “Conceded, Zebbie. But I will be bringing visitors into this space. If anyone is brash enough to ask to be shown beyond the bulkhead door, I shall tell him that is my private compartment.” Aunt Hilda grinned wickedly. “If he persists, I’ll freeze his ears. What’s the program for locking and unlocking it?”

  “Very complicated. Tell her, ‘Lock the bulkhead door,’ or ‘Unlock the bulkhead door.’ Concealed solenoids. If the car is cold, the bolts drop back.”

  “Goodness, you were thorough.”

  “No, Ma’am. The Aussies were. But it turns out to be convenient for things we wouldn’t like to lose. Cap’n, I don’t trust banks any more than I trust governments, so I carry my safety deposit vault with me.”

  “If you cut the trickle charge, it unlocks?” Pop asked.

  “Jake, I knew you would spot that. An accumulator across the solenoids, floating. Shut down the car and the solenoids work for another month…unless you open a switch in an odd
location. Anyone want to know where it is?—what you don’t know, you can’t tell.”

  He got no takers. Instead I said, “Captain, is a fléchette gun a ‘firearm’?”

  “Hmm—Will it fit into a zippered compartment in your purse?”

  “It fits into a concealed zipper compartment.”

  “Keep it with you. No swords, gentlemen, as well as no firearms; we are a civilian party. One thing we should carry: those miniature walky-talkies, Deety and I in our purses, you gentlemen in your pockets. If they are noticed, tell the truth: a means of keeping our party in touch.”

  Aunt Hilda suddenly looked stern. “This next order should be in writing. Please understand that there are no exceptions, no special circumstances, no variations left to individual judgment. I require Roger-Wilcoes from each of you or we do not ground. This party does not separate. Not for thirty seconds. Not for ten seconds. Not at all.”

  “Will the Captain entertain a question?”

  “Certainly, Zebbie.”

  “Washrooms. Restrooms. Bathrooms. If these British behave like their analogs, such facilities are segregated.”

  “Zebbie, all I can say to that is that I will look for a way to cope. But we stay together until I—until I, the Captain—decide that it is safe to ease the rule. In the meantime—We should use that unpopular honey bucket before we ground…then, if necessary, return to the car, together, to use it later. That’s not subject to discussion. Once we are on the ground, you three, acting unanimously, can hold a bloodless mutiny over this order or any”—Aunt Hilda looked directly at her husband—“and I will let myself be kicked out without a word…out of office as captain, out of the car, out of the party. Remain here, on Mars-ten, with the British if they will have me. No more questions. No further discussion by me or among yourselves. Astrogator.”

  “Roger Wilco!”

  “Thank you. Please state it in the long form.”

  “I understand the Captain’s order and will comply exactly with no mental reservations.”