The Number of the Beast

by Robert A. Heinlein

  The sergeants hesitated, then hurried. Shortly they were dragging him away. Presently he came to life, fought them off—sent one chasing back for his cane. The man caught my eye—and winked. I concluded that Brumby was not popular.

  There was now a man standing on the entrance stairs. (Perhaps there had been people nearby earlier—but not after the noise started.) Imperial House had its ground floor with no doors on the front side. The first floor was the main floor and was reached by wide, sweeping stairs. The man near the top was small, dapper, dressed in mufti. As Brumby reached him, Brumby saluted, stopped, and they talked. Brumby’s ramrod stiffness spoke for itself.

  Shortly the smaller man trotted down the long steps, moved quickly toward us, stopped about thirty meters away, and called out, “In the landing craft! Is it safe to come closer?”

  “Certainly,” agreed Hilda.

  “Thank you, Ma’am.” He approached, talking as he walked. “I dare say we should introduce ourselves. I’m Lieutenant General Smythe-Carstairs, the Governor hereabouts. I take it you are Captain Burroughs?”

  “That is correct, Excellency.”

  “Thank you. Although I can’t tell, really, to whom I am speaking. Awkward, is it not, chatting via an announcing system? An open door would be pleasanter, don’t you think? More friendly.”

  “You are right, Excellency. But the Russians gave us so unpleasant, so dangerous, a reception that I am nervous.”

  “Those bounders. They have been making a bit of fuss over you, on the wireless. That was how I recognized your craft—smaller than they claimed but an accurate description—for a Russian. But surely you don’t think that we British wear our shirt tails out? You will receive decent treatment here.”

  “That is pleasing to hear, Excellency. I was tempted to leave. That policeman chap is most unpleasant.”

  “Sorry about that. Sheer mischance that he was first to greet you. Important as this colony is to the Empire, no doubt you have heard that being posted to it is not welcome to some. Not my own case, I asked for it. But some ranks and ratings. Now let’s have that door open, shall we? I dislike to insist but I am in charge here.”

  Hilda looked thoughtful. “Governor General, I can either open the doors or leave. I prefer to stay. But the shocking treatment by the Russians followed by the totally unexpected behavior of your chief constable causes me to worry. I need a guarantee that our party will be permitted to remain together at all times, and a written safe-conduct for us, signed and sealed by you on behalf of H.I.M.”

  “My dear Captain, a captain does not bargain with one who stands in place of and holds the authority of His Imperial Majesty. As a man, and you being a delightful lady, I would be happy to bargain with you endlessly just for the pleasure of your company. But I can’t.”

  “I was not bargaining, Excellency; I was hoping for a boon. Since you will not grant it, I must leave at once.”

  He shook his head. “I cannot permit you to leave as yet.”

  “Gay Bounce. Zebbie, will you try to reach that nice Mr. Bean?”

  Zeb had him shortly. “Leftenant Bean heah.”

  “Captain Burroughs, Leftenant. Our radio chopped off while you were talking. No harm done; the important part got through. We grounded where you told us to, due south of Imperial House.”

  “So that’s what happened? I must admit to feeling relieved.”

  “Is your post of duty in Imperial House?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. On it, rather. We have a small housing on the roof.”

  “Good. I have a message for the Governor General. Will you record?”

  “Oh, certainly.”

  “This is Hilda Burroughs speaking, Master of Spacecraft Gay Deceiver out of Snug Harbor. I am sorry that I had to leave without saying good-bye. But your last statement forced me to take measures to protect my craft and crew.” My darling Hilda cut the mike. “Zebbie, when you have air, glide away from the city.” She continued, “In a small way my responsibilities parallel yours; I cannot bargain concerning the safety of my crew and my craft. I hope that you will reconsider, as I have no stomach for dealing with the Russians—even though they have more to offer us in exchange. I still ask for safe-conduct but now must ask for a still third item in such a document: that all four of us be allowed to leave at will. You have my name. My second-in-command is Doctor D. T. Burroughs Carter, my chief pilot is Doctor Z. J. Carter, my copilot is Doctor Jacob Burroughs. You will have noticed surnames. Doctor Jacob is my husband; the other two are our daughter and her husband. I am Doctor Hilda Corners but I am much prouder of being Mrs. Jacob Burroughs—although at present I must use ‘Captain Hilda Burroughs’ since I am commanding. Sir, while dictating this I have made a decision. I will not make a second attempt to negotiate with Russians. We will wait thirty minutes in the warm hope of hearing from you…then return to Earth, report to our own government, send a detailed complaint to the Tsar of All the Russias, and make a formal report of our attempt here to His Imperial Majesty. Signed Respectfully yours, H. C. Burroughs, Commanding. Leftenant, what are the full names and titles of the Governor General?”

  “Ah, His Excellency Lieutenant General the Right Honourable Herbert Evelyn James Smythe-Carstairs, K.G., V.C., C.B.E., Governor General of the Imperial Realms Beyond the Sky.”

  “Preface it formally, please, and I will wait until oh-nine-hundred hours Greenwich time or thirty-six minutes from now. Mark!”

  “I will add the heading, Captain, and deliver it by hand.”

  After Hilda signed off she said, “I’m going to try to sleep thirty of those thirty-six minutes. Can anyone think of a program that will let all of us nap? This contact is more tiring than I had expected. Jacob, Deety, Zeb—don’t all speak at once.”

  “I can, my dear,” I answered.

  “Yes, Jacob?”

  “Gay Termite.”

  To my mild surprise it was night at our creek bank. To my pleasure my first attempt to maneuver by voice was smoothly successful. My daughter’s ingenuity in constructing voiced programs had left me little to do. While I did not resent it (I’m proud of Deety), nevertheless while sitting as copilot, I sometimes wondered whether anyone remembered that it was my brainchild that moved this chariot. Ah, vanity!

  To my greater pleasure Hilda clapped her hands and looked delighted. “Jacob! How clever of you! How stupid of me! All right, everyone off duty for a half hour ’cept the rule about always two and always a rifle. Gay, alert us in thirty minutes. And please unlock the bulkhead door.”

  “Aunt Hillbilly, are you going to sleep back there?”

  “I had thought of stretching out and inviting Jacob to join me. But the space belongs to you and Zebbie; I was thoughtless.”

  “We aren’t going to sleep. But we had better drag those rifles out of that sack or you won’t sleep. I want to empty the oubliette and stow that pesky plastic potty under the cushion of my seat. Durned if I’ll use it when I have the whole outdoors at hand.”

  “Most certainly—but stay inside Gay’s lights—and do please remind me before we leave. Deety, I’ve so much on my mind that I forget housekeeping details.”

  “Hillbilly, you’re doing swell. I’ll handle housekeeping; you worry about the big picture.”

  Hilda cuddled up to me in the after compartment and my nerves began to relax. Would the Governor General relent? Where would we go next? We had a myriad universes to choose from, a myriad myriad planets—but only one was home and we didn’t dare go there. What about juice for Zeb’s car and a thousand other things? Perhaps we should risk Earth-without-a-J. What about the time bomb, ticking away in my darling’s belly?

  Hilda sniffed into my shoulder. I patted her head. “Relax, dearest.”

  “I can’t. Jacob, I don’t like this job. I snap at you, you argue with me, we both get upset. It’s not good for us—we never behaved this way at Snug Harbor.”

  “Then give it up.”

  “I’m going to. After I finish the job I started. Jacob, when we lift fr
om this planet, you will be captain.”

  “Oh, no! Zeb.” (Hilda my only love, you should turn it over to him now.)

  “Zebbie won’t take it. It’s you or Deety, Jacob. If Deety is our next captain, you will back-seat drive even more than you have with me. No, Jacob, you must be captain before Deety is, so that you will understand what she is up against.”

  I felt that I had been scolded enough. I started to tell Hilda when that pejorative epithet played back in my mind: “—back-seat drive—”

  I trust that I am honest with myself. I know that I am not very sociable and I expect to go on being so; a man capable of creative work has no time to spare for fools who would like to visit. But a “back-seat driver”?

  Some facts: Jane learned to drive before I did—her father’s duo. Our first car, a roadable, coincided with her pregnancy; I got instruction so that I could drive for Jane. She resumed driving after Deety was born but when both of us were in the car, I always drove. She drove with me as passenger once or twice before the custom became established—but she never complained that I had been back-seat driving.

  But Jane never complained.

  Deety laid it on the line. I don’t know who taught Deety to drive but I recall that she was driving, on roads as well as in the air, when she was twelve or thirteen. She had no occasion to drive for me until Jane’s illness. There was a time after we lost Jane that Deety often drove for me. After a while we alternated. Then came a day when she was driving and I pointed out that her H-above-G was, oh, some figure less than a thousand meters, with a town ahead.

  She said, “Thanks, Pop”—and grounded at that town, an unplanned stop. She switched off, got out, walked around and said, “Shove over, Pop. From now on, I’ll enjoy the scenery while you herd us through the sky.”

  I didn’t shove over, so Deety got into the back seat. Deety gets her stubbornness from both parents. Jane’s was covered with marshmallow that concealed chrome steel; mine is covered with a coat of sullen anger if frustrated. But Deety’s stubbornness isn’t concealed. She has a sweet disposition but Torquemada could not force Deety to do that which she decided against.

  For four hours we ignored each other. Then I turned around (intending to start an argument, I suppose—I was in the mood for one)—and Deety was asleep, curled up in the back seat.

  I wrote a note, stuck it to the wind screen, left the keys, got quietly out, made sure all doors were locked, hired another car and drove home—by air; I was too angry to risk roading.

  Instead of going straight home I went to the Commons to eat, and found Deety already eating. So I took my tray and joined her. She looked up, smiled, and greeted me: “Hello, Pop! How nice we ran into each other!” She opened her purse. “Here are your keys.”

  I took them. “Where is our car?”

  “Your car, Pop. Where you left it.”

  “I left it?”

  “You had the keys; you were in the front seat; you hold title. You left a passenger asleep in the back seat. Good thing she’s over eighteen, isn’t it?” She added, “There is an Opel duo I have my eye on. Tried it once; it’s in good shape.”

  “We don’t need two cars!”

  “A matter of taste. Yours. And mine.”

  “We can’t afford two cars.”

  “How would you know, Pop? I handle the money.”

  She did not buy the Opel. But she never again drove when we both were in our car.

  Three data are not a statistical universe. But it appears that the three women I have loved most all consider me to be a back-seat driver. Jane never said so…but I realize today that she agreed with Deety and Hilda.

  I don’t consider myself to be a back-seat driver! I don’t yell “Look out!” or “Watch what you’re doing!” But four eyes are better than two: Should not a passenger offer, simply as data, something the driver may not have seen? Criticism? Constructive criticism only and most sparingly and only to close friends.

  But I try to be self-honest; my opinion is not important in this. I must convince Hilda and Deety, by deeds, not words. Long habit is not changed by mere good resolution; I must keep the matter at the top of my mind.

  There was banging at the bulkhead; I realized that I had been asleep. The door opened a crack. “Lift in five minutes.”

  “Okay, Deety,” Hilda answered. “Nice nap, beloved?”

  “Yes indeed. Did you?”

  As we crawled out, Deety said, “Starboard door is open; Pop’s rifle is leaning against it, locked. Captain, you asked to be reminded. Shall I take the conn?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  We lost no time as Deety used two preprograms: Bingo Windsor, plus Gay Bounce. Zeb had the communication watch officer almost at once. “—very well. I will see if the Captain will take the message. No over. Hold.”

  Zeb looked around, ostentatiously counted ten seconds, then pointed at Hilda.

  “Captain Burroughs speaking. Leftenant Bean?”

  “Yes, yes! Oh, my word, I’ve been trying to reach you the past twenty minutes.”

  “It is still a few seconds short of the time I gave you.”

  “Nevertheless I am enormously relieved to hear your voice, Captain. I have a message from the Governor General. Are you ready to record?”

  Zeb nodded; Hilda answered Yes; the lieutenant continued: “‘From the Governor General to H. C. Burroughs, Master Gay Deceiver. Hurry home, the children are crying. We all miss you. The fatted calf is turning on the spit. That document is signed and sealed, including the additional clause. Signed: “Bertie”’—Captain, that is the Governor’s way of signing a message to an intimate friend. A signal honor, if I may say so.”

  “Gracious of him. Please tell the Governor General that I am ready to ground and will do so as soon as you tell me that the spot in which we were parked—the exact spot—is free of any obstruction whatever.”

  Bean was back in about three minutes saying that our spot was clear and would be kept so. Hilda nodded to Deety, who said, “Gay Parade Ground.”

  I had a flash of buildings fairly close, then we were back in the sky. Hilda snapped, “Chief Pilot, get Leftenant Bean!”

  Then—“Mr. Bean! Our spot was not clear.”

  “It is now, Captain; I have just come from the parapet. The Governor’s poodle got loose and ran out. The Governor chased him and brought him back. Could that have been it?”

  “It decidedly was it. You may tell the Governor—privately—that never in battle has he been so close to death. Astrogator, take her down!”

  “GayParadeGround!”

  Bean must have heard the gasp, then cheers, while Hilda’s words were still echoing in his radio shack. We were exactly as before, save that the wide, showy steps to the King-Emperor’s residence on Mars were jammed with people: officers, soldiers, civil servants with that slightly dusty look, women with children, and a few dogs, all under restraint.

  I didn’t spot the Right Honourable “Bertie” until he moved toward us. He was no longer in mufti but in what I could call “service dress” or “undress”—not a dress uniform—but dressy. Ribbons, piping, wound stripes, etc.—sword when appropriate. Since he was not wearing sword I interpreted our status as “honored guests” rather than “official visitors”—he was ready to jump either way.

  He had his wife on his arm—another smart move, our captain being female. His aide (?—left shoulder “chicken guts” but possibly a unit decoration) was with him, too—no one else. The crowd stayed back.

  Hilda said, “Chief Pilot—” then pointed to the mikes, drew her finger across her throat. Zeb said, “Outside audio is cold, Cap’n.”

  “Thank you, Gay, lock the bulkhead door, open your doors.”

  I jumped down and handed Hilda out, offered her my arm, while Zeb was doing the same with Deety portside. We met, four abreast at Gay’s nose, continued moving forward a few paces and halted facing the Governor’s party as they halted. It looked rehearsed but we had not even discussed it. This placed our lad
ies between us, with my tiny darling standing tall, opposite the Governor.

  The aide boomed, “His Excellency Governor General the Lieutenant General the Right Honourable Herbert Evelyn James Smythe-Carstairs and Lady Herbert Evelyn James!”

  The Governor grinned. “Dreadful,” he said quietly, “but worse with ruffles, flourishes, and the Viceroy’s March—I spared you that.” He raised his voice, did not shout but it projected—and saluted Hilda. “Captain Burroughs! We bid you welcome!”

  Hilda bowed, returning the salute. “Excellency… Lady Herbert…thank you! We are happy to be here.”

  Lady Herbert smiled at being included, and bobbed about two centimeters—a minimum curtsy, I suppose, but can’t swear to it, as she was swathed in one of those dreadful garden-party-formal things—big hat, long skirt, long gloves. Hilda answered with a smile and a minimum bow.

  “Permit me to present my companions,” Hilda continued. “My family and also my crew. On my left my astrogator and second-in-command, our daughter Doctor D. T. Burroughs Carter, and on her left is her husband our son-in-law, my chief pilot, Doctor Zebadiah John Carter, Captain U.S. Aerospace Reserve.” Deety dropped a curtsy as her name was mentioned, a 6-cm job, with spine straight. Zeb acknowledged his name with a slight bow.

  Hilda turned her head and shoulders toward me. “It gives me more pride than I can express,” she sang, her eyes and mouth smiling, her whole being speaking such serene happiness that it made me choke up, “to present our copilot, my husband Doctor Jacob Jeremiah Burroughs, Colonel of Ordnance A.U.S.”

  The Governor stepped forward quickly and held out his hand. “Doctor, we are honored!” His handshake was firm.

  I returned it in kind, saying in a nonprojecting voice, “Hilda should not have done that to me. Off campus, I’m ‘Mister’ to strangers and ‘Jake’ to my friends.”

  “I’m Bertie, Jake,” he answered in his intimate voice, “other than on occasions when I can’t avoid that string of goods wagons. Or I’ll call you ‘Doctor.’”