The Number of the Beast

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “You do and it’s fifty lines.” That made him laugh again.

  “And I’m Betty, Jake,” Lady Herbert said, in closing in. “Captain Burroughs, may I call you ‘Hilda’?” (Was that a hiccup?)

  “Call her ‘Doctor,’” I suggested. “She told on the rest of us. How many doctorates do you hold, dear? Seven? Or eight?”

  “After the first one, it no longer matters. Of course I’m ‘Hilda,’ Betty. But, Bertie, we have yet to meet the Brigadier.”

  I glanced at the tabs of the officer with the aiguillette and booming voice. Yes, A crown inboard and three pips—But when had Hilda learned British insignia? Many Americans can’t read their own. I am ceasing to be surprised at how many facts can be stuffed into so small a space.

  “Sorry. Friends, this is Brigadier Iver Hird-Jones. Squeaky finds things I lose and remembers things I forget.”

  “Ladies. Gentlemen. Charmed. Here is something you told me to remember, General.” The Brigadier handed a sealed envelope to his boss.

  “Ah, yes!” Smythe-Carstairs handed it to my wife. “The Keys to the City, Ma’am. Phrased as you specified, each of you named, and that third factor included. Signed by me for the Sovereign and carrying the Imperial seal.”

  “Your Excellency is most gracious,” Hilda said formally, and turned toward Deety. “Astrogator.”

  “Aye, Captain.” Deety placed it in her purse.

  Our host looked surprised. “Jake, doesn’t your wife have normal curiosity? She seems to have forgot my name, too.”

  Hilda protested, “I haven’t forgotten your name, Bertie. It’s an official matter; I treated it formally. I shall read it when I have leisure to open that envelope without damaging the flap seal. To you this is one of thousands of papers; to me it is a once-in-a-lifetime souvenir. If I sound impressed, it’s because I am.”

  Lady Herbert said, “Don’t flatter him, my deah.” (Yes, she had had a couple.) “You’ll turn his head, quite.” She added, “Bertie, you’re causing our guests to stand when we could be inside, sitting down.”

  “You’re right, m’dear.” Bertie looked longingly at Zeb’s car.

  Hilda played a trump. “Care to look inside, Bertie? Betty, you can sit down here; the captain’s chair is comfortable. Will you do me the honor? Someday I’ll tell my grandchildren that Lady Herbert sat in that very seat.”

  “What a charming thought!”

  Hilda tried to catch my eye but I was a jump ahead of her, handing Lady Herbert in, making certain that she didn’t miss the step, getting her turned around, making sure that she didn’t sit down on belts. “If we were about to lift,” I told her, while fastening the seat belt loosely (first, moving the buckle—she’s Hilda’s height but my thickness), “this safety belt would be fastened firmly.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t dare!”

  “Gangway, Pop! Another customer.” I got out of the way, and Deety installed Brigadier Hird-Jones in her seat. Deety said, “Pop, if you’ll put the Governor in your seat, Zebadiah will take his own and give his two-hour lecture on the care and feeding of spacecraft, while you and I and Hilda hang in the doorways and correct his errors.”

  “I’m only up to chapter four,” Zeb said defensively. “Jake, make her quit picking on me.”

  “You’re her husband; I’m merely her father. Bertie, I must ask one thing. Don’t touch anything. This car is not shut down; it is ready to go, instantly.”

  “I’ll be careful, Jake. But we’re leaving the ladies standing. The Captain herself! This is not right.”

  Deety said, “Bertie, I don’t want to sit down. This trip doesn’t give me nearly the exercise I need.”

  “But I can’t permit Captain Hilda to stand. Sit here and I’ll stand.” (I appreciated his gallantry but I could see an impasse coming: two people, each aware of her/his prerogatives and they conflicted.)

  Hilda avoided it by something she had discovered in working out how to rig a double bed in the control compartment. Although pilots have separate seats, the passenger’s seats are really one, built all the way across but separated by armrests…which could be removed with screwdriver and sweat.

  I had eliminated sweat and screwdriver; a natural mechanic, such as Zeb, accumulates miscellaneous hardware. Those armrests could now be removed and clamped out of the way with butterfly nuts. Hilda started to do so; the Brigadier dismounted them once he saw what she was doing.

  It was a snug fit, but Hird-Jones has trim hips and Hilda has the slimmest bottom in town (any town).

  “An important feature,” said Zeb, “of this design is a voice-controlled autopilot—”

  XXVII

  “Are you open to a bribe?”

  Deety:

  Zebadiah, for seventeen dull minutes, said nothing and said it very well. During that plethora of polysyllabic nullities, I was beginning to think that I would have to take Pop to a quiet spot and reason with him with a club—when Captain Auntie showed that she needed no help.

  Pop had interrupted with: “Let me put it simply. What Zeb said is—”

  “Copilot.” Cap’n Hilda did not speak loudly but Pop should know that when she says “Copilot,” she does not mean: “Jacob darling, this is your little wifey.” Pop is a slow learner. But he can learn. Just drop an anvil on him.

  “Yes, Hilda?” Aunt Hilda let the seconds creep past, never took her eyes off Pop. I was embarrassed; Pop isn’t usually that slow—then the anvil hit. “Yes, Captain?”

  “Please do not interrupt the Chief Pilot’s presentation.” Her tone was warm and sweet: I don’t think our guests realized that Pop had just been court-martialed, convicted, keelhauled, and restored to duty—on probation. But I knew it, Zeb knew it—Pop knew it. “Aye aye, Captain!”

  I concluded that Captain Auntie never intended to stand outside. She had told me to offer my seat to Squeaky and had added, “Why don’t you suggest to your father that he offer his to the Governor?” I don’t need an anvil.

  It was a foregone conclusion that Bertie would object to ladies having to stand while he sat. But if he had not, I feel certain that the Hillbilly would have held up proceedings until she was seated where she could watch everyone but our visitors could not watch her.

  How tall was Machiavelli?

  As they were climbing out the Brigadier was telling me that he understood how she was controlled—but how did she flap her wings?—land I answered that technical questions were best put to the Captain—I was unsurprised to hear Cap’n Auntie say, “Certainly, Bertie…if you don’t mind being squeezed between Deety and me.”

  “‘Mind’? I should pay for the privilege!”

  “Certainly you should,” I agreed—the Hillbilly’s eyes widened but she let me talk. “What am I offered to scrunch over?” I slapped myself where I’m widest. “Squeaky is a snake’s hips—not me!”

  “Are you open to a bribe?”

  “How big a bribe?”

  “A purse of gold and half the county? Or cream tarts at tea?”

  “Oh, much more! A bath. A bath in a tub, with loads of hot water and lots of suds. The last time I bathed was in a stream and it was coooold!” I shivered for him.

  The Governor appeared to think. “Squeaky, do we have a bathtub?”

  Lady Herbert interrupted. “Bertie, I was thinking of the Princess Suite. My deah, since you are all one family, it popped into mind. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, two bathtubs. The drawing room is gloomy, rather.”

  I answered, “Bertie, you didn’t talk fast enough; Betty gets the first ride.”

  “Oh, no, no, no! I don’t fly even in our own flying carriage.”

  “Hahrooomph!” Squeaky boomed. “Are you still open to a bribe?”

  “You might try our captain; she’s as corruptible as I am.”

  Aunt Hilda picked it up. “Now that I’ve heard that two bathtubs go with the suite, my cup runneth over. But my husband and my son-in-law have matters to discuss with the Governor’s technical staff. I don’t have to be bribed to offer a few jo
y rides, Brigadier—one passenger at a time and, as Deety implies, not too wide a passenger.” Aunt Hilda added, “Betty, I must confess my own weakness. Clothes. What I am wearing, for example. A Ferrara original. An exclusive—Mario himself created it for me. While it is intended for salt-water yachting, it is just as practical for space yachting—and I couldn’t resist it. Do you have nice shops here?”

  Bertie answered for his wife. “Hilda, there are shops—but Windsor City is not London. However, Betty has a seamstress who is clever at copying styles from pictures in periodicals from home—old but new to us.” He added, “She’ll show you what we have. Now concerning this ride you so kindly offered me—does it suit you to give me an appointment?”

  “Is right now soon enough?”

  “Report readiness for space. Astrogator.”

  “Ready!” I snapped, trying to sound efficient. “Belt tight.”

  “Chief Pilot.”

  “Belt fastened. Portside door locked, seal checked. Juice zero point seven-one. Wings subsonic full. Wheels down and locked. Car trimmed assuming passenger at six-six kilos.”

  “General, is that your mass?”

  “Dear me! I think in pounds. The factor is—”

  I interrupted. “I’ll take it in pounds here or pounds London.”

  “I weigh myself each morning and I have had the scale recalibrated. Eh, with these boots, one hundred forty-five pounds I dare say.”

  “Correct to three significant figures, Zebadiah.” (I did not mention that weight bearing on each wheel shows on the instrument board. Let Bertie think my husband a magician; he’s a wizard to me.)

  “Thank you, Astrogator. Car is trimmed, Captain.”

  “Copilot.”

  “Belt fastened. Door seal checked. Continua device ready.”

  “Passenger,” said Cap’n Auntie.

  “Eh? What should a passenger report?”

  “Principally that your belt is secure, but I saw to that myself.” (By using a web belt from our sleeping bag to link Hilda’s seat belt to mine.) “I must ask one question,” Aunt Hilda went on: “Are you subject to motion sickness? The Channel can be rough and so can the Straits of Dover. Did mal de mer ever hit you?”

  “Oh, I’ll be right. Short flight and all that.”

  “One Bonine, Deety. General, Admiral Lord Nelson was seasick all his life. My husband and I are susceptible; we took our pills earlier today. Deety and Zebbie are the horrid sort who eat greasy sandwiches during a typhoon and laugh at the dying—”

  “I don’t laugh!” I protested.

  “But these pills enable us to laugh right back. Is this not so, Jacob?”

  “Bertie, they work; you’d be a fool not to take one.”

  “I must add,” Captain Auntie said sweetly, “that if you refuse, we will not lift.”

  Bertie took it. I told him, “Chew it and swallow it; don’t hide it in your cheek. Captain, I think that does it.”

  “Except that we are crowded. General, would you be more comfortable if you put an arm around each of us?”

  The General did not refuse. It occurs to me that “take him for a ride” has several meanings. Captain Auntie has more twists than a belly dancer.

  “Routine has been broken. Confirm readiness, please.” We reported while I snuggled into a firm male arm, realized that it was a pleasant contrast after getting used to my lovely giant.

  “Gay Bounce.”

  Bertie gasped and tightened his arms around us. Aunt Hilda said quietly, “Astrogator, take the conn. Schedule as I discussed it. Don’t hesitate to vary it. All of us—you, too, General—may suggest variations. This is a joy ride; let’s enjoy it.”

  But she had told me earlier: “If I don’t like a suggestion, I will suggest that we do it later—but time will run out. The General told Lady Herbert:

  ‘“I can go down to the end of the town

  “And be back in time for tea!”’—so we will fetch him back on time. Sixteen-fifteen local, four-fifteen pip emma. What’s Greenwich?”

  I converted it (GMT 12:44) and told Captain Hillbilly that I would watch both board and the clock in my head but was ordered to place an alert with Gay. If Aunt Hilda were a man, she would wear both suspenders and belt. No, that’s wrong; for herself she’s go-for-broke; for other people she is supercautious.

  We lifted at 15:30 local and took Bertie for a mixed ride—Aunt Hilda had told me that Pop was feeling left out. “Gay Bounce, Gay Bounce. Chief Pilot, place us over the big Russian city at about a thousand klicks.”

  “Roger Wilco,” my husband affirmed. “Copilot, one jump or two?”

  “One. Level? Keep ’er so. Six thousand thirty klicks, true bearing two-seven-three, offset L axis negative oh-seven-four—set!”—and I shuddered; Pop had set to take us through the planet!

  “Execute! Bertie, what is the name of that city?”

  “Eh? Zeb, I am quite bewildered!” Pop and Gay and Zebadiah, working together, displayed features simultaneously on the planet in front of us and on the sillyscope on the board. Pop bounced Gay around in ways I didn’t know could be done. Zebadiah had Gay rotate the display so that the point on Mars-ten opposite us was always the center of the display with scale according to H-above-G.

  I learned a lot. The Russians claim the whole planet but their occupied area closely matches what we had bingo-mapped. Bertie pointed out a bit more Tsarist area; Gay changed the displayed locus to Zebadiah’s interpretation of Bertie’s information. Windsor City was zero Meridan for the British; Gay measured the arc to “Touchdown,” adjusted her longitudes—and now could use any British Martian colonial map.

  Bertie assured us that Russian Ack-Ack could not shoot higher than three miles (less than five klicks) and seemed astonished that a spaceship might be considered dangerous. His explanation of spaceships was less than clear—great flimsy things that sailed from orbits around Earth to orbits around Mars, taking months for each voyage.

  I was watching the time. “Chief Pilot, we will sight-see with Bertie another day; I am taking the conn. Copilot.”

  “Verniers zeroed and locked, Astrogator.”

  “Thanks, Pop. Gay B’gout. Bertie, this is where we first grounded—where the Russians attacked us. That trash ahead is what is left of Colonel Morinosky’s private flyer. Zebadiah was forced to retaliate.”

  Bertie looked puzzled. “But the Russians have no settlement near here. I know that bounder Morinosky; he came to see me under diplomatic immunity. I had to be content with the sort of nasty remarks permitted by protocol. But how did Zeb burn the flyer?”

  “Beautifully. Gay Home. Chief Pilot, dive. Captain?”

  “I have the conn,” Aunt Hilda acknowledged. “Bertie, that crater was our home three days ago. They tried to kill us, we fled for our lives.”

  “Who!”

  “Gay Home, Gay Bounce. Pilots, may we have Earth-without-a-J?”

  “Set it, Jake.”

  “Tau axis positive one quantum—set!”

  “Copilot, execute at will. Chief Pilot, dive again, please. Jacob, please set Bertie’s home universe and hold. Bertie, that house is like Snug Harbor before it was bombed—but one universe away. Zebbie, level glide please… Gay Bounce, Gay Bounce! Jacob, you have that setting?”

  “Tau positive ten quanta, set.”

  “Execute at will. Bertie, what antiaircraft defense does London—your London—have?”

  “What, what? London has no defense against attack from above. The Concord of Brussels. But Hilda—my dear Captain—you are telling me that we have been to a different universe!”

  “Three universes, Bertie, and now we are back in your own. Better to show than to tell; it is a thing one believes only through experience. Gay Bounce. Zebbie, Jacob, see how quickly you can put us over London. Execute at will.”

  “Roger Wilco. Jake, do you want Gay?”

  “Well—great-circle true bearing and chord distance, maybe. Or I can simply take her high and head northeast. The scenic route.”

/>   Aunt Hilda caught my eye. “Camera ready, Deety?”

  “Yes. Three shots.” I added, “Four more cartons, but when they’re gone, they’re gone.”

  “Use your judgment.”

  Suddenly we were in free fall over Arizona, then over the British Isles, then we were air supported, then we were diving and Zebadiah was shouting: “Tower of London, next stop!”

  I shot a beauty of the Tower and Zebadiah’s right ear. “General, is there something you would like to photograph here? Or elsewhere?”

  He seemed almost too overcome to talk. He muttered, “There is a place about twenty miles north of here, a country estate. Is it possible?”

  Aunt Hilda said, “Take the conn, Deety.”

  “Got it, Captain. Gay Bounce. Pop, Zebadiah, give me three minima north. Execute at will.”

  Then I was saying, “Any landmarks, Bertie?”

  “Uh, not yet.”

  “Pop, may we have the binoculars?”

  Pop handed them aft; I gave them to Bertie. He adjusted them and searched while Zebadiah made a wide sweep, spending altitude stingily. Bertie said, “There!”

  “Where?” I said. “And what?”

  “A large house, to the right of our course. Ah, now dead ahead!”

  I saw it—a “Stately Home of England.” Lawns you make with a flock of sheep and four centuries. “This it?” asked Zebadiah. “I’m steady on it by gunsight,”

  “That’s it, sir! Deety, I would like a picture.”

  “Do my best.”

  “Alert,” said Gay. “Memo for General Smythe-Carstairs: ‘I can go down to the end of the town and be back in time for tea.’”

  “Aunt Hilda, Bertie, I left some leeway. Picture! Zebadiah, take it as close as you dare, then bounce, but warn me. I want a closeup.”

  “Now, Deety!” I hit it and Zebadiah bounced us.

  Bertie let out a sigh. “My home. I never expected to see it again.”

  “I knew it was your home,” Aunt Hilda said softly, “because you looked the way we feel when we see the crater where Snug Harbor used to be. But you will see it again, surely? How long is a tour of duty on Mars?”