The Number of the Beast

by Robert A. Heinlein

  I checked Hilda and the Governor; they didn’t seem to see it. I glanced at Hird-Jones; the Brigadier did not seem to see it—but Squeaky sees everything. Ergo: no member of the colony could “see” it.

  Someone else gathered the ladies while the gentlemen remained for port and cigars. While we were standing as the ladies left, Hird-Jones leaned close: “Your captain has asked me to tell you that the Governor invites you to join them later in his study.”

  I tasted the port, lit the cigar (I don’t smoke—fake it when polite) when the Brigadier caught my eye and said, “Now.” Bertie had left, leaving a stooge, a wit who had them all laughing—that colonel of lancers.

  When Jake and I came in, Deety and Hilda were there, with a large man, tall as I am and heavier—Major General Moresby, chief of staff. Bertie stood while waving us to chairs. “Thanks for coming, gentlemen. We are settling tomorrow’s schedule and your captain prefers to have you present.”

  The Governor reached behind him, moved out a globe of Mars. “Captain, I think I have marked the places we visited yesterday.”

  “Deety, please check it,” Sharpie directed.

  My darling looked it over. “The Russian settlements extended almost one hundred fifty kilometers farther east than this borderline shows—ninety-one English miles, seventy-nine nautical miles—call it two and a half degrees.”

  “Impossible!” (The bulky Major General—)

  Deety shrugged. “Might be a few miles more; all we took were spot checks.”

  Jake said, “General Moresby, you had better believe it.”

  Bertie stepped in with: “Is that the only discrepancy, Doctor Deety?”

  “One more. But there is something I want to ask about. May I borrow a marking pen? Grease pencil?”

  Bertie found one; she placed three bingoes in an equilateral triangle, well detached from both zones. “What are these, sir? This one is a village, the other two are large farms. But we did not determine nationality.”

  Bertie looked at her marks. “Not ours. Moresby, how long ago did we reconnoitre that area?”

  “There are no Russians there! She’s doing it by memory. She’s mistaken.”

  I said, “Moresby, I’ll bet my wife’s marks are accurate within two kilometers. How high do you want to go? What is a pound worth here in gold?”

  Bertie said, “Please, gentlemen—wagers another time. What was the other error, Astrogator Deety?”

  “Our touchdown point. Where we tangled with the Russians. Your memory is off by many degrees. Should be here.”

  “Moresby?”

  “Governor, that is impossible. Either they did not land there or they had trouble with Russians somewhere else.”

  Deety shrugged. “Governor, I have no interest in arguing. Our time of arrival at ‘Touchdown’ just after dawn day before yesterday was fourteen-oh-six in the afternoon Windsor City local time. Six past two pip emma. You saw the remains of that ornithopter today. What did shadows and height of the sun tell you as to local time there, and what does that tell you about longitude from here?” She added, “With one degree of longitude being four minutes of local time difference, you can treat one minute of arc as equal to one kilometer and measure it on this globe. The errors will be smaller than your own error in estimate of local time.”

  “Astrogator, I’m not good at this sort of problem. But it was about eight-thirty in the morning where we saw the burned ornithopter.”

  “That’s right, Governor. We’ll lay that out as kilometers and see how close it comes to my mark.”

  Moresby objected, “But that globe is scaled in miles!”

  Deety looked back at Bertie with a half smile, an expression that said wordlessly: (He’s your boy, Bertie. Not mine.)

  Bertie said testily, “Moresby, have you never worked with a French ordnance map?”

  I’m not as tolerant as Deety. “Multiply by one-point-six-oh-nine.”

  “Thanks but we will assume that the Astrogator is correct. Moresby, reconnaissance will cover two areas. Captain, how many spot checks can be made per hour?”

  “Just a moment!” Captain Sharpie interrupted. “Has this discussion been directed at the ride I promised Brigadier Hird-Jones?”

  “I’m sorry, Ma’am. Wasn’t that clear?”

  “No, I thought you were telling General Moresby what you saw today. Isn’t the Brigadier available? I want to settle the time with him.”

  Moresby answered, “Madam, that has been changed. I’m taking his place.”

  Sharpie looked at Moresby as if he were a side of beef she was about to condemn. “Governor, I do not recall offering this person a ride. Nor has the Brigadier told me that he is not going.”

  “Moresby, didn’t you speak to Hird-Jones?”

  “Certainly I did, sir. I dislike to tell you but he was not cooperative. I had to remind him that there was rank involved.”

  I looked around for somewhere to hide. But Sharpie did not explode. She said sweetly, “Certainly there is, Major General Bores-me. My rank. I am commanding; you are not.” She turned to Bertie. “Governor, I may offer other rides after I keep my promise to the Brigadier. But not to this person. He’s too fat.”

  “What! I weigh only seventeen stone—trim for a man with my height and big bones.” Moresby added, “Homeside weight, of course. Only ninety pounds here. Light on my feet. Madam, I resent that.”

  “Too fat,” Sharpie repeated. “Bertie, you remember how tightly we were packed yesterday. But even if Bores-me did not have buttocks like sofa cushions, he’s much too fat between the ears. He can’t enter my yacht.”

  “Very well, Captain. Moresby, please have Hird-Jones report to me at once.”

  “But—”

  “Dismissed.”

  As the door closed, the Governor said, “Hilda, my humblest apologies. Moresby told me that it was all arranged…which meant to me that he had seen you and Squeaky and arranged the exchange. Moresby hasn’t been here long; I’m still learning his quirks. No excuse, Captain. But I offer it in extenuation.”

  “Let’s forget it, Bertie. You used ‘reconnaissance’ where I would have said ‘joy ride.’ ‘Reconnaissance’ is a military term. Did you use it as such?”

  “I did.”

  “Gay Deceiver is a private yacht and I am a civilian master.” She looked at me. “Chief Pilot, will you advise me?”

  “Captain, if we overfly territory for the purpose of reconnaissance, the act is espionage.”

  “Governor, is this room secure?”

  “Hilda—Captain, in what way?”

  “Is it soundproof and are there microphone pickups?”

  “It is soundproof when I close that second door. There is one microphone. I control it with a switch under the rug—right here.”

  “Will you not only switch it off but disconnect it? So that it cannot be switched on by accident.”

  “If that is your wish. I could be lying. Other microphones.”

  “It’s accidental recording I want to avoid. Bertie, I wouldn’t trust Moresby as far as I could throw him. I have learned to trust you. Tell me why you need to reconnoitre?”

  “I’m not certain.”

  “Reconnaissance is to learn something you are not certain about. Something that can be seen from Gay Deceiver—but what?”

  “Uh…will you all swear to secrecy?”

  “Hilda—”

  “Not now, Jacob. Governor, if you don’t want to trust us, tell us to leave!”

  Smythe-Carstairs had been standing since turning the rug to remove the switch. He looked down at Hilda and smiled. “Captain, you are an unusually small woman…and the toughest man I’ve dealt with in many a year. The situation is this: The Russians have sent another ultimatum. We have never worried about Russians as we settled halfway around the planet from them and logistics here are almost impossible. No oceans. No navigable streams. Some canals if one enjoys suicide. Both sides have attempted to raise horses. They don’t live long, they don’t reproduce.
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  “Both sides have ornithopters. But they can’t carry enough or fly far enough. I was startled when you said that they had given you trouble where you had first touched down—and proved it by showing me wreckage of a ’thopter.

  “Any logistics problem can be solved if you use enough men, enough time. Those Russian craft must have, behind them, stockpiles about every fifty miles. If they have the same continuing this way, when they get here, they will wipe us out.”

  “Is it that bad?” I inquired. Sharpie said, “Governor, our Chief Pilot is the only one of us with combat experience.”

  “Yes,” agreed Jake with a wry smile, “I was awarded rank in lieu of combat. I signed papers.”

  Bertie gave the same mirthless smile. “Welcome to the lodge. Twenty years since I last heard a bullet say ‘wheat!’ Now I may be about to lose my last battle. Friends, my rank states that I am qualified to command an army corps…but I have possibly one platoon who will stand and die.”

  Jake said, “Governor, this city must be two hundred thousand people.”

  “More than that, Jake. Over ninety-nine percent are convicts or discharged convicts or their wives and children. Do you imagine that they are loyal to me? Even if they were, they are neither trained nor armed.

  “I have a nominal regiment, a battalion in numbers—and a platoon in strength. Friends, my troops, officers and men, and my civil servants, are, with few exceptions, transportees quite as much as the convicts. Example: An officer with a court staring him in the face can often get the charges dropped by volunteering for Mars. I don’t get murderers. What I do get is worse…for me. The mess treasurer who dips into mess funds because he has a ‘sure thing’ at a racing meet. The—Oh, the devil take it! I don’t get villains; I get weaklings. There are a few good ones. Hird-Jones. Young fellow named Bean. Two old sergeants whose only shortcomings are that one had two wives and, while the other had only one, she wasn’t his. If the Russians get here, they’ll kill our wogs—they don’t domesticate them; they hunt and eat them—they’ll kill anyone in uniform…and transportees will learn that being a serf is worse than being a free man not on the planet of his choice. Squeaky! Where have you been?”

  “In the card room, sir. First table to the right.”

  “So? How long ago did you get my message?”

  “About twenty seconds ago, sir.”

  “Hm! How long have you been in the card room?”

  “A bit over an hour.”

  “I see. Bolt the outer door, close the inner door, sit down.”

  Twenty minutes later Sharpie was asking, “Deety, what time is sunrise here?” She indicated a point 30° east of the western boundary of the westernmost of the two loci Bertie wanted investigated.

  “In about twenty minutes. Shall I have Gay check it?”

  “No. Sunset over here?”

  “More leeway there. One hour fifty-seven minutes.”

  “Very well. Zeb, those zeroed packs?”

  “Being charged, they told me. Ready in the morning.”

  “Good. Squeaky, if I get you to bed by oh-two-hundred hours could you take us to the fields about eleven-hundred hours?”

  “Oh-eight-hundred, if you wish, Captain Hilda.”

  “I don’t wish. This job requires sunlight, so we will work whatever it takes. I intend to sleep late. Bertie, would your kitchen service extend to breakfast in bed about ten ack emma?”

  “Tell the night maid. The sideboard in your dining room will be loaded and steaming whenever you say and the day maid will be delighted to bring you a tray in bed.”

  “Heavenly! All hands and Brigadier Hird-Jones: Lift in thirty-nine minutes. Car doors open five minutes before that. Questions?”

  “Just a comment. I’ll fetch sandwiches.”

  “Thank you, Squeaky! Bertie.”

  “Eh? Ma’am!”

  “Deety and I expect to be kissed good-bye…in case something goes wrong.”

  XXIX

  “—we place no faith in princes.”

  Deety:

  We had a busy night. I had Gay display bingo dots for every stop we made—then circles around any that were supply dumps.

  There were indeed supply dumps!

  I spent the whole trip thinking: Where would I be if I were a supply dump? Where would ’thopters have to land? Where could they get more water? Squeaky, Hilda, Pop, Zebadiah—and possibly Gay—were thinking the same thing.

  We got back at half after one, the job done. The Hillbilly turned the results over to Squeaky and we went to bed.

  Next morning at eleven our “roadable” arrived—without Squeaky. He sent an apologetic note saying that Lieutenant Bean knew what we expected and would add anything we asked for.

  Captain Auntie had not taken breakfast in bed. I woke about nine local, found her at work—packing her dress clothes and Pop’s back into plastic pillow covers, then into a borrowed portmanteau. Our fresh laundry, given to us by the night maid on our return, was in another piece of borrowed luggage.

  The Hillbilly was on her knees in our drawing room. She looked up, smiled and said, “Good morning. Better slide into your jump suit, dear; maids come in and out rather casually.”

  “Doesn’t bother me, I’ve been caught twice already—”

  “But it bothers them. Not kind, dear, with servants. Especially with involuntary servants. They’ll be in to load the sideboard any moment. Will you fetch yours and Zebbie’s dress clothes here? I’ll pack for you.”

  “I’ll pack ’em, thanks. I was thinking about sliding back into bed with a nice warm man but your mention of food changed my mind. Hillbilly, what’s the rush?”

  “Deety, I’m carrying out my own orders. When I brush my teeth after breakfast, the toothbrush goes into my purse. As for the rush, our husbands will wake soon. I have found that it is more practical to present a man with a fait accompli than a discussion.”

  “I hear you three times, doll baby. When they get up, they’ll want to eat. When our roadable shows up, they’ll be sitting over second cups of coffee. Then they’ll say, ‘We’ll do it when we come back. Mustn’t keep the Brigadier waiting.’ Okay, I’ll grab our gear and we’ll sneak it out before they wake. I’ll carry the heavy ones.”

  “We are not permitted to carry anything, Deety. But the place is swarming with maids. You sound much married.”

  “Five years’ practice on Pop. But, Hillbilly, even Pop is easy to handle if you think ahead.”

  “I’m learning. Deety, what shall we do about the maids?”

  “Huh?”

  “In the days when servants were common, it was polite for house guests to tip servants who served them personally. But how, Deety? I have two twenty-five-newdollar bills in the lining of my purse. Waste paper.”

  “Pop and Zebadiah have gold. I know exactly because it was mass enough that I had to figure it into the loading, mass and moment arm. Here’s a giggle. These misers we married had each squirreled away the same weight of gold to four significant figures. So maids are no problem if you know how much to tip—I don’t. We’ll be buying local money today to pay for a number of things.”

  “Leftenant” Bean—or “Brian”—is a delightful fuzzy puppy and a volunteer in order to have served “Beyond the Sky.” He managed to call me “Deety” and Zebadiah “Zeb” when invited, but he could not bring himself to shift from “Captain Burroughs” to “Hilda”—“Captain Hilda” was as far as he would go, and Pop was “Professor.”

  He was pleased that we liked his “roadable.” You wouldn’t believe it! A large, wooden flatbed wagon with an upright steam engine in back; a trailer with cordwood; a sailing-ship’s wheel in front of the engine; this controlled the front wheels by ropes that ran underneath. Midway was a luggage pen, then in front were four benches, for twelve to sixteen people.

  With a crew of five!

  Engine driver, fireman, conductor, and two steersmen—

  The conductor sat on a high perch braced to the pen and told the others what to do
and occasionally rang a bell or blew a whistle. The bell told other traffic to get out of the way; the whistle warned that the vehicle was about to start or stop. There was much traffic but few “roadables”—most common were pedalled tricycles, for passengers and freight. Large versions had as many as a dozen men pedalling at once.

  “I daresay you know,” said Brian, “that we have not been able to raise horses. We haven’t given up—we will develop a breed that will prosper here. But once we have horses, this will, I venture to predict, become a proper colony—and not just a place to send reformable evildoers and to obtain raw pharmaceuticals.”

  “Pharmaceuticals?”

  “Oh, definitely! The thing that makes the colony self-supporting. I daresay the descendants of these convicts will be wealthy. I will show you the fields—all in the weed—a cant word for Cannabis Magnifica Martia—except acreage for food crops. Brigadier Hird-Jones suggested Norfolk Plantation.” He smiled. “Shall we?”

  “Just a moment,” Aunt Hilda said. “If I understood the Brigadier’s note, we can vary the program?”

  “Captain Hilda, the carriage and I are at your disposal as long as you wish. My orders and my pleasure.”

  “Brian, I have clothing being made up. I was told that sewing would continue through the night. Where should we go to inquire?”

  “Here and now. I fancy I saw a package being delivered while we’ve been chatting; it could be yours. It would go to the chief housekeeper, who would have it placed in your digs—the Princess Suite, is it not?”

  “Yes. Brian, I’ll slip upstairs and see.”

  “Please, no!” Brian made a small gesture; a private soldier appeared out of nowhere. “Smathers, my greetings to Mrs. Digby. Has a package arrived for Captain Burroughs?”

  “Sir!”

  “Hold it! Brian, if it has arrived, I want it fetched here.”

  I could see the look in Brian’s eye that Pop gets just before he starts demanding explanations for female “unreasonable” behavior. But Brian simply added, “If the package has arrived, tell Mrs. Digby that it must be delivered here at once. Double time, so to speak.”