The Number of the Beast

by Robert A. Heinlein

“Sir!” The private stomped an about-face and broke into a run. Hilda said, “Thank you, Brian. If I place it in our craft, it is one less detail to remember. Your kindness eases my mind.”

  “A pleasure, Captain Hilda.”

  “Hilda, that clothing is not yet paid for.”

  “Oh, dear! You are right, Jacob. Leftenant, where does one exchange gold for local money? Do you know the rate of exchange? In grams?”

  “Or in Troy ounces,” I added.

  Brian behaved as if he had not heard us. He turned toward his “roadable.” “Parkins! Take a turn around the circle! When you return, I want that steam up high. So that we won’t creep in starting.”

  “Roight, sir.” The wagon moved off, at a headlong slow walk.

  When no one else was in earshot Brian said quietly, “I missed what you were saying because of engine noise. But let me mention in passing that possession of gold by individuals is not permitted so I-am-happy-to-learn-that-you-have-none,” he said, not letting himself be interrupted. “Let me add,” he went on, “that since I handle secret and most-secret despatches, I know things that I don’t know, if I make my meaning clear. For example, I am grateful that you four were willing to lose sleep last night. Others feel strong obligations to such good friends. The Brigadier mentioned that you might have purchases to make or bills to pay. I was instructed to charge anything you need or want—or fancy—to the Imperial Household, signing his name and appending my signature.”

  “Oh, that’s most unfair!”

  “Truly, Captain? I fancy that those in authority will find something to add until you feel that you have been treated generously.”

  “That’s not what she means, son,” put in Pop. “‘Unfair’ in the opposite direction. We pay for what we get.”

  Brian lost his smile. “May I suggest that the Professor discuss that with the Brigadier? I would find it extremely embarrassing to have to report to the Brigadier that I was unable to carry out his orders.”

  “Captain.”

  “What, Deety?”

  “I am required to advise you.”

  “Advise away, my dear. I see my packages coming.”

  “Captain Auntie, you’ve got a bear by the tail. Let go.”

  The Hillbilly grinned and stuck out her tongue at me, then turned to Brian. “The Brigadier’s thoughtful arrangements are appreciated. We accept.”

  It was still a few minutes before we left, as it turned out that Zebadiah’s power packs were ready, in the hands of the Household engineer. At last Hilda’s clothes and the power packs were in Gay; we boarded the char-à-banc, and whizzed away at 10 km/hr. “Norfolk Plantation, Captain Hilda?”

  “Brian, at what time did you breakfast?”

  “Oh, that’s not important, Ma’am.”

  “Answer my question.”

  “At oh-seven-hundred hours, Captain.”

  “So I suspected. You eat at Imperial House?”

  “Oh, no, Captain Hilda, only the most senior of the Governor’s official family eat there. I eat at the officers’ club.”

  “I see. We’ll see wogs last. I am told there is a commissary. Is it open to us?”

  “Captain Hilda, everything is open to you.”

  “I must buy supplies. Then I wish to go to the best restaurant in Windsor City and watch you eat a proper luncheon; we ate breakfast three hours later than you did.”

  “But I’m hungry,” said my husband. “I’m a growing boy.”

  “Poor Zebbie.”

  There was not much to buy that would keep. I bought a tin of Huntley & Palmer’s biscuits and quite a lot of Dutch chocolate—quick energy for growing boys—and tightly packaged staples.

  Brian had us driven to that restaurant just past noon. I was glad that Aunt Hilda had decided to get everything else done before we went to look at vermin. Even so, I did not have much appetite—until I decided to stand up and forthrightly turn coward. Not look at vermin! Cui bono? Aunt Hilda was the expert.

  That restored my appetite. We stopped across the parade ground from Imperial House. We twigged in this order—Zebadiah, Pop, me, Aunt Hilda—that it was the officers’ club. She was several meters inside when she stopped. “Brian, what are we doing here?”

  “The Captain said ‘—the best restaurant—’. The club’s chef was executive chef at Claridge’s until he ran into misfortune. Don’t look at me that way, Captain Hilda; the Brigadier picks up the chit; it’s charged against ‘official visitors’ and winds up in London against H.I.M.’s Civil List. Believe me, His Majesty gets paid more than leftenants, or even brigadiers.”

  But the president of the mess signed the chit—a colonel who told the Hillbilly that he was buying her lunch because he wanted to ship with us as scullery maid.

  I was telling Aunt Hilda that I would skip vermin viewing, thank you, when I did. One. Then six. Then a whole field of them. I was explaining to God that I didn’t like this dream so please let me wake up when Brian had the conductor halt the contraption and I saw that there were men in that field, too. The men carried whips; vermin were muzzled. This one vermin—well, “wog”—this wog had managed to pull its muzzle aside and was stuffing this weedy plant into its mouth…when a whip cracked across its naked back.

  It cried.

  The field on the other side of the road was not being worked, so I stared at it, After a while I heard Brian say, “Captain Hilda, you are serious, really?”

  “Didn’t the Brigadier authorize it?”

  “Ah, yes. I thought he was pulling my leg. Very well, Ma’am.”

  I had to see what this was all about…and discovered that muzzled vermin, afraid of men with whips, weren’t frightening; they were merely ugly. Aunt Hilda was taking pictures, movies and stereo. Brian was talking to a man dressed like any farmer except for the Broad Arrow.

  Brian turned and said, “Captain Hilda, the foreman asks that you point out the wog you want to dissect.”

  Aunt Hilda answered, “There has been a mistake.”

  “Ma’am? You don’t want to dissect a wog?”

  “Leftenant, I was told that one or more died or was slaughtered each day. I want to dissect a dead body, in an appropriate place, with surgical instruments and other aids. I have no wish to have one of these poor creatures killed.”

  We left shortly. Brian said, “Of the two, the abattoir and the infirmary, I suggest the latter. The veterinarian is a former Harley Street specialist. By the bye, there is no case of humans contracting disease from these brutes. So the infirmary isn’t dangerous, just, ah, unpleasant.”

  We went to the wog hospital. I did not go inside. Shortly Pop came out, looking green. He sat beside me and smiled wanly. “Deety, the Captain ordered me outside for fresh air—and I didn’t argue. Aren’t you proud of me?”

  I told him that I’m always proud of my Pop.

  A few minutes later Brian and Zebadiah came out, with a message from Hilda that she expected to work at least another hour, possibly longer. “Captain Hilda suggests that I take you for a drive,” Brian reported.

  The drive was only as far as the nearest pub; the sillywagon was sent back to wait for the Hillbilly. We waited in the lounge, where Pop and Brian had whisky and splash, and Zebadiah ordered a “shandygaff”—so I did, too. It will never replace the dry martini. I made it last till Aunt Hilda showed up.

  Brian asked, “Where now, Captain Hilda?”

  “Imperial House. Brian, you’ve been most kind.”

  I said, “Cap’n Auntie, did you whittle one to pieces?”

  “Not necessary, Deetikins. They’re chimpanzees.”

  “You’ve insulted every chimp that ever lived!”

  “Deety, these creatures bear the relation to ‘Black Hats’ that a chimpanzee does to a man. The physical resemblance is closer, but the difference in mental power—Doctor Wheatstone removed the brain from a cadaver; that told me all I needed to know. But I got something that may be invaluable. Motion pictures.”

  Zebadiah said, “Sharpie, you
took motion pictures in the fields.”

  “True, Zebbie. But I have with me the Polaroids you took for me at Snug Harbor; some show the splints that creature used to disguise its extra knees and elbows. Doctor Wheatstone used surgical splints to accomplish the same with one of his helpers—a docile and fairly intelligent wog that didn’t object even though it fell down the first time it tried to walk while splinted. But it caught on and managed a stiff-legged walk just like that ranger—and like ‘Brainy’ now that I think about it—then was delighted when Doctor Wheatstone dressed it in trousers and an old jacket. Those pictures will surprise you. No makeup, no plastic surgery, a hastily improvised disguise—from the neck down it looked human.”

  When we reached Imperial House, we transferred packages into Gay Deceiver—again were not permitted to carry; Brian told the conductor, the conductor told his crew. We thanked them, thanked Brian as we said good-bye, and Aunt Hilda expressed a hope of seeing him soon and we echoed her—me feeling like a hypocrite.

  He saluted and started toward the officers’ club. We headed for the big wide steps. Aunt Hilda said, “Deety, want to share some soap suds?”

  “Sure thing!” I agreed.

  “Whuffor?” asked Zebadiah. “Sharpie, you didn’t get a spot on you.”

  “To remove the psychic stink, Zebbie.”

  “Mine isn’t psychic,” I said. “I stink, I do.”

  But damn, spit, and dirty socks, we had hardly climbed into that tub when a message arrived, relayed by my husband, saying that the Governor requested us to call at his office at our earliest convenience. “Sharpie hon, let me translate that, based on my eighty years man and boy as flunky to an ambassador. Means Bertie wants to see us five minutes ago.”

  I started to climb out; Aunt Hilda stopped me. “I understood it, Zebbie; I speak Officialese, Campusese, and Bureaucratese. But I’ll send a reply in clear English, female idiom. Is a messenger waiting?”

  “Yes, a major.”

  “A major, eh? That will cost Bertie five extra minutes. Zebbie, I learned before you were born that when someone wants to see me in a hurry, the urgency is almost never mutual. All right, message: The commanding officer of Spacecraft Gay Deceiver sends her compliments to the Governor General and will call on—him at her earliest convenience. Then give the major a message from you to Bertie that you happen to know that I’m taking a bath and that you hope I’ll be ready in twenty minutes but that you wouldn’t wager even money on thirty.”

  “Okay. Except that the word should be ‘respects’ not ‘compliments.’ Also, the major emphasized that he wants to see all of us. Want Jake and me to keep Bertie happy until you are ready?” Pop had his head in the door, listening. “We wouldn’t mind.” Pop nodded.

  “Zebbie, Zebbie! After four years under my tutelage. Until I know what he wants I can’t concede that he is senior to me. ‘Compliments,’ not ‘respects.’ And no one goes until I do…but thank you both for the offer. Two more things: After giving the major my message, will you please find my clothes, all but Deety’s Keds, and take them to the car? That’s Jacob’s shirt, Deety’s sailor pants, a blue belt, and a blue hair ribbon. In the car you will find new clothes on my seat. In one package should be three jump suits. Please fetch one back.”

  Pop said, “Hilda, I’d be glad to run that errand. Run it twice, in fact, as you don’t want to send down what clothes you have until you know that your new clothes fit.”

  “Jacob, I want you right here, to scrub our backs and sing for us and keep us amused. If that jump suit does not fit, I may appear in a bath towel sarong. But I plan to appear a minute early to make Bertie happy. Do not tell the major that, Zebbie! Officially it is twenty minutes with luck, thirty minutes more likely, could be an hour, Major; you know how women are. Got it all?”

  “Roger Wilco. Sharpie, someday they’ll hang you.”

  “They will sentence me to hang but Jacob and you will rescue me. Trot along, dear.” Aunt Hilda started to get out. “Stay there, Deety. I’ll give you three minutes’ warning—two to dry down, one to zip into your jump suit. Which leaves ten minutes to relax.”

  The jump suit did fit; the Hillbilly looked cute. We left not a thing in that suite because Aunt Hilda checked it while waiting for Zebadiah. A few items went into my purse or hers. It was eighteen minutes from her message to our arrival at the Governor’s office—and I had had a fifteen-minute tub, comfy if not sybaritic.

  Besides Bertie and the Brigadier, that fathead Moresby was there. Aunt Hilda ignored him, so I did. Bertie stood up. “How smart you all look! Did you have a pleasant day?” The poor dear looked dreadful—gaunt, circles under his eyes.

  “A perfect day—thanks to you, thanks to the Brigadier, and thanks to a curly lamb named Bean.”

  “A fine lad,” Squeaky boomed. “I’ll pass on your word, if I may.” The Brigadier did not look fresh; I decided that neither had been to bed.

  Bertie waited until we were seated, then got to business. “Captain Burroughs, what are your plans?”

  Aunt Hilda did not answer his question. She glanced toward Major General Moresby, back at Bertie. “We are not in private, Excellency.”

  “Hmm—” Bertie looked unhappy. “Moresby, you are excused.”

  “But—”

  “Dismissed. You have work to do, I feel sure.”

  Moresby swelled up but got up and left. Squeaky bolted the outer door, closed the inner door, while Bertie stood up to lift the rug over his recorder switch. Aunt Hilda said, “Don’t bother, Bertie. Record if you need to. What’s the trouble, old dear? Russians?”

  “Yes. Hilda, you four are refugees; yesterday you showed me why. Would you care to remain here? My delegated power is sufficient that I can grant naturalization as fast as I can sign my signature.”

  “No, Bertie. But we feel greatly honored.”

  “I expected that. Do reconsider it. There are advantages to being a subject of the most powerful monarch in history, in being protected by a flag on which the Sun never sets.”

  “No, Bertie.”

  “Captain Hilda, I need you and your ship. Because of millions of miles of distance, many months required for a message, I hold de jure viceregal power almost equal to sovereign…and de facto greater in emergency because no Parliament is here. I can recruit foreign troops, arm them, make guarantees to them as if they were British, award the King-Emperor’s commission. I would like to recruit all of you and your ship.”

  “No.”

  “Commodore for you, Captain for your second-in-command, Commander for your Chief Pilot, Lieutenant Commander for your Copilot. Retirement at full pay once the emergency is over. Return of your purchased ship as a royal gift after the emergency. Compensation for loss or damage.”

  “No.”

  “One rank higher for each of you?”

  “All four of us must be at least one rank senior to Major General Moresby.”

  “Hilda! That’s my own rank. Equivalent rank—Vice Admiral.”

  “Bertie, you can’t hire us as mercenaries at any rank or pay. That hyperbole was to tell you that we will not place ourselves under your chief of staff. That settled, what can we do to help you?”

  “I’m afraid you can’t, since you won’t accept the protection under international law of military status. So I’m forced to cut the knot. Do you understand the right of angary?”

  (I thought he said “angry” and wondered.)

  “I believe so. Are Great Britain and the Russias at war?”

  “No, but there are nuances. Shall I call in my legal officer?”

  “Not for me. My own legal officer is here: Doctor Zebadiah Carter, my consultant in international law.”

  “Doctor Carter—oh, fiddlesticks! My friend Zeb. Zeb, will you discuss the right of angary?”

  “Very well, Governor. One nuance you had in mind was that, in addition to wartime, it applies to national emergency—such as your current one with the Russians.”

  “Yes!”

  “An
gary has changed in application many times but in general it is the right of a sovereign power to seize neutral transport found in its ports or territory, then use same in war or similar emergency. When the emergency is over, seized transport must be returned, fair rentals must be paid, loss or damage requires compensation. It does not apply to goods or chattels, and most especially not to persons. That’s the gist. Do we need your legal officer?”

  “I don’t think so. Captain Burroughs?”

  “We don’t need him. You intend to requisition my craft?”

  “Captain… I must!” Bertie was almost in tears.

  “Governor, you are within your legal rights. But have you considered how you will drive it?”

  “May I answer that, Governor?”

  “Go ahead, Squeaky.”

  “Captain Hilda, I have an odd memory. ‘Photographic’ it is called but I remember sounds as automatically. I am sure I can fly every maneuver used last night—that is to say: sufficient for our emergency.”

  I was seething. But Aunt Hilda smiled at the Brigadier and said in her sweetest voice: “You’ve been most thoughtful throughout our stay, Squeaky. You are a warm, charming, hospitable, bastardly fink. One who would sell his wife to a Port Saïd pimp. Aside from that you are practically perfect.”

  “Doubled and redoubled!” (That was my Pop!) “Later on, Jones, I’ll see you at a time and place of your choosing. Weapons or bare hands.”

  “And then I will see you, if Jake leaves anything.” My husband flexed his fingers. “I hope you choose bare hands.”

  Bertie interrupted. “I forbid this during this emergency and after it in territory where I am suzerain and while Hird-Jones holds the Sovereign’s commission under my command.”

  Aunt Hilda said, “You are legally correct, Bertie. But you will concede that they had provocation.”

  “No, Ma’am! Hird-Jones is not at fault. I tried to get you and your crew to fly it on any terms at all. You refused. Hird-Jones may kill himself attempting to fly a strange flyer. If so he will die a hero. He is not what you called him.”

  “I don’t think well of you, either, Bertie. You are a thief—stealing our only hope of a future.”