The Number of the Beast

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “Already have,” I told her. “In my head. Last night. To put me to sleep. You want it preprogrammed? I would rather tell Gay each bounce, I would.”

  “Do it your way, hon. The purpose in sending Bertie to wash dishes and Jacob to guard him was to get them out of the way while I rig a frameup. At the end of the coming run, we drop Bertie and bounce…and at that instant I cease to be captain. I want to hold the election now—a one-ballot railroad. I will ask for nominations. Zebbie, you nominate Jacob. Deety, you don’t need to say anything but speak if you wish. If Jacob nominates either of you, don’t argue. I’ll rig it so that Bertie declares the ballots. If you two are with me, the only surprise will be that fourth vote. Three for Jacob, and let’s all write ‘Jacob,’ not ‘Pop’ or ‘Jake,’ and one for the dark horse. Are you with me?”

  “Wait a half, Sharpie. Why not give Deety a crack at it?”

  “Not me!”

  “Deety should have the experience, but, please, Zebbie, not this time. Jacob has given me a dreadful time. Endless insubordination. I want to pass him on to Deety well tenderized. Deety ought not to have to put up with her father second-guessing her decisions—and, if you two help, she won’t have to. I want to give my beloved the goddamndest ‘white mutiny’ ever, one that he will remember with shudders and never again give a skipper any lip.”

  “Sounds good,” I agreed, “but I don’t know what a ‘white mutiny’ is.”

  “Sweetheart,” my husband told me, “it’s killing him with kindness. He says ‘Frog,’ we hop. Utter and literal obedience.”

  “This he won’t like? Pop will love it!”

  “So? Would you like to command zombies who never make suggestions and carry out orders literally without a grain of common sense?”

  Fifteen minutes later Bertie read off: “‘Jacob’ and this reads ‘Jacob’ and so does this one, that seems to settle it. But here is one, folded: ‘A bunch of smarties, you three. Think I didn’t guess why you sent me down to ride shotgun? Very well, I vote for myself!’ It is signed ‘Jake.’ Madame Speaker, is that valid?”

  “Quite. Jacob, my last order will be liftoff after we drop Bertie.”

  Bertie said, “Jake, I think congratulations are in order.”

  “Pipe down! All hands, prepare for space.”

  “A piece of cake,” Bertie called it. We started at the easternmost dump, worked west. Pop out at four klicks and dive, a dry run to size up the target; where wood alcohol was stored, ornithopters on the ground and how arranged…while Gay ululated from intensity six to eight. Frightfulness. I did not let it go up to ten because it wasn’t intended to damage but to send anyone on target scattering.

  Zebadiah’s idea: “Captain, I’ve got nothing against Russians. My only purpose is to burn their fuel and their flaphappies to make it difficult to attack our friends—and I don’t mean you big brass, Bertie. I mean the transportee maid who brought us tea this morning, and Brian Bean, and Mr. Wheatstone who was a top surgeon before some fool judge slammed him and is now doing his best for wogs, and the chef at the officers’ club, and five cons who drove that sillywagon, and dozens more who smiled when they could have scowled. I don’t want them killed or enslaved; I want them to have their chance. Governor, England is slapping the Broad Arrow on some of your best potential—you English will live to regret it.”

  “You could be right, Zeb,”

  “I don’t want to kill Russians, either. Could be most of them are decent blokes. Each strike will be a double run—one pass to scatter ’em, a second to destroy the dump. Captain, if that doesn’t suit you, find another gunner.”

  Aunt Hilda said, “Astrogator.”

  “Captain.”

  “Strike as described by Chief Pilot. Take the conn. Attack.”

  At the first target we lingered after the strike bounce. The dry pass did show them running away—they could hear us clear in their bones. Those subsonics are so horrid I keyed Gay to kill the noise at code-word “Bounce”—and did not use it on the strike pass.

  Zebadiah made strikes from bearings planned to take out as many ’thopters as possible while setting fire to fuel.

  From four klicks the first strike looked good. The dump was burning, ’thopters he had hit showed smoke, and one that he had not hit was burning. Splashed by flaming methanol, I suppose.

  If that first target was indication, in thirty-four minutes the Russians lost all fuel and about 70% of the deployed flaphappies. I took us up high after the last. “Next stop, Windsor City.”

  “I’m taking the conn, Astrogator. Bertie, don’t forget my little ring for Betty.”

  “I’ll give it to her in the morning.”

  “Good,” Captain Hilda said. “Unbelt, crowd past Jacob, place yourself against the door—feet on deck, chest against door. Jacob, push against the small of his back. Bertie, when the door opens, dive and roll clear.”

  They positioned themselves. “Gay Parade Ground Gay Deceiver open starboard door… Gay Deceiver close doors, GayBounce, GayBounce! Jacob, do you relieve me?”

  “Beloved, I relieve you. Ten minima H axis transit—and executed. All hands, unbelt.”

  I unbuckled with extreme speed and clumsiness, getting Pop in the chin with my foot.

  “Deety! Watch where you’re going!”

  “I’m sorry, Captain. I’m out of practice with free fall.”

  “You’ve been in free fall every day!”

  “Yes, Captain. I’ve been in free fall every day, belted down.”

  “Pipe down! Hilda, don’t cover the instrument board. Hold onto something. No, not me, damn it. Zeb! Grab something and catch Hilda!”

  “Roger Wilco, Captain! Right away!” My husband snagged Aunt Hilda, grabbed a seat belt with his other hand, trapped our captain against the dogs of the bulkhead door with his buttocks. “What now, sir!”

  “Get your goddam fanny out of my face!”

  “Sorry, sir,” Zebadiah answered humbly while turning and digging an elbow into Pop’s ribs. I closed in from the other side and we had Pop trapped again—ballet and trampoline make a fine background for free fall. Zebadiah went on cheerfully, “What shall we do now, sir?”

  Pop didn’t answer. From watching his lips I saw that he was counting backwards, silently, in German. That’s stage three.

  Then he said quietly, “Zeb, get into the copilot’s seat and belt down.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Zebadiah did so.

  Pop snatched Hilda while hanging onto a dog. “Deety, belt down in the chief pilot’s seat.”

  “Roger Wilco, Captain”—I did so.

  “My dear, I want you behind Deety. Do you need help?”

  “Yes, thank you, Captain; it’s sweet of you to offer.” White mutiny? The Hillbilly is about as helpless as Zebadiah but thinks God created men to pamper women. I’ve heard less reasonable philosophies.

  After “helping” Hilda, Pop strapped down in the starboard after seat. “All hands! We have moved clockwise ninety degrees. I am now captain. Hilda, you are astrogator and second-in-command. Deety, you are chief pilot. Zeb, you are copilot. In order of seniority, any questions?”

  The Hillbilly said in a small voice, “As second-in-command I am required to advise the Captain—”

  “Certain circumstances. Speak up.”

  “Captain, I know very little about astrogation.”

  “That’s why you have the job. You will seek advice from Deety as needed, both of you seek advice from Zeb when necessary—and if all three of you are stumped, I will tackle it and be responsible for mistakes. No burden, the Captain is always responsible for all mistakes. When in doubt, do not hesitate to consult me.

  “Deety, you have not driven this car in atmosphere. But you are a competent, decisive, and skillful driver of duos”—I am, Pop?—you’re years late in saying so—“and we have come this high to give you time to acquaint yourself with it. I placed Zeb by you to coach you and, in time, to report to me that you are fully qualified.” Pop smiled. “Fortunately, s
hould you get into trouble, we have programs that will get you out instantly such as ‘Gay Bounce’—”

  Gay bounced.

  Pop did not notice but I had my eye on radar distance since learning that I was responsible. Pop, who invented those safety scrams? Think hard. Hint: One of your offspring.

  “Zeb, you know the knobs and scales et cetera of the controls we refer to as the verniers but you have not had time to practice. Now you will practice until you can handle anything, by eye, or by clicks in the dark. Permit me to pay you this compliment: You will give yourself your own final examination. When you feel ready, tell me and I will have the Astrogator log it.

  “Advice to future captains—I will not be happy until all are competent in each of four seats, and all feel easy in all twenty-five possible arrangements—”

  “Twenty-four, Pop,” I blurted out. I hastily added, “Sorry, Captain—‘twenty-five.’”

  Pop has a terrible time with kitchen arithmetic; it has been so long since he has done any. He will pick up a hand computer to discover 2 x 3 = 6; I’ve seen him do it.

  He stared at me, lips moving slightly. At last he said, “Chief Pilot.”

  “Captain.”

  “You are ordered to correct me when I make a mistake. ‘Twenty-four’ permutations, certainly.”

  “Sir, may the Chief Pilot have more information before she answers Roger-Wilco?”

  “Fire away!”

  “Captain, what categories of mistakes?”

  “Eh? Any sort! A mistake is a mistake. Daughter, are you baiting me?”

  “No, Captain. I am unable to acknowledge your order as I do not understand it. ‘A mistake is a mistake’ is semantically null. If I see you about to sugar your coffee twice shall I—”

  “Tell me! Of course.”

  “If I see you treating your wife unjustly shall I—”

  “Wait a moment! Even if I did or have—which I decline to stipulate—it is not proper for you to interfere.”

  “Yes, sir. We’ve established that there are two sets. But the Captain has not defined the sets and the Chief Pilot lacks authority to do so. May I respectfully suggest that the Captain take notice of the quandary, then reframe the order at a time of his choosing…and in the meantime permit the Chief Pilot not to correct the Captain’s mistakes?”

  Zebadiah winked at me with his head turned so that I saw it but Pop could not.

  Pop fumed, complaining that I wasn’t showing common sense and, worse, I had broken his train of thought. He finally got around to a definition at about 8th grade level: I was to correct him only in errors involving figures or related symbols such as angles. (On your own head be it, Pop!) I gave him Roger-Wilco.

  “In fact,” he went on expansively, “it may be my duty to see that this training course is completed before, with great relief, I turn this seat over to my successor.”

  (I started figuring how many children I would have by then and decided to look for ways to hike up the “white mutiny.”)

  “Captain?”

  “Astrogator.”

  “This advice concerns a mistake that could occur in the near future. I assume that the Captain has the conn?”

  “Hilda, I have the conn. Speak up.”

  “We are falling, sir. I advise placing us in orbit.”

  I sighed with relief, as radar distance I was beginning to think of as H-above-G and did not like our closing rate.

  Pop said, “Surely, put us in orbit. Take the conn and do it. Good practice. Deety can show you how. Or Zeb.”

  “Aye aye, sir. I have the conn. Chief Pilot, keep her level with respect to planet.”

  “Roger. Level now.”

  “Copilot, add speed vector positive axis L three point six klicks per second.”

  “Uh…set!”

  “Hold it!” Pop unbelted, steadied himself by Zebadiah’s chair, checked the setting. “Okay. Execute!”

  “Excuse me, Captain,” Zebadiah said, “but was that order directed at me or the Astrogator?”

  Pop opened his mouth—then turned red. “Astrogator, I am satisfied with your solution and the setting. Please have the maneuver executed.”

  “Aye aye, sir. Execute!”

  What Pop planned seemed reasonable. “So far we have used juice, supplies, and four days’ time, and have merely established that there are at least two analogs of our universe, one quantum and ten quanta away on Tau axis. The latter has beasts—wogs—that are not the vermin we fled from, but—according to Hilda—closely related. To me, this makes Tau axis not our best place to seek a new home.

  “Zebadiah has suggested that we sample the universes available by rotation rather than translation—six axes taken four at a time—before we search Teh axis. Let me remind you that we could die of old age searching Teh axis alone. I will decide but I will listen to arguments pro or con.”

  Twenty-three minutes later Aunt Hilda shrilled, “Copilot, by plan, as set—Rotate!”

  XXX

  “Difference physical laws, a different topology.”

  Jacob:

  We rotated to… Nowhere—

  So it seemed. Free fall and utter blackness—The cabin held only the faint radiance from the instruments.

  My daughter said in hushed tones, “Captain! May I turn on inside lights?”

  This was a time to establish discipline and doctrine. “Permission refused. Copilot, I would like to see in all directions.”

  “Yes, sir,” Zeb acknowledged.

  After a few moments I added, “Copilot? Why are you waiting?”

  “I am awaiting orders, sir.”

  “What the hell, Zeb? Get with it! I said I wanted to see in all directions. We have preprograms for that.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Well? Why aren’t you using them? Can’t you carry out orders?” (I was amazed at Zeb.)

  “Captain, I have not as yet received any orders, and I am not at the conn.”

  I started to answer sharply—and bit down on it. Precisely what had I said? I recalled that the autopilot stayed in recording mode during maneuvers; I could play back the last few minutes—

  —and decided not to. We were wasting time and it was possible that I had not expressed myself in the form of a direct order. Nevertheless I could not ignore Zeb’s pigheaded behavior. “Copilot, I am aware that I have not given you direct orders. However, it is customary to treat a captain’s requests as politely worded orders.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well? God damn it, why don’t—”

  “Captain! Captain Jacob! Please listen! Please!”

  I took a deep breath. “What is it, Hilda?”

  “Captain, I am required to advise you.”

  “Eh? Advise away—but be quick about it.”

  “Captain, you have given the Copilot neither orders nor requests. The autopilot’s record will confirm this. You mentioned preprograms—but voice programs are not normally handled by the Copilot.”

  “I can order the Copilot to use a voice program.”

  Hilda did not answer. Again I waited, then said, “Well?”

  Then I said, “Astrogator, you did not answer me.”

  “Sorry, Captain. Answer what?”

  “My question.”

  “Captain, I was not aware that you had asked me a question. Would you mind repeating it?”

  “Oh, forget it, forget it! Chief Pilot!”

  “Captain.”

  “Deety, what’s the voice program to rotate us a full circle around W axis?”

  “Shall I spell it, sir? S.G. is awake.”

  “No, do it. Turn out your instrument lights. Pilots watch forward, Captain and Astrogator will watch the sides. Do it. Execute.”

  Instrument lights dimmed to zero, leaving us in the darkest dark I have ever experienced. I heard a repressed moan and felt a burst of sympathy for my daughter; she had never liked total darkness. But she carried out my orders:

  “Gay Deceiver, Tumbling Pigeon.”

  “F
orward somersault—whee!”

  “Execute.”

  I felt pressure against my belts—being forward of the center of mass we were starting a gentle outside loop. I started counting seconds as I recalled that this program took twenty seconds.

  I had reached seventy-eight seconds and was beginning to wonder when Deety announced “Twenty seconds” as the autopilot announced, “End of program.”

  Deety said, “You’re a Smart Girl, Gay.”

  “If I were smart, would I be doing this? Over.”

  “Roger and out, Gay. Captain, I request permission to switch on cabin lights.”

  “Permission granted. Report observations. Copilot?”

  “Skipper, I saw nothing.”

  “Deety?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Hilda?”

  “Jacob, I didn’t see anything. Can’t we get out of this universe? It stinks.”

  “That stink is me,” our copilot said. “The reek of fear. Captain, of what use is an empty universe?”

  “Zeb, ‘empty universe’ is a meaningless expression. Space-time implies mass-energy, and vice versa.”

  “Captain, it looks empty to me.”

  “And to me. I’m faced by a dilemma in theory. Is the mass in this space-time so far away that we can’t see it? Or is it in a state of ‘Cold Death,’ level entropy? Or did we create this universe by rotating?”

  “‘Create it’—Huh?”

  “A possibility,” I pointed out. “If we are the only mass in this universe, then this universe had no existence until we created it by rotation. But it will not collapse when we rotate out, because we will be leaving behind quanta we are radiating.”

  “Hmm—Captain, I’m bothered by something else. We started from universe-ten and made one ninety-degree rotation. Correct?”

  “Yes. We rotated around ‘x’ and thereby moved each of the other five axes ninety degrees. We are now experiencing duration along ‘y.’ Teh and ‘z’ are spatial coordinates now, and ‘x’ remains spatial because we rotated on it. Tau and ‘t’ are now null, unused.”