The Number of the Beast

by Robert A. Heinlein

“Mmm—Deety, what Greenwich time is it?” Zeb glanced at the instrument board.

  “Uh—Seventeen: thirteen: oh-nine.”

  “Smart Girl says you are twenty seconds slow.” Zeb looked at his navigator’s watch. “But my watch splits the difference. How many minutes since we left Windsor City?”

  “Thirty-nine minutes, thirteen seconds. Ask me a hard one.”

  “I’m going to ask your father a hard one. Captain, if you tell G.D. to scram to Windsor P.G. right now mark!—what will the Greenwich time be?”

  “Look at your clock. About a quarter past seventeen hundred.”

  “But you told me that, since rotating, we’ve been experiencing duration along ‘y’ axis.”

  “But—Oh! Zeb, I’m stupid. No time has elapsed on ‘t’ axis since the instant we rotated. If we reversed the rotation, we would go back to that exact instant.”

  “Deety hon?” Zeb asked. “Do you agree?”

  (I felt annoyed that my son-in-law consulted my daughter as to the correctness of my professional opinion—then suppressed the thought. Deety will always be my little girl, which makes it hard for me to remember that she is also my professional colleague.)

  My daughter suddenly looked upset. “I—Pop! That first trip to the world without the letter ‘J’—time did pass, it did!”

  Zeb said gently, “But that was translation, Deety. You continued to experience duration along ‘t’ axis.”

  Deety thought about it, then said sorrowfully, “Zebadiah, I no longer know what time it is. Pop is correct; we experience duration on one axis only, and that is now ‘y’ axis. We can’t experience duration on two axes at once.” She heaved a sigh. “Will I ever get the clock in my head set right again?”

  “Sure you will,” my son-in-law reassured her. “Like crossing a time zone. Shortly after we grounded on Mars-ten, your head started keeping time both in Greenwich and in Mars Touchdown meridian time, even though Touchdown time kept falling farther behind hour after hour. A simple index correction won’t bother you. My sweet, you don’t realize how smart you are.”

  Zeb patted her hand, then looked around at me. “Captain, may I propose a change in schedule?”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “Sir, I would like two sequences. First, go back to Windsor P.G. with the verniers preset for a hundred thousand klicks straight up, and execute at once. Then translate back to our own universe-zero—but not to Earth-zero. Instead, set up an orbit around Mars-zero. That orbit becomes our base of operations.”

  I said, “Simple enough. But why?”

  “So that we will always have somewhere to go back to. Deety can write us a program that will place us back in that orbit. Something like G, A, Y, H, O, M, E, but based on Mars-zero—with elbow room.”

  I asked, “Daughter, can you write such a program?”

  “I think so, Pop. An emergency scram? G, A, Y, plus something?” Deety paused. “‘Sagan.’ G, A, Y, S, A, G, A, N means to return to orbit around Mars-zero. Built-in mnemonic.”

  “Satisfactory. Is that all, Copilot?”

  “No, sir. Our schedule breaks up naturally into a five group, a four group, a three, a two, and a one. I would like to add to each group a return to orbit around Mars-zero. Captain, if you were on the verniers, I wouldn’t worry; you know them so well. I don’t. If I do fifteen rotations, one right after the other, I’m afraid I’ll make some tiny mistake and we’ll wind up in analog-Andromeda-Nebula in universe a thousand-and-two on ‘z’ axis, with no idea how we got there or how to get home.”

  “Copilot, you worry too much.”

  “Probably. Captain, my whole life is based on being chicken at every opportunity. I’ll breathe easier if I come back to a familiar orbit at the end of each group…and know that the next group is one less. It won’t take ten minutes longer to do it my way and I’ll be less likely to make mistakes. But tackling all fifteen at a slug scares me.”

  “Captain Jacob—”

  “Not now, Hilda. I must settle this with—”

  “Captain, I am required to advise you.”

  “Eh? All right, all right! Make it snappy.”

  “You know—we all know—that Zebbie’s premonitions must not be ignored. I advise you officially—Gay Deceiver, record this ‘I-tell-you-three-times.’”

  “Hilda, I hear you three times.”

  “Captain Jacob, I, your second-in-command, advise you officially to revise the schedule of rotations in the fashion recommended by the copilot. End of I-tell-you-three-times.”

  (Have you ever found yourself boxed in? Damn it, I intended to let Zeb do it his way; I am not unreasonable. I can’t say that I believe in Zeb’s premonitions; I suspect that he is simply a man with extremely fast reflexes. But both our wives believe in them and Zeb does himself. I found myself faced with mutiny unless I did exactly what I had intended to do anyway! How does one describe so ironical a situation?)

  Shortly I found myself saying, “Copilot, by revised schedule, set second rotation of first group.” We were in “Sagan” orbit around Mars of Universe-zero (i.e., the one we had grown up in: Galactic coordinates X0, Y0, Z0, & t0—Earth-zero, Mars-zero, Sun-zero, Universe-zero). I tend to think of this as the “real” universe even though I am aware that there is no evidence or mathematical theory for preferring one frame of reference over another—to do so is egocentric provincialism at its worst. But I offer this in mitigation: for us it was simplest and thereby helped us to avoid getting lost.

  “Set,” Copilot Zeb reported. I went forward, checked the setting (rotation around ‘y,’ with ‘z’ and ‘t’ dropping out, null), then returned to my seat. “We can spare a minute to look at Mars. Deety, tilt the nose down to let us look. Do you know how?”

  “Like this, Captain?”

  “Right,” I agreed. “Keep it up.”

  Deety raised the craft’s nose and swung right, catching me with belts not yet fastened. I said forcefully, “Deety! What the hell are you doing?” while I floundered and grabbed.

  “Sir, you ordered ‘right’ and ‘up,’” Deety answered.

  “I did no such thing!”

  “But, Jacob—Captain—you did tell her that, I heard you.”

  “Hilda, you keep out of this!”

  Hilda answered stiffly, “Captain, I respectfully request that you either relieve me of the conn, or that you give orders to my pilots through me.”

  “Damn it, you don’t have the conn. I do.”

  “Then the Captain neglected to relieve me.”

  “Uh—Take the conn! Carry out the planned schedule.”

  “Aye aye, sir. Chief Pilot, orient the car for best view of Mars.”

  “Aye aye, Ma’am!”

  I was fuming, not looking, hardly listening. I had said to Deety, All right, keep on with it—or had I? Gay could play it back…and could also check on Hilda’s incredible allegation. If I were wrong (I felt certain I was not!), I would face up to it like a man and—Zeb broke in on my thoughts:

  “Captain, do you care what attitude this craft is in at rotation?”

  “No. Only for transitions.”

  “Hmm—Then it follows as the night from day thou canst not then predict the attitude we’ll be in whenever we arrive in a new universe.”

  “Only with respect to our arbitrary zero reference frame. Why should it matter?”

  “It won’t as long as we arrive with plenty of room. I’ve been noodling how to be sure of that. I don’t see an answer. But I don’t want to try translations or rotations parked on the ground. I hope the Captain won’t order any.”

  “Copilot, I have no plans to. Astrogator, haven’t we had enough sightseeing?”

  “Very well, Captain,” my wife acknowledged. “Deety, secure those binoculars. Zebbie, immediately after each rotation, set next rotation and report ‘Set.’ Deety, after each rotation, use voice program to put us through one Pigeon-Tumble with all lights out. I will watch to port, Deety forward, Zebbie starboard. Questions?”

  I
said, “Astrogator, you did not assign me a sector.”

  “I have no authority to assign duties to the Captain. Does the Captain wish to select a sector and assume responsibility for it?”

  She waited. I said hastily, “No. Perhaps it will be best for me to watch in all directions. General supervision.”

  “Very well, Captain. Copilot—execute.”

  Again we rotated into darkness. Deety switched out all lights.

  Zeb reported, “Set!”

  “Stop!” I called out. I added, “Zeb, you reported ‘Set’ in total darkness. How did you set it?”

  “Rotation around ‘z’ axis, with ‘x’ and ‘y’ dropping out. Duration along Teh. Third combo first group, sir.”

  “I mean, ‘How did you do it in darkness?’ By clicks?”

  “Captain, I didn’t do it in darkness.”

  I said, “It was pitch dark when you reported ‘Set.’”

  “So it was, Captain.”

  “It’s not necessary to call me ‘Captain’ every ten seconds. I want a straight answer. So far you have reported that you set it in darkness and that you set it with lights on.”

  “No, sir.”

  “God damn it, you just did!”

  “Captain, I protest your swearing at me. I request that my protest be logged.”

  “Zeb, you are—” I shut up. I counted thirty in French under my breath, by which time I was ready to speak. “Zeb, I’m sorry that my language offended you. But I am still trying to find out what you did and how. Will you please tell me, in simple language?”

  “Yes, sir. I set the third rotation by clicks—”

  “But you said the lights were on—”

  “The lights were on. I set the rotation with my eyes closed—”

  “For God’s sake, why?”

  “For practice. I set them with eyes closed. Then I check to see whether it matches what I intended to set. Deety leaves the light on until I give her the ‘kill it’ sign. Then she kills the glim and does her act.”

  “Zeb, there wasn’t time to do it that way.”

  Zeb gave a most irritating grin. “Captain, I’m fairly quick. So is Deety.”

  I said, “Perhaps I had better check the setting.”

  Zeb made no answer; both women kept still. I began to wonder what everyone was waiting on…then realized that I was the “what.” Unbelt and check on Zeb’s setting? I remembered that irritating grin. So I said, “Deety, carry out the tumbling routine.”

  The somersault completed, I asked, “Anyone see anything?”

  Hilda said, “I…think so. Captain, could we do that again?”

  “Do it, Deety,” I ordered.

  Pigeon-Tumble resumed; Hilda suddenly said, “There!” and Deety snapped, “GayDeceiverStop!”

  I asked, “Hilda, do you still see it?”

  “Yes, Jacob. A fuzzy star. You can see it if I pull back and you lean forward.”

  I suppose we each did so—for I spotted something. “I see it! Zeb—the binoculars, please.”

  An invisible hand pushed them against my neck. I got them lined up with difficulty, got that faint light, focused with great care. “It looks like a lenticular galaxy seen not quite edge on. Or it might be a family of galaxies. Whatever it is, it is a long way off. Millions of light-years—I have no way of guessing.”

  “Can we reach it by transition?” asked Zeb.

  “Possibly. I would set middle range on ‘six,’ then keep punching until it showed change in width. It might be possible to reach it in an hour or so. Do you want to look at it?”

  “From your description, I don’t think so,” Zeb answered. “That is fossil light—isn’t it?”

  “Eh? Yes, the light has been traveling for millions of years.”

  “That’s my point, Captain. We might find that those stars had burned out. Fossil light doesn’t tell us anything we can use. Let’s designate this ‘Last Chance’ and get out.”

  Eminently sensible—“Stand by to rotate. Copilot—execute!”

  Blinding light—“Zeb! Rotate! Execute!”

  Suddenly we were in a starry void, almost homelike. I heaved a sigh of relief. “Zeb, what did we fall into?”

  “I don’t know, Captain.” He added, “I had my eyes closed, setting the next rotation by clicks. So I didn’t get dazzled. But I never had a chance to check my setting by eyesight, either; I rotated at once.”

  “You got us out—thanks. I did get dazzled; I’ve got purple blotches in front of my eyes. New standing order: At each rotation all hands close eyes and duck heads for that moment needed to be sure that we have not again run into dazzle. Zeb, that need not slow you up since you are setting by touch and click anyhow—but if we do hit dazzle, rotate us out; don’t wait for my orders. And—All Hands!—we are all free at all times to use any of the escape programs to get us out of danger.”

  “Next rotation set, Captain.”

  “Thank you, Copilot. Hilda, do you or Deety have any notion as to what we fell into?”

  “No, Captain,” my daughter answered.

  “Captain Jacob, I have three hypotheses, none worth much.”

  “Let others judge that, my dear.”

  “Interior of a global star cluster—or near the nucleus of a galaxy, or—possibly—the early part of an expanding universe when new stars are almost rubbing shoulders.”

  “Hmm—Real garden spots. Zeb, could we have picked up excessive radiation?”

  “Captain, the shell of this buggy is opaque to most radiation, and that windscreen is heavily leaded—but no way to tell.”

  “Zebadiah, if the film in the camera is ruined, some heavy stuff got through. If the next picture is okay, we’re probably okay.”

  Hilda said, “I’m glad you thought of that, Deety. I don’t like the idea of radiation while I’m pregnant. You, too, hon.”

  “Aunt Hilda, we’re almost completely shielded where it matters. It could addle our brains but not our bellies.”

  “Hilda, do you wish to shoot one frame?” I asked.

  “No, Jacob, it would waste film.”

  “As you wish. My eyes are coming back. Deety, put us through one Pigeon-Tumble.”

  My daughter did so; I saw nothing. “Report! Hilda?”

  “Lots of big beautiful stars but nothing close.”

  “Me, too, Pop—but what a beautiful sky!”

  “Null report, Captain.”

  “Hilda, mark it down as ‘promising.’ All hands, stand by for fifth rotation. Keep eyes closed and heads down. Execute!”

  Zeb gasped. “Where in Hell are we?”

  “In Hell, maybe, Zebbie.”

  “Captain!”

  “Hilda may not be too far off,” I answered. “It’s something I could not have believed three weeks ago: some sort of inside-out universe.”

  “Pellucidar!” said Deety.

  “No, my dear daughter. One: We are not inside our home planet; we are in another universe. Two: This universe has physical laws that differ from our own. The inside of a spherical shell cannot have a gravitational field by the laws of our universe. Yet I see a river and we seem to be falling toward it. Deety, are we in air or in vacuo?”

  Deety wiggled the controls. “Got some air. Probably could get support with wings fully spread.”

  “Then do so.” Deety brought the car into a dead-stick glide.

  Zeb said grimly, “I don’t want to homestead here! So big—ten thousand kilometers across at a guess. Yet it’s all inside. No sky! No horizons. Never again a night sprinkled with stars. That light in the center—Looks like our sun but it’s too small, much too small. When we leave, I don’t want to come back; the god who takes care of fools and explorers let us arrive in empty space instead of maybe ten kilometers underground. But next time—I hate to think about it.”

  I said, “It may not have been luck, Zeb, but logical necessity.”

  “Huh. You’ve lost me, Captain.”

  “You’re thinking of this as a spherical shell. But
there is no basis for assuming that it has an outside.”

  “What? Endless millions of light-years of solid rock?”

  “No, no! Nothing. By ‘nothing’ I do not mean space; I mean a total absence of existence of any sort. Different physical laws, a different topology. We may be seeing the totality of this universe. A small universe with a different sort of closed space.”

  “I can’t visualize it, Jake.”

  “Deety, my dear, rephrase it for your husband.”

  “I’ll try, Pop. Zebadiah, the geometry of this place may require different postulates from those that work back home. I’m sure you have played with Möbius strips—”

  “A surface with only one side, one edge. But this is a sphere.”

  “Pop is saying that it may be a sphere with only one side, the inside. Have you ever tried to figure out a Klein bottle?”

  “I got cross-eyed and a headache.”

  “This could be a Klein-bottle sort of thing. It might turn out that if you tunneled straight down anywhere down there, you would emerge at the opposite point, still inside. And that straight line might be shorter than the distance across. Maybe much shorter.”

  “Point three-one-eight-three-zero-nine is the ratio by the simplest postulates,” I agreed. “But the geometry may not be that simple. However, Zeb, assuming that this is a total universe, our chances of arriving in open space were far greater than the chance of conflicting with a mass. But I would not wish to homestead here—pretty as it is. Nevertheless we might check for obstetricians.”

  “No obstetricians,” Zeb answered firmly.

  “Why?” I demanded.

  “If there are human beings here, they do not have an advanced culture. Deety has been following that river. Did you notice where that other river joined it? Also look ahead where it meets the sea. No cities. No warehouses. No river traffic. No air traffic, no signs of roads. Yet this is choice real estate. Therefore, no advanced culture anywhere and a small population, if any. If anyone wants to refute me, please do so in the next two minutes; Deety can’t hold this heap in the air much longer without using juice.”

  “I check you, Zebbie. They might be so advanced that they can make the whole joint look like a park. I wouldn’t bet on it.”

  “Deety?” I asked.