The Number of the Beast

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “Dora!”

  “Pappy, you’re jealous. But I’ll say this for Lazarus: He’s slow but he gets there and has believed all his life that any paradox can be paradoctored. Happens he had lots of time to think after he chucked Lib to a fiery grave because he stayed in that primitive era and got his arse shot off and this caused a long convalescence.

  “It occurs to him that, if he found the corpse through going back to shortly after he placed it in orbit, he might learn something interesting if he went back just before he put Lib’s remains in orbit. So when he’s well again, he does so, with his whole first team, headed by Doctor Ishtar, the greatest in the business, and I’m outfitted as a hospital with everything from microtomes to cloning capsules.

  “So we go there and wait—we don’t land. Along comes Lazarus in the clunker that he and Lib used to risk their lives in, and Pappy comes out in a pressure suit and detaches the LOX tank, and Lib is buried in space, waiting for judgment day. We respect Pappy’s grief just long enough for him to get out of the way, then I take the tank inside me. Ish gets to work, along with many others. Lots of live cells suitable for cloning. Brain intact. Dead but intact—okay, as all Ish wants are the memory configurations.

  “In the course of this, Ishtar learns that the late lamented had the potential to go either way—which is why the Families’ best telepathic hypnotist is sent for and keeps asking this clone: When you wake up, what do you want to be? Man or woman?”

  “It was much later, Dora. I was already awake.”

  “Lib hon, you ask Ish. You had to decide long before you woke. Ish and her hormone artists had to work on you while you were still labile. Matter of fact, you never answered at all; the telepath kept reporting on your emotional state whenever you imagined yourself male, and your state when you imagined yourself female. Ish says that it made you happy to think of yourself as female.”

  “That’s true. I’ve been ever so much happier as Elizabeth Long than I was as Andy Libby.”

  “That’s it, folks. How Ish turned a mixed-up male into a happy female, fully functional and horny as Howard females always are.”

  “Dora! We have guests.” Lazarus glowered.

  “All married. Deety is youngest. Deety, did my bluntness shock you?”

  “No, Dora. I’m horny enough to be a Howard myself. And terribly interested in how the great Slipstick Libby turns out to be my twin and female.”

  “Female without surgery—none of those fakes done with a knife. But even Ish couldn’t have done it had not Lib supplied XXY, so that Ish could balance the clone either XX or XY by careful attention to endocrinal glands. Or could she? Must ask. Ish is genius-cubed, smarter than most computers. Lazarus can now explain his next sleight-of-hand—slightly illegal.”

  “Hey!” I protested. “How about the corpse jettisoned into the Ozarks, Dora? Who was that?”

  “Why, that was Lib.”

  “Lib is right here. I’ve got my arm around her.”

  That computer went tsk-tsk-tsk. “Deety. Doctor Deety. I just finished telling you that the Lib you are cuddling is a clone. After they drained every memory out of that frozen brain, what was left was dog food. Lib got slashed in the spine by the local equivalent of a cave bear. Ripped out her—his—backbone. Once Ish was through with it, Laz froze it again, we took it back and placed it in orbit, where we found it later—to our great surprise.”

  “How could you be surprised when you put it there yourselves?”

  Dora announced, loudly, “Is there a mathematician in the house?”

  “Stop it, Dora. Thank you for recounting my saga; I learn a little every time I hear it.” Lib turned toward me and said softly, “Biological time versus durational time, Twin. Follow the entropy arrow through the loops of biological time and you will see that Lazarus was honestly surprised at every step even though he had—will-had—rigged every surprise. No grammar for it. Deety, I understand that you have studied semantics. Shall we try to devise a grammar for space-time complexities in six curved dimensions? I can’t contribute much but I can try to punch holes in your work.”

  “Love to!” I wasn’t fooling. My twin is so sweet that maybe Deety is fairly sweet herself.

  XLI

  “A cat can be caught in almost any trap once—”

  Jacob:

  If A, then B. I trust I am a rational mathematician, not one of the romantics who have brought disrepute to our calling through such inanities as defining “infinity” as a number, confusing symbol with referent, or treating ignorance as a datum. When I found myself in the Land of Oz, I did not assume that I had lost my reason. Instead it prepared me emotionally to meet other “fictional” characters.

  Stipulated: I may be in a locked ward. But to assume that to be factual serves no purpose other than suicide of personality. I shall act on what my senses report. I am not the bumpkin who said on seeing a giraffe: “There ain’t no sich animal.”

  I find myself in bed with my lovely wife Hilda in sumptuous quarters of star yacht Dora as guests of the utterly fictional “Lazarus Long.” Is this a reason to try to find the call button in order to ask a still-more-fictional nurse for a nonexistent shot to end this hallucination? This is an excellent bed. As for Hilda—Solomon has reason to envy me; Mahomet with all his houris is not as blessed as I.

  Tomorrow is soon enough to unravel any paradox. Or the Day After Tomorrow. Better yet, Not This October. After The End of Eternity may be best.

  Why disturb a paradox? As Dora pointed out, Hilda and I are a pair o’ docs ourselves…with no wish to be disturbed, and most certainly not to be unravelled.

  Since Hilda married me, I have not once taken a sleeping pill.

  No one called us. I woke up feeling totally rested, found my wife in the ’fresher brushing her teeth with, Yes, Pepsodent—removed brush from mouth, kissed her, placed brush back in her mouth. When she finished brushing her teeth, I asked, “Seen the kids?”

  “No, Jacob.”

  “So. Dora!”

  “No need to shout; I’m sitting on your shoulder. Would you like breakfast trays in bed?”

  “Have we missed the breakfast hour?”

  “Professor Burroughs, breakfast hour in me starts at midnight and ends at noon. Lunch is at thirteen, tea at sixteen-thirty, dinner at twenty, snacks and elevenses at any time. Dinner always formal, no other meal.”

  “Hmm—How formal is ‘formal’?” Hilda now had more wardrobe—but Beulahland is not high style.

  “‘Formal’ means formal dress of your culture or ours, or it means skin. No casual dress. As defined by the Commodore: ‘Whole hawg or none.’ Amendment: Jewelry, perfume, and cosmetics are not proscribed by the no-casual-dress rule. Ship’s services include sixty-minute cleaning and pressing, and a variety of formal dress of New-Rome styling, washables for the convenience of guests who do not travel with formal dress, prefer to be dressed at a formal meal, and do not choose to dine alone.”

  “Very hospitable. Speaking of washables, we found everything but a dirty-clothes hamper. I have a laplap to put in.”

  “But that’s a washable, Doctor.”

  “That’s what I said. I’ve worn it; it should be washed.”

  “Sir, I am not as fluent in English as in Galacta. By ‘washable’ I mean: Step into a shower while wearing it; it will go away.”

  Hilda said, “We’ll take a dozen gross.”

  “Captain Hilda, ‘dozen’ and ‘gross’ are not in my memories. Will you please rephrase?”

  “Just a side remark to my husband, Dora. What are New-Rome high styles today?”

  “‘Today’ I must construe as meaning the latest I have in stock. Styles follow the stock market. In evening dress, men are wearing their skirts floor length with a slight train. Bodices are off one or both shoulders. Bare feet or sandals are acceptable. Colors are bright and may be mixed in discordants. Weapons are required—may be symbolic but must be displayed. Ladies, of course, follow the cycle out of phase. Skirts are hardly more than ruf
fles this season, worn quite low. If tops are worn—not required this season and some ladies prefer cosmetics in flat colors—if worn, the teat windows may be either open or transparent. Transparents having quarter-lambda iridescence are popular this cycle, especially if one teat is bare without cosmetics while the other sports a changing-iridescent transparency.” The computer’s voice changed from a well-modulated adult female voice to that of an eager little girl:

  “I hope somebody picks that; I like to look at it! How about Doctor Deety and Doctor Lib, one shiny on her left teat, the other shiny on her right, and place them side by side. Neat, huh!”

  “It would be spectacular,” I agreed. (And they would look like clowns! Still, Deety might go along. The child likes to please people, even a computer. Perhaps especially a computer.)

  “You old goat, would you like a skirt with a slight train?”

  “Hilda!”

  “Dora, do you have formal washables in my husband’s size? What measurements do you need?”

  “I have the Professor’s measurements, Ma’am. I will fetch an assortment to your quarters sometime after noon when you are not sleeping or otherwise engaged. An equivalent assortment for you, I assume?”

  “If you wish, Dora. I may not wear that style.”

  “Captain Hilda is an excellent composition herself. I’m an expert engineer; I know good design when I see it. That’s not flattery; Laz-Lor tell me that I should learn to flatter. I’m not sure I have the circuitry for it. Perhaps I can learn it from Gay.”

  “You sure can, Dorable; I’ve been flattering my four charges seems like forever.”

  “Gay, have you been listening?”

  “Mad at me, Aunt Hilda?”

  “Never angry with our Gay Deceiver. But it’s polite to let people know you’re present.”

  “But—Dora has eyes and she lets me look.”

  “Captain Hilda, Gay is with me all the time now. Do you forbid that? We didn’t know.” Dora had slipped into her little-girl voice and sounded stricken.

  Time to intervene—“Gay, Dora—Hilda and I don’t mind. I’ll tell Deety and Zeb; they won’t mind.”

  “Jake, you’re my pal!”

  “Gay, you’ve saved our lives many times; we owe you any fun we can offer. But, Gay, with Dora’s eyes and ears you’ll see and hear things not seen by your radars, not heard unless we switched you on. Do either of you have the word ‘discretion’ in your perms?”

  “No, Jake. What does it mean?”

  “I’ll explain it,” Dora said eagerly. “It means we see and hear but pretend not to. Like last night when—”

  “Later, Dora. Over your private circuits. What ship’s time is it and are we late for breakfast? I don’t see a clock.”

  “I’m the clock. It is ship’s time nine-oh-three. You are not last for breakfast. Commander Laz is sleeping late; she didn’t go to bed right after the mutiny. Captain Long—that’s Lor—ate on the bridge—a crude insult to my watch-standing but she’s good company. The Commodore always eats breakfast in the flag cabin. The Doctors Deety and Zeb and Lib are just starting.”

  “How are they dressed?” asked my Hilda.

  “In serviettes. Doctor Lib is wearing ‘Jungle Flower’ in cologne and powder and perfume; she likes strong ones. Doctor Zeb seems to have forgotten to use any but his own scent is rather pleasant. I can’t place what Doctor Deety is wearing but it has both musk and sandalwood. Shall I formularize it by symbols?”

  “It’s ‘Blue Hour’ and I’m startled; my stepdaughter doesn’t need a scent. Neither does Lib, darn it. Jacob, are you ready?”

  I answered at once. I had taken care of this and that while the computers chattered, including trying a depilatory tricky until I learned how to block it off—my sideburns were missing. Zeb dressed in a serviette—Libby Long the only one not of our family—and Lib used to be male. A good time to rub blue mud in my belly button—“I’m ready.”

  Hilda noticed my decision by not noticing it. The blue “Tinker-Bell” light appeared, led us to a small dining room, where we encountered a Long-Family custom—did not realize it because it matched a ceremony of our own: Lib saw us, came over, kissed Hilda, kissed me—briefly but with time-stop. Then my daughter was kissing me good-morning while Zeb kissed my wife. We swapped as usual; Deety kissed Hilda—and Zeb took my shoulders, hissed into my ear, “Stand still”—and gave me the double Latin kiss, each cheek.

  Did my blood brother think I would let him down in the presence of one not of our family? Our custom had started after our double elopement. While Zeb and I usually used the Latin symbol, four rapid pecks, once at Snug Harbor we had missed the fast timing, hit each other mouth to mouth—didn’t pull back but didn’t stretch it out. We declined to make anything of it—although I was aware of the break in taboo and he was, too.

  Two mornings later I was last in; Zeb was seated with his back to me. He leaned back and turned his head to speak to me; I leaned down, kissed him on the mouth firmly but briefly, moved on and kissed my daughter not as briefly, moved on and kissed my wife thoroughly, sat down and demanded, “What’s for breakfast?”

  After that the only invariant was: “What’s for breakfast?” Zeb and I used either Latin pecks or busses on the mouth—brief, dry, symbolic, initiated by either of us. It meant that we were closer than a handshake; it held no sexual significance.

  So I was disgrunted that Zeb thought it was necessary to warn me. Let me add: Women are my orientation and Hilda my necessity. But I tried the other way with my high school chum our graduation week. We were experimenting to find out what the shooting was all about—planned but date subject to opportunity—which turned up that last week of school. A two-hour examination, no other school that day; a half hour of tennis, sudden realization that we were free and that his parents’ flat was empty and would remain so until late afternoon. Der Tag!

  We gave it a fair trial. We bathed first and thoroughly. We were not shy or afraid of each other. We were not afraid of getting caught—doors locked and bolted, chains on, S.O.P. by his parents’ rules. We liked each other and wanted it to work.

  Total failure—Got up, had peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches with milk, discussed it as we ate. Neither of us upset, not disgusted, no bad breath or similar hazards—but no results.

  Brushed our teeth again, washed each other—gave it a second try. So much calisthenics. No “morals” about it, willing and eager to add it on. Not for us—so we killed all evidence and got in three more sets of tennis.

  That’s how it is with Zeb and me. I love him dearly—but I love him for what he is—while fully empathizing that my daughter thinks he is the greatest lover since—Well, the greatest.

  But if Zeb ever makes a pass at me, I will do my amateur-acting best to make him feel that this is what I have been waiting for all my life.

  I’ve been trying to say why I was miffed. Never mind, I shall make it clear to Zeb that I will never let him down.

  About that Long-Family custom—“Long” is not the name of a Howard Family; it is a group of Howards who live together and who added “Long” (the pseudonym most used by Lazarus) to their regular names. It’s a commune, an extended family, a serial family, a god-knows-what. There is probably no word for it in any language and at least two computers are full members. They come and go and raise children and only the family geneticist (Doctor Ishtar) is sure of parentage and who cares? I suspect that they are all ambi in sex but no outsider could guess—and I am an outsider.

  But of this I am certain: When Long meets Long for the first time any day, they kiss—and it’s no Latin peck.

  I learned that I could have anything I wanted for breakfast. This should have been enough to tell me that we were being set up for the tale. I’m getting ahead of my story, as I know things about the Long Family that I read in a book that you may not have read. This ship Dora came from a planet many parsecs from the Earth-analog of that universe, from a time over two thousand years in my future looked at one way…o
r a time totally irrelevant to mine through not having duration axis in common.

  Yet I could have anything: Post Toasties, hens’ eggs any style, bacon, ham, sausage, breakfast steak, toast, orange marmalade, Concord grape jelly, buckwheat cakes—and not one of these foods is from Tertius, home of the Long Family.

  Pepsodent in our ’fresher—

  As I was contemplating a beautiful golden waffle with one bite of it melting in my mouth, Lazarus Long walked in…and a voice in my head played back: “The Commodore always eats breakfast in the flag cabin.”

  Add that Lazarus was dressed as were Zeb and I save that he did not yet have a napkin.

  Working hypothesis: Lazarus had listened in on every word between husband and wife.

  Second hypothesis: “Dora, tell me when they get up, tell me when they arrive in the breakfast room—if they do, but offer trays as usual. If they eat in the breakfast room, let me know how each is dressed.”

  The first hypothesis defines a grave social offense; the second outlines information a host or hostess is entitled to know. How do I find out which is which? Answer: I can’t, as Lazarus Long will give me the answer that profits him and that computer is loyal to him, not to me.

  As soon as Lazarus finished kissing Lib Long, he was grabbed by Deety and kissed…then he caught Hilda’s eye, glanced at me and sloooowly bent to kiss her, giving her and me, severally, time to make that tiny gesture that says No—and did kiss her because I depend on Hilda’s instincts and will never tell her No in such circumstances, or greater or lesser. Hilda put her hand back of his neck and thereby controlled the kiss and made it long—and I tore up the first hypothesis and marked the second one “Q.E.D.” Hilda’s instincts about people are infallible; I think she is a touch telepathic.

  As may be, we would now help him if possible.

  To Zeb and me he simply said, “Good morning”—his instincts are reputed to be infallible, too.