The Number of the Beast

by Robert A. Heinlein

  I leaned forward. (Sharpie was keeping us in the car; why I didn’t know—then.) “Commodore! I’m required to advise you.”

  “Yes, Zebbie.”

  “You are going to need a new chief of staff, a new second-in-command, and a new astrogator because I will be on the binnacle list in a wet pack if you don’t have Laz-Lor answer that last one. It is not ‘intellectual curiosity’ to me.”

  “Why, Zebbie dear, I have reports that your curve is such that it will be many, many years before you can possibly have other than intellectual interest.”

  (If it were not for upsetting Jake, I would paddle that pert little arse!)

  Deety said, “Hear, hear!” I placed my hand over her mouth and got bitten. Sharpie said, “Captain, we have here another paradox—Doctors Carter and Burroughs, each unreasonably insecure. Elizabeth, you’ve been a man; give them the male angle.”

  “Commodore, I wasn’t very successful as a male. I simply took antigeria whenever Lazarus did. But I can report his thumb rule.”

  “Yes?”

  “When a man looks at a new and attractive woman and decides that he is too tired, it’s time. When he doesn’t even look, push him over and bury him; he’s failed to notice that he’s dead.”

  The ship’s computer said something in that not-Spanish; Sharpie answered, “Graz, Dora. I’ll come now.”

  Lor said, “Ma’am, we didn’t know you knew Galacta.”

  “I don’t. But I will a week from now. I knew what I would say in your position, and you said it; I could tell from cognates. You told Dora to get him out pronto, because the Doña was on her way. Then get his personal belongings when I would not be inconvenienced. So I stalled. Zebbie, will you come with me? Jacob dearest, will you decide whether or not we should give up our suite with the Carters? And what to move out of Gay? We will be in Dora at least a week, possibly longer.”

  “Commodore, we depart for Tertius tomorrow midday, ship’s time.”

  “I do not recall ordering that, Captain Lor.”

  The twins looked at each other—and said nothing.

  Sharpie patted Laz’s cheek. “Don’t look so thunderstruck, girls”—girls?—seven years or so Sharpie’s senior and seven babies between them—“On reaching Tertius, place us in orbit, following local rules. But no messages from ship to ground unless approved by me in writing. Come now!”

  As Sharpie left with me in tow, she told Deety that she was on her own but please get out Jacob’s Army blues and my Aerospace dress, and ask Dora about cleaning and pressing.

  Jake said, “Hey!” before I could, and Sharpie said, reasonably, “I won’t put you into a long skirt, sweetheart; you would feel that I had coerced you into drag. I thought perhaps you two were bored with civilian dress—and I shall continue the custom concerning dressing for dinner—either formal dress or formal skin. Nothing in between.”

  Upon reaching flag cabin Sharpie dismissed Laz-Lor, waited until we were private, then clung to me. “Hold me, Zebbie. Hold me tight! Calm me down.” The little thing was shaking.

  “Maybe I had better get Jake,” I suggested, while holding her and petting her gently—and solving aerodynamic empiricals in my head to keep from noticing how much skin such a tiny woman can spread over one.

  “No, Zebbie. Jacob would fuss over me like a mother hen and give me advice I don’t want. Either I boss this job without my husband telling me what to do…or I can’t cut it. If I fail, I will fail on my own—not as Jacob’s puppet. But I can cry on you and tell you things I wouldn’t tell my own toothbrush.”

  She added, “When I send you out, find Jake and have him teach school to everybody. That’ll keep him busy and happy and out of my hair. And everybody else, too. Have both computers record his lectures.”

  “Lectures on what?”

  “Oh. Too many details. The plenum of universes and the Number of the Beast. Pantheistic multiple solipsism, or why the Land of Oz is real. The quantum mechanics of fairy tales. Even the care and feeding of Black Hats. He’ll probably want to take people into Gay…but you must be present; don’t delegate it. Jacob can go along and lecture but it’s Zebbie’s sharp eye that will see to it that nothing is touched.”

  She patted my chest. “You’re such a comfort. Now I’m going to dig out this ship’s papers and you’re going to help because I don’t know what to expect. Or where to find them. Certificate of ownership, I suppose, and registration, and ship’s manifest whatever that is. What else and where should I look?”

  “A log. Crew list, passenger list. Health inspection, maybe. Other inspections. Bureaucracy and red tape tend to follow the same patterns everywhere. Maybe no paper papers; that looks like a computer printout over there. Mmm—Insist on English; the originals are almost certainly in Galacta.”

  “I’ll try it. Dora.”

  “Listening, Commodore Hilda.”

  “Print for me, in English, the ship’s official papers. Ownership, registration, manifests, and so forth. You know the list. Retrieve soonest.”

  “I am not authorized to do this, Ma’am.”

  “‘Not authorized’ by whom?”

  The computer did not answer. Sharpie said, “Stick around, Zebbie; there’s going to be trouble. Do you have any weapons?”

  “Where? Look at me. How?”

  “I don’t know but you’re clever about such things. Dora!”

  “Your orders, Commodore?”

  “Get me Captain Lor! In person, not voice. I want her here on a dead run—right now! Out!”

  (I did have a weapon. I had palmed an item as I left Gay. But never admit a holdout.)

  Laz-Lor arrived, breathing hard, seconds later. “You sent for us, Ma’am?”

  “I sent for Captain Lor; I did not send for Laz. Out. Pronto!”

  Laz had her mouth open to speak. She got out so fast the door was only partly dilated; she dived through.

  “Dora! Repeat to Captain Lor every word that you’ve heard, every word you’ve said, since I entered this cabin.”

  The computer started with Sharpie telling Laz-Lor they could leave…then surprised me with: “Hold me, Zebbie. Hold me tight. Calm me down.”

  I started to speak, Sharpie shook her head. Dora droned on, right through Hilda’s order to repeat back all the computer had heard or said since we came in.

  The computer stopped; Sharpie said, “Dora, you told me this morning that you could not scan in here without permission.”

  “That is correct, Ma’am.”

  “Who gave you permission?”

  The computer did not answer.

  “Captain Lor, did you or your sister tell this computer to spy on me and to refuse to answer certain questions?”

  “No, Ma’am.”

  “Then it’s your brother Lazarus. Don’t bother to lie; I didn’t ask, I told you. Fetch your brother to me, under arrest. Move!”

  XLIII

  To Pull a Hat Out of a Rabbit—

  Smith:

  I had had trouble convincing my sisters that I must be “arrested” and “confined.” I had made an idiotic mistake and now must be “punished.” Lor had even less enthusiasm for placing herself and our ship under the command of a stranger.

  Once they accepted it, I could depend on them. We did not let Lib in on the caper; she has no talent for creative lying. Far better that she believe whatever she said.

  Laz and Lor were outwitting their elders by the time they were six, a process I encouraged by walloping them whenever I caught them. They learned. They also have my talent for looking stupid, plus one I have but seldom can use: They can turn tears on and off like a faucet. (I have not found many cultures in which this advantages a male.)

  Once this was settled, I arrested myself by helping Dora’s waldoes move my most personal gear next door. Then I lay down and listened through Dora to what was going on in the flag cabin.

  And discovered that I had outsmarted myself. I have never tried to teach Dora to lie; a dishonest computer is a menace: one that is a
pilot would be a lethal disaster, sooner or later. Sooner.

  But I hadn’t figured on this narrow little broad asking for my papers so quickly. Nor did I guess that Dora had told her that my cabin could be scanned only by my order.

  When I heard the situation start to deteriorate, I got up quickly and put on one of my Scottish outfits. Advantages: I look bigger, taller, more imposing. The costume calls for two weapons worn publicly. These I never use. But the costume is so draped and full that one may hide weapons for a half squad—then never show them save in extremis.

  So I was ready when Lor came busting in, almost incoherent. “Brother, is she mad! Watch yourself!”

  “I will, Lor. You’ve done a swell job.” I kissed her. “Now march me in under arrest.”

  So we did. I halted ten paces from Mrs. Burroughs and saluted. She said to Lor, “You may leave”—waited until Lor had left, then said, “Instruct your computer not to see or listen in this space.”

  “Aye aye, Ma’am. Dora.”

  “Yes, Boss?”

  “Back to normal for my cabin. No see ’um, no hear ’em until I tell you to.”

  “Chinchy!”

  “Dora!”

  “Aye aye, Boss. Mean!”

  “She’s a bit childish but she’s a good cook. And a fine pilot.”

  “And you’re a bit childish. Prisoners do not salute, prisoners do not wear arms. Captain Carter, confiscate his weapons. Keep them as souvenirs or destroy them.”

  Long years as a slave taught me to put up with anything without a squawk. That doesn’t make it pleasant.

  “Smith.”

  I didn’t answer. She added, “I mean you, Woodie!”

  “Yes, Ma’am?”

  “Lean over, grab your ankles. Captain, frisk him.”

  Carter knew how, I soon no longer had tools for a half squad—but felt better when he ended having missed one. He was in uniform-of-the-day, but he was big, in training, and carried himself in a way that made me think of Black Belts.

  “Those are yours, too, Zebbie, although you might share them. Deety mentioned something about not having a throwing knife. How’s the balance on those?”

  She was not speaking to me but I had to try to gain control of the psychological gage. “One and a half turns at eight meters, Ma’am. I make them myself. But it’s too heavy a knife for a lady. I would happily make one to fit Doctor Deety’s hand and strength.”

  “I imagine that Doctor Deety is stronger than you are, Woodie. I think you’ve gone a bit soft. Someday we’ll check it. Take off your clothes.”

  With my weapons gone, other than the one, I welcomed the order. Clothes are no asset in unarmed brawl; the other man can use yours against you. And I was sweating; Dora keeps the ship right for skin. I peeled quickly.

  “Shove them down that,” she said, pointing.

  “Uh, Ma’am, that’s a destruction oubliette.”

  “I know. Next time you won’t try to impress me by sartorial elegance. Furthermore it was intentional insolence. Pronto!”

  I shoved them down pronto. “Grab your ankles again, Woodie. Captain Carter, need we give him an enema to make sure he hasn’t hidden one more weapon? I don’t care to check by touch without a rubber glove, and I won’t ask you to.”

  “Madam, I give you my word—”

  “—which is worth nothing. Let it go, Zebbie. Join the class and keep an eye on our interests.”

  The big man looked me over. “I don’t like to leave you alone with him, Commodore.”

  “Thank you, Zebbie. I’m safe. I was safe when he was armed but he was being insolent so I spanked him. Run along; he doesn’t dare touch me.” She added, “Or do you have a premonition?”

  “No. But I get them just barely in time.”

  “I couldn’t ask for more. But I feel a prophecy. Woodie is going to be a lamb about everything. Now go, dear.”

  He left, giving me a look that promised death if I harmed her. I wanted to tell him that I had never found it necessary to harm a woman in more centuries than his wife had years.

  “Well, Lazarus, how do we work this out?”

  “Work out what, Ma’am? You have the upper hand.”

  “Oh, piffle! You have the upper hand; you know it. As long as the ship’s computer obeys you, rather than me, my ‘authority’ is a fraud. I escaped once by a fluke; you won’t let it happen twice. But I stuck my head back into the trap because I think we have something to trade, to our mutual profit.”

  “I hope so, Ma’am. Please go on.”

  “You want your mother rescued. I plan to do it if it can be done. For which you will toe the mark. We need a holding company. I will own fifty-one percent of the voting stock. Not of the profits; there will be plenty for all. But I control.”

  “Madam, you’re way ahead of me. I don’t know what you have in mind.”

  “Money. Money and power. Whew! I just got downwind; you sweated into that heavy costume. Go in there, take a tub bath, hot and soapy. I’ll sprawl on the chaise longue and we’ll talk business. Are you really trying to rescue your mother, or are you simply looking to cut yourself in on Jacob’s invention? We can make a deal, either way—but I must know. Don’t hold out on me; I tend to get annoyed. Then someone else pays. You, in this case.”

  She took my hand and led me into the ’fresher while I answered her key question and thought about the rest. No more lies; she had caught me in one thrown together hastily and too complex; my grandfather would have been ashamed of it. So—nothing but the truth. But how much truth and what truth?

  “Rescuing my mother is priority one, sine qua non. Business aspects are secondary.”

  “You were going to say that business aspects didn’t matter to you—and I would have stuffed it down your throat.”

  I stalled while I adjusted the bath’s controls. “Ma’am, I always think about business angles. But I would go broke and start over to make this rescue.”

  “Will you sign such a contract? We rescue your mother; you sign over all your wealth to me? No cheating, no holdout?”

  “Is that what it takes?”

  “No. It would not be equitable and that would compel you to cheat. Any contract must profit both of us. But rescuing your mother appeals to me—to all my family; I’m the least sentimental of us—and we would tackle it if there were not a fiat dollar in sight. Pour le sport. That nice warm feeling—whether it’s a kitten, a baby bird, or an old woman. But there is money in this…and sport…and opportunities beyond imagination. That sound of water splashing: does that interfere with Dora’s hearing?”

  “No, she filters it out.”

  “Is she listening?”

  I instantly answered, “Yes.” I’ve lived a long time in part by being a cat not caught in the same trap twice—as she had underlined. I placed in my permanent memory, nine times nine, never to lie to this woman again. Evade, avoid, keep silent, be elsewhere. But don’t lie to her. A born Grand Inquisitor. Telepathic? Must ask Laz-Lor.

  “I’m glad you said Yes, Lazarus. Had you said No, I would have broken off negotiations. I’m not telepathic—but you may find it inadvisable to lie to me. We must change the computer situation—part now, part later. You didn’t give her the right code words.”

  “That’s right. ‘Chinchy’ and ‘mean’ equal—”

  “—Roger Wilco, but reversed meaning.”

  “Eh? That’s a deep-down memory. Yes. Hmm—I must insert that phrase into Galacta. Useful.” The water was just right, with deep, fragrant suds. I stepped down into it, picked a seat that let me lounge. “I should have said to Dora—Shall I tell Dora now?”

  “With a modification. I want the equivalent of a simple telephone, so that I can call anyone, anyone can call me—and the same for you. But kill the snoop circuits throughout this suite.”

  “No trouble. We can call out at any time; that is a safety feature, permanent. As for calling in, I usually limit it to the twin commanding; she’s entitled to disturb me, if needed. If not needed�
�well, neither Laz nor Lor enjoys being called ‘stupid,’ especially by me.”

  I changed the orders to Dora and did not cheat; Mrs. Burroughs and I were now truly in private, although anyone could reach us—voice only. “What next, Ma’am?”

  “Some permanent changes for Dora, now that she can’t hear us. Tentative plans for your mother’s rescue. Then we talk business. Is there a seat in that pool where I won’t drown?”

  “Oh, certainly. When Laz-Lor were your size, they often bathed with me—I’ve had as high as six in this tub although that’s a bit cozy; it’s a four-adult design. Here, let me help; you can’t see through these suds.” Helping Hilda Burroughs reminded me of handling Laz-Lor at the same size, prepubescent…but I was acutely aware that this small, warm, slick body was postpubescent by many years and I got a twinge that I was pleased to have fig-leafed by suds. “Feel under you—find the seat? Temperature suit you?”

  “Luxurious. On Tertius refreshers are social rooms, are they not?”

  “Yes. Over the years I have found that nude cultures, or those with no taboos about nakedness, tend to make bathing a social event. Ancient Romans. Ancient Japanese. Many others.”

  She answered, “Whereas cultures with strong body taboos equate bathing rooms with outhouses back of barns. Disgusting.” Mrs. Burroughs looked disgusted. I noted this as I had thought it would be necessary to get them used to skin before exposing them to the easy-going ways of Tertius…lest I jeopardize my mother’s rescue. I had instructed Laz-Lor to hold us in irrelevancy until all of them, with no urging, accepted the comfort of complete bareness in perfectly tempered conditions, and simply forgot about bodies qua bodies. This does not mean to forget yin-yang…but it has long been known to all but legislators, judges, and other fools that a scrap of clothing fig-leafing whatever may be taboo (taboos vary endlessly and each is a “law of nature”) is far more stimulating than is no clothing.

  (Warning to time-travellers: To assume that the taboos of your native culture are “natural” and that you can’t go too wrong behaving by the rules your loving parents taught you is to risk death. Or worse. If you think death has no “worse,” read history.)