The Number of the Beast

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “Can’t see that it matters,” Jacob added. “Hey! Waiter! Over here, please! We Longs pool the boodle and Deety tells us what we have, what we can spend—but not who fetched it in.”

  “Jacob, it’s the principle. Making money is a game. Maureen landed her.”

  “Hazel landed herself, Hilda,” Hazel Stone put in. “I don’t enjoy getting up feeling wobbly. Jubal, are you game for this?”

  “My mind’s made up.”

  “Then take a double room with me and we can tell each other lies while they make us feel young again. Hilda, is that kosher?”

  “Lots of double rooms. Ish knows that you are both special friends of Lazarus and, while she doesn’t spoil Lazarus, she’ll do him any reasonable favor,” Hilda assured her. “I think it’s the same all around, Waiter—charge it to my account.”

  “My check,” said Jubal.

  “Waiter,” Hilda said firmly.

  The waiter looked at her, flexed his jaw muscles, said, “Very well, Director!”—and vanished.

  “I think I missed something,” Jubal remarked.

  “I think I didn’t,” said Hazel. “‘Yon Cashier hath a lean and hungry look. He thinks too much. Such men are dangerous.’”

  Jubal looked around. “That cashier is our waiter. I think.”

  “I know. And bartender. And ticket taker. Unless his mother had quadruplets, he has Niven dislocators built into his shoes. I wish I could remember where I have seen him. He is not pleased with Hilda. Or Lazarus.”

  “Eh? Why?”

  “Wait and see. There will not be another tab brought to this table—want to bet?”

  “No bet,” Lazarus interrupted. “The upstart knows who I am, who Hilda is. People at this table are guests of the management. He had better remember it or I’ll sick Deety on him. Or even Hilda. But they hardly ever live through that. Hey, there’s Deety now!” Lazarus stood up and waved. “Deety! Over here!”

  Deety had with her a gaggle of giggles. “I don’t have time to do this right; we want to get over to the Field of the Cloth of Gold before the preliminaries—besides, we’ve got husbands over there, most of us. So this is Ginnie and Winnie and Minnie, and Ginnie’s a witch and Winnie’s a nurse and Minnie’s a retired computer, twin sister to Teena, and this is Holly and Poddy and Libby and Pink, and Holly is a design engineer, ship’s architect type, and Poddy is a therapy empathist, and Libby you all know, and Fuzzy is a computer artist like me and the first one to calculate the Number of the Beast to the last significant figure, and now we’d better go even though we have reserved V.I.P. seats because there is a masked knight in the first match and we’re pretty sure who he is, and has anyone seen Zebadiah?”

  “I’m certain who he is,” said Ginnie. “He brought me to life, and besides, he’s wearing Karen’s colors.”

  “I see Zeb off in the distance,” Lazarus answered.

  “No,” Jake denied, “here he comes now, from over this way. Ishtar with him. All dressed up.”

  “No,” said Jubal. “That’s Anne with him.”

  “Somebody is screw loose. Lazarus is right. I know my first husband even at this distance. He’s just approaching those three reserved sections opposite the big screen over the bar. Zebadiah! Over here!”

  The other computer artist added, “And that can’t be Anne, so it must be Ishtar. Anne is at the field, I know, because Larry is helping Jerry run it and told me, Anne agreed to cloak and be the third judge when Jerry told her that Mr. Clemens had agreed. Bonforte sits as king although he says he doesn’t know much about the kinging business and even less about jousting.”

  “Is it true that they are using real weapons today?” asked Jubal.

  “And real horses,” agreed Lazarus. “I was able to borrow the Anheuser-Busch Clydesdales.”

  “Lazarus, is this wise?”

  “Doctor Bone is taking care of the horses. If one is injured, we’ll give him the works. Those beautiful horses will be returned to Old Home Terra at their proper year and second in better shape than they were. With added skill. It’s takes time to turn a Clydesdale into a knight’s charger even though that’s what they are. But will they ever be happy in harness again?”

  “Lazarus,” Podkayne said seriously, “I’ll speak to Dr. Bone. If a horse is unhappy, we will soothe.”

  “Poddy, you’re a Smart Girl.”

  “About average here, I think. But if someone is unhappy, I have learned what to do. I have never seen a horse but they’ve lived with people so long that it can’t be very different.”

  Jubal sighed. “I’m glad the horses will be well taken care of—but, Lazarus, I meant humans. Isn’t someone going to be hurt? Maybe killed?”

  “Most of them hurt, several killed. But they do it for fun. Those who are hurt won’t stay hurt; we are hardly more than a loud shout from this planet’s best hospital. If a man loses an arm or a leg or an eye, or even his balls, he’ll have to be patient while a new part is cloned. But that sort of cloning we are learning to do right at the spot of injury, like a lizard or a newt. Faster. More efficient.

  “If he’s killed, he has two choices: Be brought to life again by Ishtar’s crew—brain unlikely to be hurt; their helms are the best part of their armor. Or, they can go straight to Valhalla; we’ve arranged for Bifrost to extend to this Field until the end of SCA’s part in the convention. Six Valkyries standing by and ‘Sarge’ Smith at the top of Bifrost checking them against the roster as he musters them home.” Lazarus grinned. “Believe me, the Society is paying high for these services, bond posted in advance; Deety wrote the contract.”

  “Lafe, you’re telling me that Wagnerian Valkyries are waiting to carry the slain Over The Rainbow into Asgard?”

  “Jubal, these Amazons are not opera singers; these are the real hairy, sweaty McCoy. Remember the purpose of this convention. Snob.”

  The waiter appeared. “You wish something, sir?”

  “Yes. Tell your boss that I want this table—this table only—to have a full view of Bifrost, from the Field to Valhalla. I know it’s not in the clothing illusion contract but the same gear will do it…and we can settle it when we go to court later. It will offset some of his lousy service. Git!”

  “We’d better all ’git,” said Libby. “They won’t hold up things for us. That armor is heavy and hot. Deety?”

  “Run along, I’ll catch up. Here comes my first husband.”

  “Lafe, if they are killed, how do you know which ones to send to the clinic, which ones to send up the bridge?”

  “Jubal, how would you do it? Sealed envelopes, destroyed if a knight wins, opened if he loses…and there may be some surprised widows tonight, unable to believe that their loving husbands elect to hunt all day, then feast on barbecued boar, guzzle mead, and wench all night, in preference to being restored to life in their respectable homes. But did I tell you what a winner gets? Aside from applause and a chance to kneel to ‘King’ John and ‘Queen’ Penelope. A paradox’s his reward.”

  “A paradox?”

  “No, no! Noisy in here. A pair o’ doxies each his reward. The Society got a bargain. The arts are in their infancy here; Boondock is still so much a frontier that we have not yet developed distinguished hetaerae. But some of the most celebrated hetaerae in New Rome volunteered their services in exchange for transportation and the privilege of attending this convention.”

  Zebadiah was struck by a guided missile, female, from five meters. He managed to stay on his feet and took his first wife to the table, sat down by Hilda, pinched her thigh, pinched her glass, drained it, said, “You’re too young to drink, little girl. Is this your father?”

  “I’m her son,” Jake answered. “Do you know Hazel Stone? If not, you should. We thought we saw you coming from the other direction.”

  “Shouldn’t drink in the daytime, Jake. Waiter! Your servant, Ma’am. I’ve followed your series on 3-D since I was a kid and I’m honored to meet you. Are you covering this for Lunaya Pravda?”

  “Heave
ns, no! LOCUS has an exclusive under the reasonable theory that LOCUS alone is competent to report this convention. Jerry and Ben are covering it for their various journals…but must clear it through Charles. I’m here as an expert, believe it or not—as an author of popular fantasy. Is the Galactic Overlord of my series real or imaginary and is there a difference? See next week’s thrilling episode; the Stone family has to eat. Same thing all around, I think. You can tip him, Doctor Zebadiah, but there is no tab at the Director’s table.”

  “And no tips,” growled Lazarus. “Deliver my message to your boss again and tell that spinning arsfardel he has exactly three minutes before I invoke paragraph nine, section ‘c.’ Here comes your double, Zeb.”

  From behind the couple who, at half a klick, had been mistaken for Zebadiah and Ishtar, came out quickly a shorter, older, broad-shouldered man. All three were dressed Robin-Hood-and-his-Merry-Men style: buskins, breeks, leathern jackets, feathered caps, long bows and quivers of fletched shafts, swords and daggers, and were swinging along in style.

  The shorter man hurried a few paces ahead, turned and faced their path, swept off his cap and bowed deeply. “Make way for Her Wisdom, Empress of eighty-thr—”

  The woman, as if by accident, backhanded the groom. He ducked, rolled, avoided it, bounced to his feet and continued: “—worlds, and her consort the Hero Gordon.”

  Lazarus got up, addressed the groom. “Doctor Rufo! So happy you could make it! This is your daughter Star?”

  “His grandmother,” Her Wisdom corrected, dropping a quick curtsy to Lazarus. “Yes, I’m Star. Or Mrs. Gordon; this is my husband, Oscar Gordon. What is correct usage here? I’ve not been on this planet before.”

  “Mrs. Gordon, Boondock is so new that its customs have not yet calcified. Almost any behavior is acceptable if meant in a kindly way. Anybody causes real trouble, it’s up to our chairman Ira Weatheral and advisers selected by him. Since Ira doesn’t like the job, he tends to procrastinate, hoping the problem will go away. As a result we don’t have much government and few customs.”

  “A man after my own heart. Oscar, we could live here if they will have us. My successor is ready; I could retire.”

  “Mrs. Gordon—”

  “Yes, Doctor Long?”

  “We—our chairman Ira especially—all know quite well who ‘Her Wisdom’ is. Ira would welcome you with open arms and resign in your favor at once—passed by acclamation and you would be boss for life. Better stick to the devil you know. But you are most welcome whenever you choose to visit.”

  She sighed. “You’re right. Power is not readily surrendered; I’ll probably wait for assassination.”

  Deety whispered, “Zebadiah…that bartender. Whom does he look like?”

  “Hmm—Brigadier Iver Hird-Jones?”

  “Well, maybe. A little. I was thinking of Colonel Morinosky.”

  “Mmm—Yes. No importance since it can’t be either one. Mr. Gordon?”

  “Call me ‘Easy.’ Or Oscar, Doctor Carter.”

  “I’m Zeb. Is that the Lady herself? The sword you were in the Quest for the Egg of the Phoenix?”

  Gordon looked delighted. “Yes! The Lady Vivamus.”

  “Can’t ask a man to draw a sword without a cause…but is the inscription close enough to the hilt that we could read it if you were simply to show steel?”

  “No trouble.” Gordon exposed the etched: Dum Vivimus, Vivamus!—gave them time to read it, clicked it to full return, and asked, “And is that the sword that killed the Boojum?”

  “The Boo—Oh! The monster we call a ‘Black Hat.’ But we did not ‘softly and silently vanish away.’”

  “No, it did. That will be a point we’ll discuss in the seminar panel: ‘Techniques for Hunting Snarks.’ You and I and Doctor Jacob and Doctor Hilda, with some others. André. Kat Moore. Fritz. Cliff. The Gordfather will moderate when he gets over his wheezes. Which he will—Tamara’s treating hi—Oh, heavens! Oh, God, how beautiful!”

  The “sky” had opened, for their table, and they found themselves looking at the Field of the Cloth of Gold, a half klick away and a few meters above them, on and up to high, high, high in the sky, the shimmering towers and palaces of Valhalla, with the Rainbow Bridge reaching from the field of honor to the distant gate of the eternal home of heroes.

  Instead of the wooded horizon usually seen in that direction, the land lifted in terraces, each more colorfully beautiful than the last, until the highest was lost in pink and saffron clouds—and above them, much higher, Valhalla in Asgard.

  “Pappy!”

  “Yes, Athene,” Lazarus said quietly. “Localize it. Me only. I have many people around me.”

  “That’s better? No problems, just to alert you. Arthur and Isaac and Bob all arriving at once. Twelve minutes, plus two, minus zero.”

  “You’re a smart girl, Teena.”

  “Put that in writing. Blandjor.”

  Lazarus said to the table at large, “My guests for those reserved spaces are arriving. I wasn’t sure of Isaac; he gets bigger every year and reluctant to travel other than by water. Arthur had such a long way to come and communications are always uncertain. Bob I knew was here but there were duty matters interfering. Shall we listen to some of the opening plenary while we look at the beauties of the Norse Afterland? We don’t want to look at the general session. But we can listen. When the tourney starts, give most of your attention to the hologram except during the Valkyrie ride. Snob! Give us the sound from the plenary session.”

  They got it at once, sound and fury signifying nothing. Under its cover Jubal Harshaw said to Zebadiah, “Before they get on that panel in front of an audience, think about this. How many ‘Black Hats’ or ‘Boojums’ are there?”

  “Eh? I have no way of telling. In excess of twenty as a best guess but that excess could be many millions, also a best guess.”

  “But how many did you see?” Harshaw persisted.

  “Oh. One. But more were a certainty.”

  “So? You would never get a Fair Witness to say that. What harm did it or they do you?”

  “Huh? Tried to kill us. Bombed us out. Killed my cousin. Chased us off our home planet. Impoverished all four of us. What do you want? Plagues and locusts? The Four Horsemen?”

  “No. You saw one. You killed it. It never laid a glove on you. Think about it. Before you testify. Let’s listen.”

  “If you read it correctly it’s all in the Bible. ‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.’ Could anyone ask for a plainer statement of the self-evident fact that nothing exists until someone imagines it and thereby gives it being, reality? The distinction lies only in the difference between ‘being’ and ‘becoming’—a distinction that cancels out when any figment-fact is examined from different ends of the entropy error—”

  “Bishop Berkeley is presiding,” Lazarus commented, “and would have shut this figment up save that the Bishop has laryngitis—imaginary, of course—and his parliamentarian, the Reverend Mister Dodgson, is too meek to shut anyone up. The Meek Shall Inherit the Earth, One Meter Wide and Two Meters Long.”

  “If God displaces the Devil, he must assume the Devil’s attributes. How about giving the Devil equal time? God has the best press agents. Neither fair nor logical!”

  “I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, the first and the last.”

  “Occam’s Razor is not the least hypothesis! It is the least probable hypothesis. The truth—”

  “There are three schools of magic. One: State a tautology, then ring the changes on its corollaries; that’s philosophy. Two: Record many facts. Try to see a pattern. Then make a wrong guess at the next fact; that’s science. Three: Awareness that you live in a malevolent universe controlled by Murphy’s Law, sometimes offset in part by Brewster’s Factor: that’s engineering.”

  “Why did Mercutio have to die? Solve that, and it will lead you to Mark Twain’s well. There’s your answer.”

  “Who is more real? H
omer or Ulysses? Shakespeare or Hamlet? Burroughs or Tarzan?”

  The debate shut off, the giant hologram screen lighted up in heroic size, full depth and color, and the tedious voices were cut off by a loud and lively one: “While we’re waiting for the first two champions to reach their starting lines we will have ‘The Grand Canal’ sung by lovely Anne Passovoy and accompanied by Noisy on his Stomach Steinway. Noisy is not in voice today, friends; he was bitten last night by an imaginary snake.”

  “Jerry is in good voice,” whispered Deety. “He always is. Aren’t they going to give us any closeups?” The camera zoomed in on Anne Passovoy, panned across the other Anne, cloaked in white, rested for a moment on “King” John and “Queen” Penelope, went on to show a vigorous old man with a halo of white hair who took a stogie out of his mouth and waved.

  “On my right is Sir Tenderloinn the Brutal and on my left is the Black Knight, shield unblazoned, helm closed. Oh Jear not, friends; Holger tongues. Dis Dane could be our arrow. Whose color—”

  Zebadiah heard a crash, turned his head. “They’re bringing in a big Corson flatboat. Smashed some chairs.” He looked again, announced, “Can’t see much, the stands on this side are filling with people in green uniforms. Black berets. Bloodthirsty-looking gang.”

  “That’s Asprin—”

  “Give me ten grains. Deety, you let me mix my drinks.”

  “Asprin, not ‘aspirin.’ Bob Asprin, Commandammit of the Dorsai Very Irregular,” Lazarus told him. “But can you see Arthur?”

  “Does he wear a deerstalker’s hat? Smoke a meerschaum pipe? The tall one there, talking to the man who looks like a gorilla.”

  “He’d Challenge you for that. Violent temper. That’s Arthur’s party, all right. Doctor Arthur Conan Doyle. Doctor Watson should be there, too. Wups! Here comes Isaac. And there goes another bunch of chairs.”

  “They’re off! The Masked Challenger is gaining speed, Sir Tenderloinn is having trouble getting his charger to move: It is a beautiful day here at Epsom Salts and Bifrost never looked lovelier.”