The Number of the Beast

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “Done!”

  “Captain,” my husband said worriedly, “are you planning to blast them?”

  “I hope not. I’d rather run than fight. I’d rather stay and get help than either. But they grounded where I can burn them—using offset.”

  “Captain, don’t do it!”

  “Copilot, I don’t plan to. Now drop it!”

  The grounded flappy bird was about two hundred meters and a few degrees left of dead ahead. Two men—they looked like men—had disembarked and headed toward us. They were dressed alike—uniforms? They seemed vaguely familiar—but all uniforms seem vaguely familiar, do they not?

  They were less than a hundred meters from us. Cap’n Zebbie did something at his instrument board and suddenly their voices were inside, blastingly loud. He adjusted the setting and we could hear clearly. Zebbie said, “That’s Russian! Isn’t it, Jake?”

  “Captain, I think so. A Slavic language, in any case.” Jacob added, “Do you understand it?”

  “Me? Jake, I said that I can swear in Russian; I didn’t say I could speak it. I can say ‘thank you’ and ‘please’ and ‘da’ and ‘nyet’—maybe six more. How about you?”

  “I can puzzle out a paper about mathematics with the aid of a dictionary. But speak it? Understand it? No.”

  I tried to remember whether or not I had ever told Zebbie that I know Russian. My husband and Deety I had not told. Well, if Zebbie knew, he would call on me. It is not something I mention as it does not fit my persona. I started it out of curiosity; I wanted to read those great Russian novelists—Dostoievsky, Tolstoy, and so forth—in the original in order to find out why they were so celebrated. Why I had never been able to read one of those classic novels all the way through? (They had cured me of sleeping pills.)

  So I set out to learn Russian. Soon I was wearing earphones to bed, listening to Russian in my sleep, working with a tutor in the daytime. I never mastered a good accent; those six-consonants-in-a-row words tie knots in my tongue. But one cannot read a language easily unless one can “hear” the words. So I learned the spoken language along with the written.

  (Oh, yes, those “classic novels”: Having invested so much effort I carried out my purpose: War and Peace, The Idiot, The Brothers Karamazov, Anna Karenina, and so forth. Would you believe it? Something is gained in translation; the originals are even more depressing and soporific than translations. I’m not sure what purpose Russian fiction has, but it can’t be entertainment.)

  I decided to wait. I was not eager to be interpreter and it would not be necessary if it turned out that Zebbie or Jacob had a language in common with our visitors—and I rationalized my decision by telling myself that it might turn out to be an advantage if the strangers thought that no one of us understood Russian.

  (At that point I realized that I had been thinking in Russian. It’s a wonderful language for paranoid thoughts.)

  When Zebbie switched on the outside mikes, the older was telling the Younger: “—not let Fyodor Ivanovitch get wind of such thoughts, Yevgeny. He does not believe that (no good? stupid?) Britishers can excel us in anything. So don’t refer to that curious craft as ‘advanced engineering.’ A ‘weird assemblage of poorly organized experiments’ would be better.”

  “I will remember. Shall I loosen my holster and take off the safety? To guard you, sir?”

  The older man laughed. “You haven’t dealt with the damned British as long as I have. Never let them suspect that you are even mildly nervous. And always be sure to insult him first. Bear in mind that the lowliest serf in Ykraina is better than their so-called King-Emperor. That serf—”

  —when Zebbie interrupted: “Arrêtez-là!”

  The younger hesitated but the older never broke stride. Instead he answered in French: “You are telling me to halt, you British swine? An officer of the Tsar on Russian soil! I spit on your mother. And your father if your mother can remember who he was. Why are you speaking French, you soiled British spy? You fool no one. Speak Russian—or, if you are uncultured, speak English.”

  Zebbie thumbed a button. “What about it, Jake? Switch to English when he’s so hipped on the subject of Englishmen? Or bull it through in French? My accent is better than his.”

  “Maybe you can get away with it, Captain. I can’t.”

  Zebbie nodded and opened the mike, spoke in English: “We are not British, not spies. We are American tourists and—”

  “‘American’? What nonsense is this?” (He had shifted to English.) “A British colonial is still British—and a spy.”

  My husband reached over, shut off the microphone. “Captain, I advise lifting. He won’t listen to reason.”

  “Copilot, not till I must. We don’t even have enough water. I must try to parley.” Zebbie thumbed the switch. “I am not a British colonial. I am Zeb Carter of California, a citizen of the United States of America; I have my passport. If we have trespassed, we regret it and apologize.”

  “Spy, that is the most bold-faced bluff I have ever heard. There is no such country as the United States of America. I am placing you under arrest. In the name of His Imperial Majesty the Tsar of All the Russias, by authority delegated to me by His Viceroy for New Russia Grand Duke Fyodor Ivanovitch Romanov, I arrest you and your party for the crime of espionage. Open up!”

  By now they had reached Gay Deceiver and were at the portside door.

  Zebbie answered, “You haven’t told me your name, much less identified yourself as a Russian officer. Or shown any authority over what is clearly unoccupied land.”

  “What? Preposterous! I am Colonel the Count Morinosky of Novy Kiev, of the Viceroy’s Imperial Guard. As for my authority, look at the sky around you!” The self-proclaimed colonel drew his pistol, reversed it, and used the butt to pound on the door. “‘Open up!’ I said.”

  Zebbie has good temper and calm judgment. Both are likely to slip if anyone abuses Gay Deceiver.

  He said softly, “Colonel, your craft on the ground ahead—is there anyone in it?”

  “Eh? Of course not. It’s a two-seater, as anyone can see. My private scoutabout. Never mind that. Keep quiet and open up.”

  Zebbie again switched off his microphone. “Gay Deceiver, at command ‘Execute’ burn one tenth of a second at point of aim, intensity four.”

  “Gotcha, Boss.”

  “Colonel, how can you take four prisoners in a two-seater?”

  “Simple. You and I will ride in your vehicle. The other members of your party will be hostage for your good behavior and will ride where assigned. You won’t see which craft lest you get foolish ideas. My pilot will fly my craft.”

  “Execute.”

  The grounded ornithopter began to burn fiercely—but the colonel did not see it. We saw it—but he was looking at Zebbie. Zebbie said, “Colonel, please stand clear of the door so that I can open it.”

  “Oh. Very well.”

  “Colonel! Look!” The younger officer, in stepping back, caught sight of the fire—and I have rarely heard such anguish.

  Or, an instant later in the colonel’s face, such astonishment switching to rage. He attempted to shoot Zebbie—with his hand still gripping the barrel of his pistol. In a moment he realized what he was doing and flipped it to catch it by the grip.

  I never saw whether or not he made the catch; Cap’n Zebbie commanded, “Gay Bounce!” and the scene blacked out while the colonel’s hand was open for the catch.

  Zebbie was saying, “Jake, I lost my temper. I should not have done it; it ruined our last chance to deal with those Russians. But I hope it taught the ruddy snarf not to go around hammering dents into other people’s cars.”

  “Captain, you did not ruin our ‘last chance’; we never had one. You ran into classic Russian xenophobia. The Commies didn’t invent that attitude; it goes back at least a thousand years. Read your history.” Jacob added, “I’m not sorry you burned his kite. I wish he had to walk home. Regrettably one of his craft will pick him up.”

  “Jake, if I cou
ld afford to—in juice, in time—I would go back and keep him from being picked up. Harry them, not let them land. I won’t. Hmm—Shall we fall a bit farther and see what they are doing? Before we get on with our interrupted schedule?”

  “Uh… Captain, may I have a Bonine pill?”

  I squealed, “Me, too!”

  “Deety, take care of ’em. I’ll put her in dive and we’ll look.”

  “Captain, why not use the B, U, G, program?”

  “Deety, somebody might be on that spot. Wups! I’m biting air.” Cap’n Zebbie leaned us over, placed Barsoom—I mean “Mars”—Mars-10 or whatever—dead ahead. “Should spot flappy birds in few minutes. Jake, how about binoculars?”

  Zebbie didn’t want them himself while piloting. We passed them around and I spotted an ornithopter, then two more, and passed the glasses to Deety.

  “Zebadiah, there is no one where we were parked.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yessir. The colonel’s scoutabout is still burning; there are people near it, nowhere else. That’s why I’m certain there is no one where we were. B, U, G, O, U, T is safe.”

  Zebbie was slow to answer. “How about it, folks? It would be an unnecessary risk. Just one squawk and I’ll skip it.”

  I kept quiet and hoped the others would, too. I don’t worry; I’m going to live as long as Atropos permits—meanwhile I intend to enjoy every minute. Zebbie waited, then said, “Here we go. Gay—Bug Out!”

  XX

  —right theory, wrong universe.

  Zeb:

  Deety is going to force me to look like a hero because I don’t have the guts to let her down. I thought my copilot would veto going back to the scene of the crime; Jake is level-headed about safety precautions. I didn’t count on Sharpie; she’s unpredictable. But I thought Jake would object.

  He didn’t. I waited until I was certain that no one was going to get me off the spot…then waited some more…then said sadly, “Here we go,” and told Gay to “BUG OUT!”

  I expected to be a mushroom cloud. Instead we were parked where we had been and the colonel’s craft was burning briskly. (Someday I am going to run that experiment: a transition to attempt to cause two masses to occupy the same space. But I won’t be part of the experiment. The Bug-Out program scared me, and I liked the Take-Us-Home program a lot better after we made it two klicks H-above-G instead of parked. Could the Bug-Out program be modified so that Gay sneaked up on her target, checked it by radar, before accepting it? Take it up with Deety, Zeb—stick to what you know!)

  The Russians appeared to be slow to notice our return. One ornithopter had grounded not far from the fire; there were several bystanders. I could not see whether or not my erstwhile arresting officer, Colonel Somethingsky, was in the group. I assumed that he was.

  Then I was sure: A figure broke loose and headed toward us, waving a pistol. I said briskly, “Shipmates, is there any reason to hang around?”

  I waited a short beat. “Hearing no objection—Gay Bounce!”

  That black sky looked good. I wondered how Bumpsky was going to explain to the Grand Duke. Brass Hats are notoriously reluctant to believe unlikely stories.

  “Did I bounce too quickly? Have you all seen what you wanted to see?”

  Only Deety answered. “I was checking that program. I think I see a way to avoid two masses conflicting.”

  “Keep talking.”

  “Gay could sneak up on the target, inspect it by radar, accept it and ground, or refuse it and bounce—with no loss of time and with the same execute code. That spot could be knee-deep in Russians and Gay would simply whoosh us to where we are now.”

  (I said to leave it to Deety. You heard me.) “Good idea. Do it. Can’t have too many fail-safes.”

  “I’ll reprogram when we stop.”

  “Correction. I want that fail-safe programmed now. I might need your revised program any moment.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  “‘Captain darling,’ if you please. If you must call me ‘Captain.’ Then review all preprograms and debug them, if necessary, with analogous fail-safes. And any new ones in the future. Now—Just put her into glide, headed west, and transit three minima?”

  “Or more. Or less. I thought that a spot check every thirty kilometers would be about right for a rapid survey.”

  “What altitude will we wind up? Assuming I simply aim her at the horizon and transit tangent to the curve.”

  “Oh. What altitude do you want, Captain—Captain darling? A tangent does little in three minima, just a touch over a hundred meters. Is ten kilometers about right?”

  “Ten klicks is fine. I could aim at the horizon, make transition, then at once give the B, O, U, N, C, E order.”

  “So you could, Zebadiah, but if you will use the horizon as reference and aim eighteen and a half degrees above it—Will your gunsight depress that far?”

  “No, but I’ll tell Gay. No problem.”

  “Three minima on that upward slant will place you ten klicks H-above-G and a couple of klicks short of three minima on the curve.”

  “Plus my present altitude.”

  “No, no! Visualize the triangle, Zebadiah. It makes no real difference whether you do this from ten klicks H-above-G, or parked on the ground. Do you want exact figures?”

  “You visualize triangles, Deety; that’s your department. I’ve got air bite now; I’m going to head west; I want to see where those ornithopters came from. Meantime work out that new fail-safe.” Did it really make no difference whether I started from ten thousand meters or right on deck? Didn’t I have to add in—No, of course not…but one way was sine and the other way was tan. But which one? Hell, it didn’t matter; Deety was right. She always is, on figures—but someday I’m going to work it carefully, on paper, with diagrams and tables. “Copilot.”

  “Captain.”

  “L axis, transit, three minima.”

  “Transition, L axis, thirty kilometers—set!”

  “Gay Deceiver.”

  “I’m not at home but you may record a message.”

  “Change attitude to climb eighteen point five degrees and report.”

  “Roger Wilco. Climbing. Ten. Twelve. Fourteen. Sixteen. Eighteen. Mark!”

  “Execute!”

  We were somewhere else with black sky. “Gay, vertical dive. Execute.”

  “No trouble, Clyde; enjoy the ride.”

  “Zebadiah, may I talk with Gay while you look over the terrain? To reprogram that fail-safe.”

  “Sure, go ahead. Jake, want to scan with binox while I eyeball it? I’ll warn before transition.”

  “Zebadiah, I could give her a scouting program, automatic. Skip the verniers, skip the climb order; just an ‘execute’ code word. Place her on course…or I could include course.”

  “I’ll head her manually; the rest is swell—after that fail-safe. What’s the code word?”

  “‘Scout’?”

  “Good. Include the ‘execute’ idea in the code word. Deety, I’ve decided that I love you for your brain. Not those irrelevant physical attributes.”

  “Zebadiah, once I’ve had a bath you may change your mind. I’ve had a sudden attack of brain fever. You had better program her yourself.”

  “Mutiny again. I retract and apologize. You smell yummy and should marinate another week. It’s not your cortex or your character I love but your carcass—delectable! If it weren’t for these seat belts, it would be rape, rape, rape, all the way to the ground. Actually you’re sort o’ stupid—but what a chassis!”

  “That’s better. Although I’m not stupid.”

  “You married me. Res ipsa loquitur! Jake, are you spotting anything?”

  “Dry hills, Captain. Might as well move on.”

  “Zebadiah, will you place her in glide and hold a few minutes?”

  “Sure. See something you want to check?”

  “No, sir, But when we emerged here, we had seventy-three seconds to impact. We’ve used twenty-one seconds. I�
�d like a few moments to insert those preprograms.”

  I overrode manually and started Gay into a stretched glide while I extended her wings. Then I let Deety and Gay talk to each other. Deety had both changes fully worked out; not once did Gay answer, “Null program.”

  I was about to warn Deety that Gay was not a sailplane when she reported, “All done, Captain. For the ‘S’ program I added in an alarm for two klicks H-above-G.”

  “Good idea. So now I head west again and give her that ‘S’ code word—no ‘Execute’?”

  “Yessir. ’Cept I’d like to try the revised B, U, G, O, U, T program. It has been less than four minutes since we left. Someone may be in that exact spot.”

  “Deety, I share your curiosity. But it’s like testing a parachute the hard way. Can’t we save it until we need it? Then, if there is a glitch, we’ll be dead so fast we’ll hardly notice it.”

  Deety said nothing. I waited, then said, “Comment, please.”

  “No comment, Captain.” Deety’s answer was toneless.

  “Hmm—Science Officer…comment, please.”

  “I have no comment to offer, Captain.” (A slight chill?)

  “Copilot, I require your advice.”

  “Uh, if the Captain please. Am I privileged to ask for written orders?”

  “Well, I’ll be dipped in—Gay Bounce! Is there such a thing as a ‘space lawyer’? Like ‘sea lawyer’? Jake, in general, anyone, save in the face of the enemy, may demand written orders…if he’ll risk his career to perpetuate evidence for the court-martial he knows will follow. Did it myself once and saved my neck and cost my temporary boss fifty numbers—and I wound up senior to him and he resigned.

  “But a second-in-command is in a special position; it is his duty to advise his C.O., even if the C.O. doesn’t ask for advice. So I don’t see how you can demand written orders on a point already one of your duties. But I won’t make an issue of it. I’ll direct the Astrogator to log your request, then I can dictate my reply into the log. Then I am going to ground this go-buggy and turn command over to you. Maybe you’ll have more luck chairing this debating society than I have had. I wish you luck—you’ll need it!”