The Number of the Beast

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “May I offer something in my own defense?” Pop put in.

  “Of course, Jake. Sorry, Captain; you’re in charge. May the Copilot have the floor?”

  “Jacob, even though I find it necessary to leave you… I love and respect you…and will always listen to you.”

  “Thanks, darling. Thank you, Captain. I was in that huddle because Brigadier Hird-Jones always remembers. That huddle was the top physical scientists on Mars. A scruffy lot but they get the technical journals and read them, a few months late. I was talking with the top chemist—”

  “Well, Jake? Make it march.”

  “Zeb, not one knew an isotope from an antelope. You can’t buy juice here.”

  “For that you disobeyed a direct order of the Captain? Sharpie, you should have him flogged around the Fleet before you surrender office—”

  “Don’t joke, Zebbie.”

  “Captain, I am not joking. Jake, that’s no news; I spotted it this afternoon. Sharpie? Deety? In England.”

  “I missed it,” Aunt Hilda said. “I don’t know England well.”

  “Deety?”

  “Well…maybe,” I admitted.

  “How?” demanded Pop.

  “Little things. No roadables, just horse-drawn vehicles. No air traffic other than a few ornithopters. Coal-fired steam-powered trains of cars. Traffic on the Thames, what little there was, ’minded me of pictures of Victorian England.”

  “Daughter, why didn’t you mention this?”

  “You saw it, Pop.”

  “Those were my reasons,” Zebadiah agreed. “My hope of getting juiced here dropped to one-tenth of one percent. It is now zero.” Zebadiah sighed. “But that isn’t why I asked the Captain to call us together. Family, there are vermin here.”

  The world wobbled again—and so did I.

  Aunt Hilda was saying, “How did you learn this, Zebbie?”

  “You gals had plenty of company and Jake had the local scientists, so Squeaky gave me his attention. Captain, you told us to stick to the truth—”

  “Yes,” agreed Aunt Hilda, “but not to volunteer information.”

  “I didn’t volunteer; I was debriefed. Squeaky asked me about the ride we gave his boss; I tried to be vague. Squeaky took a photo from his pocket. ‘The Governor tells me this was taken this afternoon.’ Deety, it was the pic you took of the Thames and the Tower.

  “I shortly started giving him a full account rather than have it dragged out. The Governor had told him the works; Squeaky was comparing my version with Bertie’s, looking for holes in a yarn most easily explained by hypnosis, delirium tremens, insanity, or fancy lying. Since no two witnesses exhibit any of these in the same way they can be used as truth tests. Contrariwise, two witnesses who tell exactly the same story are lying. I assume that Bertie and I differed enough to be credible.”

  I asked my husband, “Zebadiah, did you explain six-dimensional space to him?”

  Zebadiah looked pained. “How could I, when I can’t explain it to me? Anyhow, he’s looking forward eagerly to the ride Captain Sharpie promised him.”

  “Oh, dear! Zebbie, will you take a note to him?”

  “Captain, we are not coming back after we drop you. I’ll be breaking a date with him, too. Either before or after whatever time suits you, he’s planning to give me—and anyone else who wants to go—a ride to see the vermin. ‘Black Hats.’ Fake rangers.”

  (I do wish the world would not wobble!)

  Pop said, “Zeb, spill it! Quit stalling.”

  “Shut up and listen. Squeaky showed me a scrapbook. Dull as a scrapbook usually is until we came across a page of ‘Black Hats.’ Deety, you would have been proud of me—”

  “I am proud of you,” I answered.

  “—because I didn’t scream or faint, I showed no special interest. I just said, ‘God in Heaven, Squeaky, those are the horrors that chased us off Earth! You’ve got ’em here?’”

  “‘No special interest.’”

  “I didn’t climb the drapes. I merely said, ‘Or have you managed to exterminate them?’

  “The discussion became confused, as they don’t kill them; they put them to work. Squeaky had to repress amusement at the notion that wogs could be dangerous. He glanced at his watch and said, ‘Come, I’ll show you. Ordinarily we don’t allow wogs in town. But this old fellow takes care of the Governor’s gardens and may not yet have been returned to the pens for the night.’ He led me to a balcony. Squeaky looked down and said, ‘Too late, I’m afraid. No, there it is—Hooly! Chop, chop!’—and again I didn’t faint. Hooly ran toward us, with a gait I can’t describe, stopped abruptly, threw an open-palm salute and held it. ‘Private Hooly reports!’

  “Squeaky let him stand there. ‘This wog,’ he told me, ‘is the most intelligent of the herd. It knows almost a hundred words. Can make simple sentences. As intelligent as a dog. And it can be trusted not to eat the flowers.’

  “‘Herbivorous?’ says I, showing off my book-larnin’. ‘Oh, no,’ he tells me, ‘omnivorous. We hunt wild ones to provide the good wogs with a change in diet and, of course, when we slaughter overage wogs, that provides more ration.’

  “That’s enough for one lesson, children. Pleasant dreams. Tomorrow the Brigadier will have a roadable big enough for all of us to take us out to meet the Martian natives aka wogs aka ‘Black Hats’ aka vermin—unless that interferes with the ride you aren’t going to give him, in which case he will swap the times around with the visit to the wogs we aren’t going to make. And that, Jake, is the reason I asked the Captain for a family conference. I already knew that artificial isotopes are far beyond this culture—not alone from the ride this afternoon but because I ask questions myself. Squeaky has a knowledge of chemistry about the pre-nuclear level and a detailed knowledge of explosives that one expects of a pro. But to Squeaky atoms are the smallest divisions of mass, and ‘heavy water’ is a meaningless phrase.

  “So I knew we would be here just to get Sharpie some clothes and to recharge my packs—since they do have D.C. power. Then I found we had stumbled onto the home of the vermin—and at that point my back didn’t ache at the idea of cranking, and I didn’t think that the Captain was that much in a hurry to buy clothes. So I asked the Captain to call us together in Smart Girl. I did not want to put it off even a few minutes because we were scheduled to move into our suite after tea. To leave at once, before we moved in, would save awkward explanations. Jake, did I have reason to ask for emergency conference?”

  “If you had told me—”

  “Stop! The Captain told you.”

  “But she didn’t explain—”

  “Jake, you’re hopeless! Captains don’t have to explain. Furthermore she could not because I did not tell anyone until now. The Captain had confidence in my judgment.”

  “You could have explained. When Hilda sent you back to get me. I would have come at once.”

  “That makes the ninth time you’ve been wrong in twenty minutes—”

  I blurted, “Tenth, Zebadiah. I counted.”

  Pop gave me his “Et-tu,-Brute” look.

  “—tenth without being right once. I could not have explained to you.”

  “Merely because of a group of men?”

  “Eleventh. I was not sent back to get you—twelfth. I was under orders to tell you that—quote!—‘We lift in five minutes.’ Tell you that and no more, then turn and leave at once, without discussion. I carried out my orders.”

  “You hoped that I would be left behind.”

  “Thirteen.”

  I butted in again. “Pop, quit making a fool of yourself! Zebadiah asked you an essential question—and you’ve dodged. Captain Auntie, could we have the doors closed? There might be one of them out there—and the guns are locked up.”

  “Certainly, Deety. Gay Deceiver, close your doors.”

  Pop said, “Deety, I was not aware that I had been dodging. I thought I was conducting a reasonable discussion.”

  “Pop, you always think so. But yo
u are reasonable only in mathematics. Zebadiah asked you whether or not, under the circumstances, did he have reason to ask for a conference? You haven’t answered it.”

  “If Hilda had not told him not to—”

  “Pop! Answer that question or I will never speak to you again in my life!”

  My husband said, “Deety, Deety! Don’t make threats.”

  “My husband, I never make threats, either. Pop knows it.”

  Pop took a deep breath. “Zeb, under the circumstances you have described, you were justified in asking the Captain for an immediate private conference.”

  I let out my breath. “Thanks, Pop.”

  “I did it for myself, Deety. Hilda? Captain?”

  “What is it, Jacob?”

  “I should have gone with you at once when you first asked me to.”

  “Thank you, Jacob. But I did not ‘ask’ you; I ordered you. True, it was phrased as a request…but orders of a commanding officer are customarily phrased as requests—a polite protocol. You explained this custom to me yourself. Although I already knew it.” Aunt Hilda turned to look at Zebadiah.

  “Chief Pilot, the departure for Minus-J is postponed until late tomorrow. I will give you the time after I have consulted the Brigadier. I want to see one of those vermin, alive, photograph it stereo and cinema, and, if possible, dissect one. Since I intend to remain overnight, I hope to pick up clothes for Minus-J, too—but the reasons for delay are to learn more about vermin and to carry out my commitment to Brigadier Hird-Jones.”

  Aunt Hilda paused, continued: “All hands, special orders. Do not remove anything from the car that you cannot afford to abandon. This car may lift on five minutes’ warning even in the middle of the night. You should keep close to me unless you have a guarantee from me of longer time. Tonight I will sleep in the car. If we lift in the night, I will send word to Princess Suite. Zebbie, I will retain the captaincy until we ground on Minus-J. Schedule: Dinner tonight is eight-thirty pip emma local time, about three hours hence. Black tie for gentlemen. Deety suggests that we wear what we wore our wedding night; she has our outfits packed together. The Brigadier will send someone to Princess Suite shortly after eight local to escort us to a reception. I will settle tomorrow’s schedule with him. Jacob, I will slip down to the car after the House is quiet. If someone sees me, I will be running down for a toothbrush. Questions?”

  “Captain?” said Pop.

  “Copilot.”

  “Hilda, must you sleep in the car?”

  “Jacob, ’twere best done quickly!”

  “I’m begging you.”

  “You want me to be your whore one last time? That’s not too much to ask…since you were willing to marry me knowing my thoroughly tarnished past. Yes, Jacob.”

  “No, no, no! I want you to sleep in my arms—that’s all I ask.”

  “Only that? We can discuss it after we go to bed. All hands, prepare for space. Report!”

  I splashed the Hillbilly and giggled. “Cap’n Auntie chum, that flatters me more than anything else you could ever say. While I can’t imagine needing a jigger—if I did—or if I needed any sort of help and it took one who loves me no matter what, you know to whom I would turn. The one who loves me even when I’m bad. Who’s that?”

  “Thank you, Deety. We love and trust each other.”

  “Now tell me—Did you ever have any intention of sleeping tonight in the car?”

  She pulled the chain again. Under that racket she said into my ear, “Deety doll, I never had any intention of sleeping tonight.”

  XXVIII

  “He’s too fat.”

  Zeb:

  Sharpie sat on the Governor’s right with my wife on his left, which gave Jake and me the privilege of sharing Lady Herbert, a loud shout away. The space was filled with mess jackets, dinner coats, and wives in their best. We each had one footman to insure that we did not starve; this platoon was bossed by a butler as impressive as the Pope, who was aided by a squad of noncom butlers. Female servants rushed in and out to serving tables. His Supremacy the Butler took it from there but used his hands only in offering splashes of wine to the Governor to taste and approve.

  All were in livery—decorated with the Broad Arrow. The British colony consisted of a) wogs, b) transportees, c) discharged transportees, d) officers and enlisted men, e) civil servants, and f) spouses and dependents. I know even less about the Russian colony. Military and serfs, I think.

  The ladies were in Victorian high-style dowdiness, which made Deety and Sharpie birds of paradise among crows. Jump suit and sailor pants had shocked people at tea. But at dinner—Deety wore the velvet wrap she had the night we eloped; Sharpie wore her sunset-shade mink cape; Jake and I unveiled them on the grand staircase leading down to the reception hall. Naw, we didn’t rehearse; we were mysterious strangers, guests of the Governor General and His Lady, so all eyes were upon us. Maids, hurrying up, met us there to take our ladies’ wraps.

  I had questioned the propriety of house guests coming downstairs in wraps. Sharpie had answered, “Utterly correct, Zebbie—because I set the style. I did so this afternoon; I shall until we leave.” I shut up; Sharpie has infallible instinct for upstaging.

  Have I mentioned how Sharpie and Deety were dressed at Sharpie’s party? They practically weren’t. I wish I had had that hall bugged to record the gasps when Jake and I uncovered our prizes.

  These two had last been seen at tea, one in a jump suit, the other in an outfit that looked donated by the Salvation Army, with no makeup. We had been to our suite before tea only for a hasty wash.

  But now—Sharpie did Deety’s hair; Deety did Sharpie’s; Sharpie styled both faces, including too much lipstick, which Deety doesn’t often wear. I asked Sharpie if she knew the history and significance of lipstick. She answered, “Certainly do, Zebbie. Don’t bother us.” She went on making Deety beautiful. Deety is beautiful but doesn’t know it because her features have that simple regularity favored by Praxiteles.

  Having put too much lipstick on Deety, Sharpie removed some, then carried her makeup onto her breasts so that it disappeared under the dress. Which is pretty far because they saved material on that dress at the top in order to give it a full, floor-length skirt. You can’t quite see her nipples—in the flesh I mean; they generally show through her clothes, always when she’s happy—because Deety stands tall. Her mother had told her, “Deety, if a woman is tall, the answer is to look at least three centimeters taller than you are.”

  Deety always believed her mother; she stands tall, sits straight; she never leans or slouches; she can get away with that dress by half a centimeter. I’m not sure of the material but the color is the shade of green that goes best with strawberry hair. That dress, her height, long legs, broad shoulders, a waist two sizes too small setting off breasts two sizes too big—the combo could get her a job as a show girl.

  When Sharpie finished gilding Deety I couldn’t see that she had been made up at all…but knew durn well that she did not look the way she had before. Sharpie picked her jewelry, too—sparingly, as Deety had all her pretties with her, her own and those that had belonged to her mother. Sharpie based it on an emerald-and-pearl neckpiece, plus a matching pin and ring.

  As for Sharpie, twice my darling’s age and half as big, restraint was not what she used. The central diamond of her necklace was smaller than the Star of Africa.

  She wore other diamonds here and there.

  Here is something I don’t understand. Sharpie is underprivileged in mammary glands. I know she was not wearing cheaters as I returned to get my tie tied just as Deety was about to lower it onto her. No bra, no underwear. But when that dress was fastened, Sharpie had tits—little ones but big enough for her size. Stuffing built into the dress? Nope. I went out of my way to check.

  Is that why some couturiers get such high prices?

  Still…the Captain looks best in her skin.

  So we uncovered these confections and gave the British colony, male, female, and the other
s, something to talk about for months.

  I can’t say the English ladies were pleased. Their men gravitated toward our darlings like iron filings toward a magnet. However, Betty, Lady Herbert, is sweet all through. She rushed toward us (a bow wave of juniors getting out of her way), stopped short, looked only at our ladies, and said with the delight of a child at Christmas: “Oh, how beautiful you are!” and clapped her hands.

  Her voice projected against dead silence, then conversation resumed. Lady Herbert took them, an arm around each, and toured the hall (busting up a receiving line). Brigadier Hird-Jones rolled with the punch, gathered in Jake and me, made sure we met those who had not been at tea.

  Shortly before dinner a colonel said to me, “Oh, I say, is it true that the tiny beauty is in command of your ship?”

  “Quite true. Best commanding officer I’ve ever had.”

  “Haw. Astounding. Fascinating. The taller girl, the strawberry blonde—introduced simply as ‘Mrs. Carter.’ She’s part of your ship’s company. Yes?”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “Astrogator and second-in-command. Doctor D. T. Burroughs Carter, my wife.”

  “Well! My congratulations, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I say, Carter, would it be rude of me to ask why the ladies have the senior posts while you and Doctor Burroughs appear to be junior? Or am I intruding?”

  “Not at all, Colonel. We each do what we do best. Mrs. Burroughs is not only best as commander; she is also best cook. While we take turns at cooking, I’ll happily volunteer as scullery maid if it will persuade the Captain to cook.”

  “Amazing. Could you use a colonel of lancers about to retire? I’m a wonderful scullery maid.”

  The dinner was excellent (Irish chef, transported for shooting his landlord) and Lady Herbert was delightful, even though she drank her dinner and her words became increasingly difficult to understand. But any answer would do as long as it was friendly. Jake displayed the charm he can when he bothers and kept her laughing.

  One thing marred it. Lady Herbert started to slump and nursing sisters appeared and took her away. What is protocol for this?