The Number of the Beast

by Robert A. Heinlein

“He certainly is!” I cut in. “Governor, I can whip you—I can kill you, with my bare hands. I’m Black-Belt three ways. Are you going to hide behind your Commission and your self-serving laws?” I dusted my hands together. “Coward. Two cowards, with their chests covered with ribbons boasting about their brave deeds.”

  “Astrogator.”

  “Captain.”

  “Let it drop. Bertie, under right of angary we are entitled to remove our chattels. I insist on a witness so that you will know that we have done nothing to damage the craft. If the Brigadier can drive it, it will be turned over to him in perfect shape. But my jewelry is in our craft and many other things; I must have a witness. You, sir. My stepdaughter can certainly kill you or anyone her size or a bit more than her size, with her bare hands. But I grant you safe-conduct. Will you have it in writing?”

  Bertie shook his head. “You know I can’t take time to witness. Pick anyone else.”

  “I won’t grant safe-conduct to anyone else. Anyone who has not ridden with us would not know how to watch for sabotage. So it must be either you or Hird-Jones…and Hird-Jones would never live to get out of our car. He has three of the deadliest killers in two universes quite annoyed. Angry over angary.”

  “Any of you who will not give parole must wait up here.”

  “Wait a half, Gov,” my husband drawled. “‘Parole’ applies to prisoners. Captain, this might be a good time to read aloud our safe-conduct from the Governor General. See how many ways this fake ‘officer and gentleman’ has broken his word—and the written guarantees of his sovereign. He has broken all three essential guarantees to all four of us. That’s twelve. Almost a Russian score. Safe-conduct amounting to diplomatic immunity, all of us free to leave at any time, we four never to be separated involuntarily. Now he wants hostages. Pfui!”

  “None is broken,” Bertie asserted.

  “Liar,” my husband answered.

  “All of you are safe here…until the Russians conquer us. I slipped in speaking of parole; you are not prisoners. You all may stay together—living in the Princess Suite if you so choose. If not, in any quarters you choose in territory I control. You are all free to leave at any moment. But you must not approach that requisitioned flyer. Captain, your jewels will be safe. But others will unload the flyer.”

  “Bertie—”

  “What? Yes… Hilda?”

  “Dear, you are both stubborn and stupid. You can’t open the doors of our car, much less drive it. Attempt to force it open and no one will ever drive it. I conceded the legality of the right of angary. But you insist on making it impossible to apply it. Accept my safe-conduct and come witness or there that car sits until the Russians come, while we live in luxury in this palace. You know that ‘the right to leave at any time’ means nothing without our transport. Now, for the last time, will you do it my way…or will you waste the precious minutes of a war crisis trying to open that car by yourself? Make up your mind, this offer will not be repeated. Answer Yes or No…and be damned quick about it!”

  Bertie covered his face with his hands. “Hilda, I’ve been up all night. Both Squeaky and I.”

  “I know, dear. I knew when we came in. So I must help you make up your mind. Deety, check your purse. Something is missing.”

  I hastily checked, wondering what she meant. Then I noticed that a secret pocket that should have been hard was not. “Oh! Do you have it?”

  “Yes, Deety.” Aunt Hilda was seated, her choice, so that she had both Bertie and Squeaky in her line of fire—and none of us. “I mentioned three killers. Now you have four facing you…in a soundproofed room with its door bolted from inside.” (I never saw her draw my Skoda gun. But she was holding it on them.) “Bertie, I’m making up your mind for you. You are accepting my safe-conduct. Consider how poor the chances are that anyone would find your bodies in the time it takes us to run down one flight and reach our car.”

  Squeaky lunged at Hilda. I tripped him, kicked his left kneecap as he fell, then said, “Don’t move, Fink! My next kick is a killer! Captain, has Bertie come to his senses? Or shall I take him? I hate to kill Bertie. He’s tired and worried and not thinking straight. Then I would have to kill Squeaky. He can’t help his eidetic memory, any more than I can help this clock in my head. Squeaky, did I break your kneecap? Or can you walk if I let you get up?”

  “I can walk. You’re fast, Deety.”

  “I know. Captain. Plans?”

  “Bertie, you are accepting my safe-conduct. We are all going out together, we four around you two, laughing and talking and heading for our car—and if anyone gets close, you two are dead. One of you will get it with this—”

  “And the other with this.” (My husband, with his stubby police special—)

  “Why, Zebbie! How naughty of you! Jacob, do you have a holdout too?”

  “Just this—” Pop now had his hunting knife.

  “Deety?”

  “Did have. You’re holding it. But I still have five weapons.”

  “Five?”

  “Both hands, both feet, and my head. Squeaky, I must frisk you. Don’t wiggle…or I’ll hurt you.” I added, “Stop easing toward your desk, Bertie. You can’t kill four of us before we kill you. Pop, don’t bother with the gun, or trap, or whatever, in Bertie’s desk, Let’s get out of here, laughing and joking, as the Captain ordered. Oh, Squeaky, that didn’t hurt! Captain, shall I let him up?”

  “Brigadier Hird-Jones, do you honor the safe-conduct granted to us by your commanding officer?” Aunt Hilda asked.

  “Brigadier, I order you to honor it,” Bertie said grimly.

  Maybe Squeaky had to catch his breath; he was a touch slow. “Yes, sir.”

  Aunt Hilda said, “Thanks, Squeaky. I’m sorry I had to say harsh things to you…but not having muscles I must fight with words. Zebbie, frisk Bertie. But quickly; we leave now. I leave first, on Bertie’s arm. Deety follows, on Squeaky’s arm—you can lean on her if you need to; she’s strong. Help him up, Deety, Jacob and Zebbie trail along behind. Bertie, if anyone gets close to us, or either you or Squeaky try to signal anyone, or if anything is pointed at us—first you two die. Then we four die; that’s inevitable. But we’ll take some with us. What do you think the total may be? Two…and four…then five? Six? A dozen? Or higher?”

  It took us forty-seven seconds to the bottom of the steps, thirty-one more to Gay Deceiver, and I aged seventy-eight years. Squeaky did lean on me but I made it look the other way around and he managed to smile and to sing with me: Gaudeamus Igitur. Hilda sang The Bastard King to Bertie which seemed both to shock him and make him laugh. The odd way she held his arm told me that she was prepared to plant 24 poisoned darts in Bertie’s left armpit if anything went sour.

  No one bothered us. Bertie returned a dozen or more salutes.

  But at Gay Deceiver we ran into a bobble. Four armed soldiers guarded our Smart Girl. By the starboard door was that fathead Moresby, looking smug. As we came close, he saluted, aiming it at Bertie.

  Bertie did not return his salute. “What’s the meaning of this?” he said, pointing. Plastered to Gay’s side, bridging the line where her door fairs into her afterbody, was H.I.M.’s Imperial seal.

  Moresby answered, “Governor, I understood you perfectly when you told me that I had work to do. Verb. sap., eh?”

  Bertie didn’t answer; Moresby continued to hold salute.

  “Major General Moresby,” Bertie said so quietly that I could just hear it.

  “Sir!”

  “Go to your quarters. Send me your sword.”

  I thought Fathead was going to melt down the way the Wicked Witch did when Dorothy threw the pail of water over her. He brought down the salute and left, moving quickly.

  Everybody acted as if nothing had happened. Hilda said, “Gay Deceiver, open starboard door”—she did and that seal broke. “Bertie, we’re going to need people to carry things. I don’t want our possessions stacked outdoors.”

  He looked down at her, surprised. “Is the war over?�
��

  “There never was a war, Bertie. But you tried to push us around, and I don’t push. You requisitioned this craft; it’s legally yours. What I insisted on was that you must witness removal of our chattels. That took coaxing.”

  “‘Coaxing’!”

  “Some people are harder to coax than others. Squeaky, I’m sorry about your knee. Can you hobble back? Or shall we get you a wheelchair? That knee must be swelling up.”

  “I’ll live. Deety, you play rough.”

  “Squeaky,” said the Governor General, “slow march back toward the House, grab the first person you see, delegate him to round up a working party. Hilda, will a dozen be enough?”

  “Better make it twenty. And about four more armed guards.”

  “Twenty and four additional sentries. Once you pass that word, put the senior rating in charge, and climb into a tub of hot water.”

  “Cold water.”

  “What, Hilda? Cold?”

  “Hot is okay if he uses lots of Epsom salts. Otherwise ice-cold water will bring the swelling down faster, even though it’s uncomfortable. But not for long. Ice water numbs pain while it reduces swelling. By morning you’ll be fit. Unless Deety cracked the bone.”

  “Oh, I hope not!” I blurted.

  “Squeaky, you had better listen to Captain Hilda.”

  “I’ll do it. Ice water. Brrrrr!”

  “Get on with it. But order that working party.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  “Bertie, will you follow me?” Hilda went inside. The Governor followed her, started to say something but Hilda cut him off: “Jacob, get out the items forward here while Zebbie keeps inventory as you do. Bertie, I have something for Betty before that mob gets here. Will you help me undog this door or perhaps Deety can do it easier Gay​Deceiver​Close​Doors​Gay​Bounce​Gay​Bounce​Gay​Bounce. Bertie, take off your clothes.” She held onto a door dog with her left hand, had my little gun aimed at his face.

  “Hilda!”

  “Captain Hilda, please; I’m in my spacecraft under way. Take off every stitch, Bertie; I’m not as trusting as Zebbie. I assume that you have a holdout he didn’t find. Gay Bounce. Hurry up, Bertie; you’re going to stay in free fall with no Bonine until you are naked. Zebbie, he may require help. Or inducement.”

  He required both. But eleven minutes later Bertie was wearing one of Pop’s coveralls and his clothes were abaft the bulkhead. Zebbie did not find a weapon but Aunt Hilda took no chances. At last we were all strapped down, with Bertie between me and the Captain.

  Hilda said, “All hands, report readiness for space. Astrogator.”

  “Captain Auntie, we are in space.”

  “But quite unready. Astrogator.”

  “Seat belt fastened. Ready.”

  “Chief Pilot.”

  “Door seal checked. No loose gear—I stuffed Bertie’s clothes in with the cabin bed clothes. Four charged power packs in reserve. Juice oh-seven-oh. All systems go. Ready.”

  “Copilot.”

  “Seat belt tight. Continua device ready. Door seal checked. I’d like a Bonine if we’re going to be in free fall long. Ready for space.”

  “Astrogator, three antinausea pills—captain, copilot, passenger. Passenger.”

  “Oh! Oh, yes! Safety belt tight.”

  “Captain states seat belt fastened. Ready for space. Gay Termite.”

  It was just sunrise at our streamside “home.” “Aunt Hilda, why did we run through all that rigamarole if we were coming straight here?”

  “Deety, when you are captain you will know.”

  “Not me. I’m not the captain type.”

  She ignored me. “Lieutenant General Smythe-Carstairs, will you give me your unconditional parole until I return you home? On your honor as an officer and a gentleman.”

  “Am I going home? I had assumed that I had not long to live.”

  “You are going home. And I do have something for Betty. But whether or not you give parole affects other matters. Make up your mind—at once!”

  It took him six seconds; Aunt Hilda let him have them. “Parole. Unconditional.”

  “I’m surprised, Bertie. You have a tradition against giving parole, do you not?”

  “We do indeed, Captain. But I concluded that my only chance of serving my sovereign lay in giving my word. Am I right?”

  “Quite right, Bertie. You now have opportunity to persuade me to support you in your crisis. Your King-Emperor is not our prince; we place no faith in princes. We have no reason to love Russians but we spanked the only one who gave us trouble. In what way is the British colony superior to the Russian one? Take your time.”

  Aunt Hilda turned her attention to the rest of us. “Standing orders apply: Two at a time, one being armed. Deety and I will cut and wrap sandwiches, make coffee and prepare a snack for growing boys who can’t remember a bounteous luncheon three hours ago. One guard at all times at the car. Bertie, I’m assigning you that duty. You know how to use a rifle?”

  Zebadiah said, “You’re arming him?”

  “Chief Pilot, I assume that you are questioning my judgment. If you convince me that I am wrong, there will be a new captain even more quickly than I had planned. May I have your reason?”

  “Sharpie, I didn’t mean to get your feathers up.”

  “Not at all, Zebbie. Why are you surprised that I intend to use Bertie as guard?”

  “Ten minutes ago you had me do a skin search to make sure he wasn’t armed. Now you are about to hand him a gun.”

  “Ten minutes ago he had not given parole.”

  Bertie said hastily, “Zeb is right, Hilda—Captain Hilda; Zeb has no reason to trust me. I don’t want to be a bone of contention!”

  I’m still trying to figure out whether Aunt Hilda is more logical than other people or is a complete sophist. She gave Bertie a freeze, looking him up and down. “Smythe-Carstairs, your opinion was neither asked nor wanted.”

  Bertie turned pink. “Sorry, Ma’am.”

  “Although you were a person of some importance in your own land, you are now something between a prisoner and a nuisance. I am trying to give you the dignity of crew member pro tern. Hold your tongue. Zebbie, what were you going to say?”

  “Shucks, if you aren’t afraid to have him with a gun at your back, I’m not. No offense intended, Bertie.”

  “None taken, Zeb.”

  “Zebbie, please assure yourself that Bertie can handle a rifle, and that he knows what to shoot at and when not to shoot, before you turn the guard over to him. Put the other rifle at the door for bush patrol. Bertie, watch and listen. Gay Deceiver, open your doors.”

  Our Smart Girl opened wide. “Gay Deceiver, close your doors.” Gay complied. “Bertie,” Aunt Hilda went on, “you do it.”

  Of course he failed—and failed again on other voice programs. The Hillbilly explained that it took me a tedious time with special equipment to cause this autopilot to respond to a particular human voice. “Bertie, go back and explain to Squeaky; make him understand that I saved his life. This car can be driven in three modes. Two Squeaky can’t use at all; the third would kill him as dead as Caesar.”

  “Plus a fourth hazard,” added my husband. “Anybody who doesn’t understand the Smart Girl but tries to take her apart to see what makes her tick would find himself scattered over a couple of counties.”

  “Booby-trapped, Zebadiah?” I asked. “I hadn’t known it.”

  “No. But juice is very unfriendly to anybody who doesn’t understand it.”

  “Come and get it!” The snack Aunt Hilda offered was a much-stuffed omelet. “Bertie, place your gun near you, locked. Between bites, you can tell us why your colony is worth defending. By us, I mean. For you, it’s duty.”

  “Captain Hilda, I’ve done some soul-searching. I daresay that, in the main, we and the Russians are much the same, prison colonies with military governors. Perhaps, in a hundred years, it won’t matter. Although I see us as morally superior.”

 
“How, Bertie?”

  “A Russian might see this differently. Our transportees are malefactors under our laws—but once here, they are as free as other Englishmen. Oh, they must wear the Broad Arrow until discharged—but at home they would wear it in a grim prison. The Russian prisoners are, if our intelligence is correct, the people they used to send to the Siberian salt mines. Political prisoners. They are serfs but I am told that most of them were not serfs in Russia. Whether they are treated better or worse than serfs in Russia I do not know. But one thing I do know. They work their fields with men; we work ours with wogs.”

  “And whip them!” Suddenly I was angry.

  We had an argument, Bertie maintaining that the whips were not used unnecessarily, I asserting that I had seen it with my own eyes.

  I guess he won, as he told us that they had to muzzle the beasts in weed fields, or they would stuff themselves on it, pass out, wake somewhat, do it again, and starve—but the muzzles were designed to allow them to chew a blade at a time all day long, to keep them happy. “The raw weed is addictive, to wog and man. We won’t allow a man to work in the fields more than three months at a time…and pull him out if he can’t pass the weekly medical tests. As for wogs, Deety—yes, we exploit them. Human beings exploit horses, cattle, sheep, poultry, and other breeds. Are you vegetarian?”

  I admitted I was not. “But I don’t want to eat wogs!”

  “Nor do we. In Windsor colony wog meat goes only to wogs, and wogs don’t care. In the wild they eat their own dead, kill and eat their aged. Captain Hilda, that’s all the defense I can offer. I admit that it doesn’t sound as strong as I had always believed.”

  “Captain, I’d like to put one to Bertie.”

  “Jacob, I treasure your thoughts.”

  “Bertie, would you polish off the Russians if you could?”

  Bertie snorted. “That’s academic, Doctor. I don’t command the force it would take. I can’t set up a string of stockpiles—and wouldn’t know what to do with them if I could; I don’t have the troops or ’thopters. But I must add: If my King tells me to fight, I will fight.”

  Aunt Hilda told Bertie to wash dishes with Pop sent along as guard. As soon as they started down, Aunt Hilda said, “We are going to do it, to a maximum cost of one power pack. Deety, start working on a program stringing together the dumps we located last night.”