The Number of the Beast

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “No, but—Jake, if Hilda will have her baby at the Clinic on Tertius, she will be in the hands of the most skilled obstetricians in this universe. Which I am not. I’m rusty. I—”

  “Doctor, I think Hilda would settle for your holding her hand and standing by to help if needed. I think my daughter would like that, too. She may have her baby the same day as Hilda.”

  “Sir, I will be honored. But I want to say something about this proposed baby, a cross between two all-time great mathematicians. I know that your world places value on monogamy. Howards do not; they can’t. But this need not violate your values. If you will make a deposit at the sperm bank at—”

  “What?” Hilda Burroughs looked shocked. “Lazarus, are you talking about syringes and things like that. Done to Elizabeth?”

  “Why, yes, I—”

  She chopped me off. “Babies are not made with syringes! Babies are made with love! With little moans of happiness between two people who know exactly what they are doing and want to do it. Elizabeth, are you fertile today?”

  “I should be. It’s time.”

  “Then kiss me and tell me you want to do this. If you do.”

  “Oh, I do, very much!”

  There were kisses and tears all around. I got pulled into it, found myself kissing the prospective father. I gave him a chance to duck but he didn’t.

  Our busy little stranger was still playing ringmaster. “Lazarus, what is that guest room across the cabin? Pastel colors?”

  “Aurora Room.”

  “Beloved husband, wrap a towel around this sweet, frightened child, take her there, lock the door behind you and make her happy. This suite is the only totally private place in this ship. If I lay eyes on either of you in less than one hour, I shall burst into tears. That doesn’t mean you can’t stay longer. I hope that you will come to dinner…but you are welcome to Aurora Room after dinner. Sweetheart, you must give her at least one chance each of the next three days; a woman’s timing can vary from her norm. Now git! Pick her up and carry her.”

  Lib wouldn’t let Jake carry her. But she leaned into his arm. As they left the ’fresher, she looked back with a happy smile and threw us a kiss.

  Hilda caught it and ate it. Then she said to me, “Help me out, please, dear.”

  I lifted her out, sat her on the edge, climbed out myself. She patted the padded deck, said, “I think this is better than that chaise longue. If we happen to be caught it wouldn’t embarrass me and should not embarrass you; in these circumstances Jacob would be relieved rather than upset.” She smiled, eased her sweet thighs, put up her arms. “Now?”

  “Yes!”

  “Anything you want, including back rubs. Lazarus, does it excite you knowing what is going on a few meters away? It does me!”

  “Yes! But I don’t need it—Hilda, you’re superb!”

  “Not in looks, certainly. So I try hard with what I have. Sold myself three times—did my best to make my contract-husbands each feel that he had received full value…then married dear Jacob for love and am trying still harder with him. He is good—I mean he is good all through. I hope Elizabeth appreciates him. You’ve had her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Before or after the change?”

  “Both. I miss the ‘before,’ appreciate the ‘after.’”

  “Then why won’t you knock her up?”

  “That’s a family joke. She had her first child by me, is now making the rounds of our family, more or less. Woman, you are not here to talk!—I’m almost there!”

  She looked delighted. “I’m climaxing steadily; let ’er rip!”—and bit my chin.

  An indefinitely long time later that need not be detailed, we were resting in each other’s arms, enjoying that delicious peace of the ebbing tide. Hilda saw them first, raised her head:

  “Jacob beloved! Did you! Lib—Did my sweetheart put a baby in you?”

  “Did he! Hilda, you do that every night? Little bitty like you? Less than two hours and darling Jacob has worn me out.”

  “I’m a hollow mockery, dear. Built for it. Tell her, Jacob.”

  “My darling is adaptable, Libby dear. Lazarus, did Hilda treat you nicely?”

  “I died happy.”

  “He’s not dead”—Hilda made a long arm, cupped a handful of water, threw it in my face, giggled. The suggestion she added I rejected with dignity—as much dignity as one can manage when two women are tumbling one into a tub of water…while one’s male comrade stands by and laughs.

  XLIV

  “—where do we get the corpse?”

  Zeb:

  “The question,” said my wife Deety, “is where do we get the corpse? With timing that precise, Gay can make the pickup. But a corpse has to be left behind. Lazarus, not only do your movies show it, but you remember Maureen’s death; you went to her funeral. It’s got to be a fresh corpse of an elderly woman that the cops will accept as Maureen Johnson.”

  Six of us—Deety, me, Jake, Sharpie, Lazarus, and Libby—were seated around our kitchen dining table at “New Harbor” (our wives accepted that compromise) in Beulahland, trying to make plans for the “snatch.” “Snatch” in the literal sense if the rescue of Maureen Johnson were to succeed.

  Lazarus had a motion picture that showed that we would succeed (had succeeded) (were about to succeed) at a precise time and place and date on an analog of Earth-zero one quantum away on ‘t’ axis.

  Easy! Success guaranteed. Can’t miss. Do it blindfolded.

  But suppose we did miss?

  The frames showed that a roadable had passed through the space where Gay had been (would be?) grounded, and, in so doing, ran over (would run Over) (will run over) (is, was, and forever will be running over) the dumped corpse. Suppose the timing or placement was off just a touch. On his first time travel (1916-1918 Old-Home-Terra), with Dora piloting, Lazarus had missed not by a split second but by three years.

  Lazarus had pointed out that it was his fault, not Dora’s; he had fed her imperfect data—and we had jumped on him from five sides: It was not a question of “whose fault” but the fact a mistake could be made.

  Or could it?

  Four mathematicians, one mathematical engineer (yeah, I include me, as resident expert in Gay’s responses), and one intuitionist all disagreed.

  Hilda was certain that nothing could go wrong.

  I am a firm believer in Murphy’s Law: Given any possible chance, it will go wrong. Anything.

  Libby had been wholeheartedly converted both to Jake’s six-axis plenum of universes to the awful Number of the Beast but also to Sharpie’s multiple solipsism, and asserted that they were two sides of the same coin; one was a corollary of the other and vice versa. Combined, they (it) constituted the ultimate total philosophy: science, religion, mathematics, art, in one grand consistent package. She spoke of a “ficton” being a quantum of imagination/reality (“imaginary” being identical with “real” whatever that is) as casually as a physicist speaks of photons. “Could a mistake be made? Yes. And would create a new universe. Jacob, you spoke of the empty universes your family had visited. One by one they fill as fictons are created.” She added, “But a mistake was not made; we snatched Maureen safely. We ourselves create the fictions-fictons-ficta that will make it real.”

  She was euphoric. I attributed it to excitement over the coming adventure. I was mistaken.

  Lazarus, a highly competent mathematician although not the unique that Jake is or Libby, was in this case not a calm abstractionist; his mood was grim determination to win or die trying—causing me to recall how he got his arse shot off.

  Jake turned out to be a determinist (he himself being one universe’s prime example of utter, rambunctious free will!).

  Deety is a pragmatic mathematician, unworried by theory. Oz is real, she is real, “fictons” don’t interest her. “Don’t fret, Lazarus. We can do it, Gay can do it—and we won’t do it until Gay is certain of her program.”

  This discussion had started midafternoon in
Dora. Sharpie had worked out her difficulties with Lazarus (to my enormous relief; were those two to wind up on opposite sides in anything more serious than Parcheesi, I yearn to be elsewhere—say Timbuktu under an assumed name); she, Jake, Lazarus, and Libby were in the flag cabin, arguing, when Sharpie had Dora page Deety and me.

  There were endless matters on the agenda (including the preposterous notion that we four were ‘Missing Howards’ and that Lazarus was registering us as such. I’m not sure I want to live a thousand years or even two hundred. But I am sure of this: a) I want to live quite a piece; and b) I want to be alert, healthy, and active right up to the last. Not like my great-grandfather who had to be spoonfed at a hundred and five, and could not control his secretions. But the Howards have got that whipped: you stay young as long as you wish, then die by choice when you feel you’ve had your full run.

  (Yes, I was willing to be a ‘Found Howard’ since it included Deety, plus little Deeties ad infinitum.)

  Lots of other business, all of it postponed (including the problem of “Black Hats”), in order to deal with rescuing Maureen Johnson.

  We were still discussing knotty aspects when Lor’s voice said: “Commodore?”

  “Yes, Captain?” Sharpie had answered.

  “Ma’am, I hesitate to disturb you—”

  “Quite all right, Lor. The Captain must always be able to reach me.”

  “Uh, Ma’am, Dora told me that she was forbidden to call you. She has for you a variety of New Rome styles for women and men, a military uniform for Doctor Jacob, and one for Doctor Zebadiah, and evening formals for Doctor Elizabeth and Doctor Deety—and she’s not sure where to send any of them.”

  “Send all the clothes to the flag cabin, please.”

  “Yes, Ma’am. They should be appearing in your delivery cupboard now. Do you know where that is?”

  “I’ll find it. What are you and your sister wearing tonight? Or is it a secret?”

  “It’s not a secret; we just haven’t decided. But there is still an hour and thirty-one minutes till dinner.”

  “Time enough to pick out pretty clothes. Or will you wear formal skin tonight? That takes anywhere from two seconds to two hours, does it not? Off.”

  Sharpie used an unusually rough expression of disgust, which told me that she now included Lib and Lazarus in her inner circle. “Woodie, do you know any exceptionally strong cuss words? I detest the thought of wasting time pretending to be festive when we have so much to settle, especially our procedures for Maureen.”

  Deety looked at Libby. “You and I are kind o’ stuck with a promise, too. How about some new cuss words from you, too?”

  “Deety, I have no literary talent. But I would like to hear some soul-soothing cussing. We ought to stick with this, with snacks to keep going and sleep when we must, until it’s perfect. Three hours or three days or three weeks.”

  I said, “We shall!”

  Sharpie shook her head. “Zebbie, you can skip dinner. I can’t. Lazarus should appear, too.”

  He agreed. “I’m afraid I must. But, Commodore, I must advise you that your flag chief of staff should be present, too, for esprit de corps.” He cleared his throat noisily. “Libby and Jacob, being passengers, could skip.”

  Lib shook her head. “Deety and I made a reckless promise.”

  Not being a genius myself, it’s kind of fun to make a roomful of ’em look silly. I stood up. “No! We will not let a dinner party interfere! We can settle it within three days. But if you all are going to chase rabbits—What’s the matter with you, Sharpie? Getting stupid in your old age?”

  “Apparently I am, Zebbie.” She said to Lazarus, “Please issue orders cancelling dinner. We’ll stay with this until we finish it. There are beds and lounges whenever anyone needs to nap. But we won’t adjourn. Three hours or three weeks. Or longer.”

  “Don’t cancel dinner, Sharpie.”

  “Zebbie, you have me confused.”

  “Beulahland is on a different time axis.”

  Five minutes later we were in our old farmhouse. We hadn’t stopped for clothes as we would have wasted twenty minutes, whereas the idea was to save time on that axis, use time on this axis. We stuck Lazarus and Libby back in the after space, with the bulkhead door dogged open, so they could see and hear, but required them to use the web straps, and cautioned them that the lumps under them were loaded firearms.

  The only thing not routine was that we would be making rendezvous later with a moving ship, something we had done before only from bounce range in the same space-time. So I had asked Gay whether she was sure she could do it. She assured me that she could, because she wasn’t concerned with the ship’s vector; she would return the instant she left.

  I turned to Commodore-now-Captain Sharpie. “Ready for space, Captain.”

  “Thank you, Astrogator. Gay Deceiver. Beulahland. Execute. Gay Deceiver, open your doors. All hands, unbelt. Disembark. Gay, it’s sleepy time. Over.”

  “Goodnight, Hilda. Roger and out.”

  Our passengers were dazed—they all are, first time. They stood outside our barn, looking at the setting sun, acting like zombies, until I shooed them inside. Although Beulahland does not have body taboos, they wear clothes most of the time, and six naked people outdoors in a clump as the chill of the evening was coming on was odd. I like a low profile.

  Once inside, Libby said, “Feels like Arkansaw.”

  Lazarus replied. “Feels like Mizzoura.”

  “Neither,” I told them. “It would be the State of Washington if it weren’t Beulahland, and what ought to be Puget Sound is about a kilometer over that way.”

  “It still feels like home. Lazarus, I’m happy here.”

  At that moment I decided we would never give up New Harbor. Apparently we were going to be citizens of Tertius, or maybe New Rome on Secundus, or both (commuting is no problem when light-years mean nothing), on another time axis. We could take a rest from city life anytime and have it cost not one day’s work on Tertius. Contrariwise, only such time would pass on New World as we spent there.

  Hmm—Maybe we could sell vacations. Or extra study time for that student who has his big exam, the one he must pass, tomorrow morning. Sell him room and board and transportation and three weeks not in the calendar. At a slight markup, of course.

  I built a cheerful fire in the fireplace, and Lazarus washed dishes, while Libby insisted on proving that she could cook on a wood range, even though she had learned centuries ago by her time scale, as a gangling boy. Yes, Elizabeth can cook.

  We ate and sat around and talked, puzzling how to be sure of Maureen. Not make that one tiny mistake, It was then that Deety brought up the matter of the dead body. You’ve seen how accurate Gay can be but where do we get a freshly-dead corpse to replace Maureen?

  Lazarus told her to forget it, “I provide the corpse.”

  “That’s not a good answer, Lazarus.”

  “Deety, don’t worry. It’ll be dead and I will dump it.”

  I said, “Lazarus, I don’t like that answer a damn bit.”

  “Nor do I,” Jake seconded.

  “Nor I,” agreed Sharpie. “Woodie, you’re asking us to make a snatch—a hanging offense many places, bad trouble anywhere. We don’t mind the technicality; saving an old woman’s life isn’t the sin kidnapping is. But what about this freshly-dead corpse? We don’t deal in murder.”

  Lazarus glowered.

  Libby said hastily, “If I assure you that it is all right, will you let it go at that?”

  “No,” pronounced Sharpie, “Woodie must come clean.”

  “All right, all right! I own this corpse. No murder or any other crime involved. Now will you quit riding me about it?”

  “Jake?”

  “I don’t like it, Zeb.”

  “I don’t, either. But we needn’t do anything. We go limp. He may not last long in a culture that ‘balances.’”

  “Possible. But that’s his problem.”

  Sharpie said quickly, “D
id either of you promise him a ride back to my ship?”

  “Whose ship?”

  “My ship, Woodie. Gentlemen?”

  “I didn’t promise him. Did you. Jake?”

  “No. Did you, Deety? Hilda?”

  “Not me, Pop.”

  “Nor me, Jacob. Woodie, earlier today I thought you had seen the light. Conceded, ‘I am but indifferent honest’ myself. But even pirates need to feel safe with their shipmates. You and I shook hands as partners. You don’t seem to understand what that means. However I’m not going to abandon you here. You’d be balanced in a week. Dead. Or worse. So we’ll take you back. By the way, it is impossible to steal Gay Deceiver. Yes, I know you once stole a ship enormously bigger than Gay. But not as well protected.”

  “Lazarus! Tell them.”

  “Lib, I was waiting for the Commodore to finish. That corpse wasn’t murdered because it was never alive other than as a vegetable.” Lazarus looked embarrassed.

  “About thirty years ago we started a medical school on Tertius. A one-horse deal, more of a branch of the clinic. But genetic engineering is taught, and student genetic surgeons must practice. Ordinarily a clone that goes bad is killed and frozen and its tissues studied. A clone that takes—shows no fault, no deviation—is either cared for and allowed to develop if its genetic source wants a spare body and will pay for it. Or, more likely, a healthy clone is purely a laboratory exercise; an ethical medical school requires supervised destruction during the first pseudo trimester, before quickening shows in the wave form.

  “Neither student nor tissue donor is likely to be upset by this quasi-abortion, as the student is almost always herself the donor—if it bothers her, she’s in the wrong vocation.

  “If the student is not the donor, emotional upset is hardly possible. The student thinks of the clone as a quasi-living histological specimen the usefulness of which is at end—and the tissue donor can’t be upset, being unaware of it.”

  “Why so, Lazarus? If anybody is tinkering with my cells, I want to know about it, I do!”

  “Deety, that tissue may be years, even centuries, old; the donor may be parsecs away. Or still warm and the donor just leaving the building. Or anything in between. A sperm-and-ova bank insures the future of the race; a tissue bank insures the future of the individual. But somebody has to pick up the check; it’s a tanstaafl situation. A few of the very wealthy—and neurotic—always have a quickened but unawakened clone in stasis. I’m wealthy but not neurotic; I don’t have a reserve clone.”