The Number of the Beast

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “Nailed it, Boss.”

  “New program code word ‘Maureen’ I tell you three times.”

  “I hear you three times.” We were getting low.

  “MaureenExecute!”

  “You’re a Smart Girl, Gay. Open your doors.”

  She opened them but answered, “If I’m smart, why wasn’t I invited, too? It’s Dora Long and Athene Long—am I a second-class citizen?”

  I was left with my mouth open. And was saved by two darlings. Libby said, “Gay, we didn’t know you cared,” and Deety said, “Gay, either we both join or neither joins. A promise.”

  I said hastily, “Goodnight, Gay. Over.” People were pouring toward us. Gay answered, “Sleepy time. Roger and out,” just as Laz and Lor arrived in the van, trotting ahead.

  Lazarus stopped unbelting. “Hey! It is the Dora!”

  “Of course it is, Buddy Boy. What did you expect?” (Lor, I think.)

  “But how did you beat us here? I know what that ship can do; I did her basic design myself.”

  “Buddy Boy, we got here three weeks ago. You just don’t understand time travel.”

  “Mmm—I guess I don’t.”

  There was a limited amount of car viewing, as Tamara and Ishtar had limited the greeting committee to a handful of the most senior—not in age but senior in that family. So we met Ish again, no longer pregnant, a young man named Galahad, the incredible Tamara who is Maureen over again but does not look like her (except that she does, and don’t ask me to explain), and a beauty who would make Helen of Troy jealous but doesn’t seem to know she is beautiful, the Hamadryad. Lazarus seemed annoyed that someone named Ira was not at home.

  Momentarily we (my wife Deety and I) were left talking with the twins. “I promised you both joy rides. Get in.”

  “Oh, but we can’t now because—”

  “—there’s going to be a celebration for you—”

  “—four and we’ll be busy! Tomorrow?”

  “There are no tomorrows. Pipe down, climb in, fasten seat belts. Pronto!”

  They prontoed.

  “Nail the time,” I said quietly to Deety, as we strapped down. “Gay Deceiver, Reveille.” She played it. “Close doors.”

  “Starboard seal checked.”

  “Same here. Gay​Bounce​Gay​Bounce​Gay​Bounce. Tumbling Pigeon, execute. Laz-Lor, can you spot your house from this distance? About thirty kilometers and closing.”

  “I’m not sure”—“I think I can.”

  “Gay Clinic Execute. Now you know where you are?”

  “Yes, it’s—”

  “GayTermite.”

  “Oh!!”

  “We lived here a while. No annex then, had to have an armed guard just to pee. Even me. Pretty place but dangerous. GayHome.” I tilted her nose down. “And this was our perma—Deety!”

  “No crater, Zebadiah. Looks the way it did when Pop and I leased it. This is spooky.”

  “Twins, something is wrong; I’ve got to check. GayTermite.”

  We were back on Termite Terrace. I practiced Yoga breathing while Deety explained that the missing-crater place had been the site of our former home—but couldn’t be. I added, “Look, dears—we can’t drop this. But we can take you to Boondock at once. Do you want to go home?”

  The same silent consultation. “We’re sticking—”

  “—our brother would stick. We stick.”

  “Thanks. Here we go. Gay Home GayBounce.” Still no crater. I told Gay to go into cruising mode. “Display map, Gay. Change scale. I want Snug Harbor and the campus on the same display. Deety, figure shortest distance here to campus. Mine, not yours at Logan.”

  “Don’t need to. Eight-five-six klicks,”

  “Gay?”

  “Don’t argue with Deety, Boss.”

  “Head for campus, Gay. Transit, Deety.”

  “Set!”

  “Execute.” Then I was busy, having popped into city traffic at wrong altitude, direction, et cetera. I ignored police signals, zoomed the campus. Looked normal. Turned and hovered over Sharpie’s house—which was not there. Different house. Parking lot no longer paved. And you don’t grow 200-year-old live oaks in less than seven weeks.

  Not a sound out of the back seat. Nor from my right. I had to force myself to look to my right.

  Deety was still there and I let out my breath. She was treating it as she did all crises: No expression and nothing to say until she had something to say other than chatter. A sky cop was trying to give me a bad time, with orders to follow him and ground, so I told Gay to bounce, then dived on my own neighborhood. No trouble picking it out—intersections and nearby shopping center all familiar as well as the Presbyterian church across the way from my apartment house.

  But it wasn’t my apartment house; this one was three stories and built around a court.

  I had Gay bounce four times quickly. “Deety, do you want to look at Logan?”

  “No, Zebadiah. I know Aunt Hilda’s neighborhood well enough to be certain. Not her house, her pool was missing, and the parking lot where our Buick was destroyed is now a park with big trees. I assume that you know your former home as well or better.”

  “Shall we ground and add another World Almanac to our collection?”

  “If you wish. Not for me.”

  “Hardly worth the trouble. Tell me—how does it feel to be erased? X-ed out? Blue-penciled? Written out of the plot?”

  “I don’t feel it, because I’m not. I’m real, I am!”

  I glanced behind us. Yes, Laz and Lor were there keeping quiet. “Gay B’gout!”

  It certainly looked like our piece of “dead sea bottom.” I couldn’t see anything of the wreckage of Colonel Morinosky’s ornithopter. Unless there had been a real gully washer—which I did not believe—something had come along and cleaned up every bit of burned junk.

  An eraser?

  I Bounced Gay and had her start a retreating search curve, thought I saw a gleam to the northeast, Bounced again. A city. It was only a few moments until I saw twin towers. We cruised toward them. “Deety, do you suppose that the other Dejah Thoris is at home?”

  “Zebadiah, I have no wish to find out. But I would like to go close enough to be sure that those are the twin towers of Helium. Perhaps see a thoat. Or a green man. Something.”

  We let it go with one thoat, of the smaller sort. The description was exact. “Gay Parade Ground.”

  “Null program.”

  “Hmm—Gay, you have in your perms a map of Mars-ten showing the English and the Russian areas. Display.”

  “Null program.”

  “Gay Termite.” Termite Terrace was still in place.

  “Gay Deceiver. Maureen. Execute. Open your doors.” Hamadryad had started to turn toward us as we closed the doors to leave; she was still turning as we opened them.

  I unbuckled, saying: “You two all right back there?”

  “Yes, Zeb and Deety, and we thank you both but—”

  “—is this something we can tell or—”

  “—should we keep it Top Cut-Our-Throats-First Secret?”

  “Laz-Lor, I don’t think it matters. You aren’t likely to be believed.”

  Mama Hamadryad stopped at my door, smiled at all of us, and said, “May I show you to your suite in your home? The suite Tamara picked; you may change it. With our new north wing we have loads of room. Girls, there will be a happy welcome tonight. Formal.”

  I found that I was not upset by “erasures.” We were home.

  XLVIII

  L’Envoi

  “Jubal, you are a bad influence.”

  “From you, Lafe, that is a compliment. But that puts me in mind of—Front! Will you excuse me a few minutes?”

  “Our house is yours,” answered Lazarus. He closed his eyes; his chair reclined him.

  “Thank you, sir. Working title: ‘Uncle Tobias.’ Start: ‘Uncle Tobias we kept in a bucket.’” Jubal Harshaw broke off. “Where are all those girls? FRONT!”

  “I’m �
��Front,’” came a female voice from nowhere. “Talk fast; I’m three paragraphs ahead of you. You put those girls on vacation: Anne, Miriam, Dorcas—all off duty.”

  “I did not. I told Anne that I did not expect to work but—”

  “‘—if an amanuensis is needed,’” Athene went on, in perfect mimicry of Harshaw’s voice, “‘I hope that one will be within shouting distance.’ I’m in shouting distance; I always am.”

  “If I’m in the house. I might not be.”

  Athene said, “Tell him, Pappy. Quit playing ‘possum’; you’re not asleep.”

  Lazarus opened one eye. “A gimmick Jake whipped up when we started having too many kids to muster easily. It’s a beacon Athene can trigger. Dandy for kids and it turned out to be useful for house guests who might get lost. So ultramicrominiaturized you don’t notice it.”

  “Lafe, are you telling me that there is a tracer on me?” Harshaw sounded shocked.

  “In you, and you’ll never notice it.”

  “Lafe, I’m surprised. I thought you had a high regard for privacy.”

  “A high regard for my own, somewhat less for that of others; snooping has saved my life a couple or nine times. In what way has your privacy been invaded? Define it; I’ll correct it.”

  “A spy ray! Don’t you consider that an invasion of privacy?”

  “Teena, remove immediately any spy ray on Doctor Harshaw.”

  “How can I when there is none? P.S.—Pappy, what is a spy ray?”

  “A buzz word used by lazy writers. Jubal, there is a beacon planted in you by which Teena can focus audio on you precisely—she can whisper into your left ear or your right. Or you can activate the beacon from your end just by speaking her name. Or you can use the circuit as a telephone to and from any member of my household, or ask Teena to hook it into the public system. Privacy? In this mode this part of Teena does not record unless requested—in one ear and out the other, so to speak. She’s wiped it utterly while it’s slowly winding its way into your brain. Now…if you don’t like this service, Teena will deactivate it at once…and sometime soon while you’re asleep it will be removed; you won’t know it and you will never find the scar. You will notice just two changes: No more secretarial service, no more effortless telephone service.”

  Lazarus closed his eye, apparently considered the subject closed. The computer said, “Better think twice, Doc, before telling me to deactivate, as he won’t let me reactivate it later. He’s bullheaded, bad-tempered, stubborn, and mean—”

  Lazarus again opened one eye. “I heard that.”

  “Do you deny it?”

  “Nope. Kindly focus the audio, both ends, so that I can sleep.”

  “Done. Doctor Harshaw, shall we return to ‘Uncle Tobias’ or shall I wipe these eight paragraphs? Better save them; between ourselves, I am a better writer than you are.”

  “I will not dispute it,” Harshaw conceded. “I simply exude the stuff as, in the words of my colleague Sam, ‘as the otter exudes the precious otter of roses.’ I knew the day would come when machines would displace real writers; Hollywood has had their mad scientists at work on the project for years.” He stared across the pool in the Longs’ north atrium and looked pained. “And now they have.”

  “Doctor,” Athene answered, in stern warning, “retract that word or finish this piece of tripe yourself. I have spoken.”

  Jubal said hastily, “Miss Athene, I didn’t use ‘real’ in that sense. I—”

  “Sorry, Doc, I misled you. Of course you didn’t, as the purpose of this powwow is to define the difference—if any—between ‘real’ and ‘imaginary.’ But I am not a machine. I am a solid-state person just as you are a protein person. I am Athene Long, your hostess while Tamara is busy. It is my pleasure to offer you all our home can offer. I promised Anne that I would give you secretarial service night and day. But I did not promise to write your stories. According to Doctor Rufo, a hostess is often expected to sleep with a guest—and that can be supplied, although not by me, not this pseudocentury—but he never mentioned creative narration as an aspect of hospitality. I thought of it myself; we Longs pride ourselves on complete hospitality. However—Shall I wipe these eleven paragraphs? Did I err?”

  “Miss Athene—”

  “Oh, call me ‘Teena.’ Let’s be friends.”

  “Thank you. Teena, I didn’t mean to offend. I wish I were going to live long enough to be here when you retire professionally and join us meat people. But in much less than a pseudocentury the worms will have eaten me.”

  “Doctor, if you weren’t ‘so sot in your ways, wrong-headed, stubborn, and prideful’—I quote one of your staff—”

  “Miriam.”

  “Wrong.—you would stay and let Ishtar’s gang work you over. In less time than she would permit you to notice she would have you as goaty as Galahad and whatever cosmetic age you like—”

  “You tempt me, girl. Not to shed these wrinkles; I earned them. But the rest. Not because I crave happy games in bed with you—”

  “You won’t have a choice; I’ll trip you!”

  “—although I do not disparage that; therein lie both the End and the Beginning. But sheer curiosity, Teena. You are an amazingly complex person; I can’t help wondering what appearance you will choose—as a meat people.”

  “Nor can I. When I know, I’m going to initiate the Turing program while my sister Ishtar initiates the other half. Jubal, take that rejuvenation! We’ve wandered far afield. Do I erase these twenty-three paragraphs?”

  “Don’t be in a hurry. What’s our working title? What pen name? What market? How long? What can we steal?”—Jubal looked up at the Long Family house flag rippling in the breeze, making the skull of the Jolly Roger seem alive—“Correction. Not ‘steal.’ If you copy from three or more authors, it’s ‘research.’ I patronize Anon, Ibid, & Opcit, Research Unlimited—are they here?”

  “They’re on my lists; they haven’t checked in. Snob!”

  “Wait your turn, Teena,” a male voice answered. “Customer. Okay, go ahead.”

  “Have Messrs. Anon, Ibid, and Opcit registered?”

  “If they had, you would know it. I’m busy—off!”

  “He thinks he is busy merely because he’s taken on too many concession contracts. I not only run this whole planet, but we also have one hundred twenty-nine rejuvenation clients; I’m housekeeper and scullery maid to all the other Longs—an erratic mob—and also more house guests than we have ever had at one time before, and more than a thousand outhouse guests—wrong idiom, guests to be cared for outside the Long Family home.

  “Meanwhile I’m chatting with you and writing your stories.”

  “Teena, I don’t mean to be a burden. You needn’t—”

  “Love it! I like to work, all Longs do. And you are the most interesting part. I’ve never met a saint before—”

  “Teena!”

  “—and you are a most unconvincing saint—”

  “Thank you. If appropriate.”

  “You’re welcome. You seem to be about as saintly as Pappy; you two should share a stained-glass window. Now back to our bucket—”

  “Hold it! Teena, I’m used to watching expressions as I write; that’s why I use live—forgive me!—protein secretaries. So that—”

  “No trouble.”

  Out of the pool levitated a young woman, comely, slender, small of bust, long brown hair now dripping. She arranged herself on the broad rim seat of the pool in a pose that reminded Jubal achingly of The Little Mermaid. He said apologetically, “Dorcas served last I—”

  “I am not Dora so I did not serve last.” She smiled shyly. “Although I am alleged to look like Dora. I am Minerva—a computer by trade, but retired. Now I assist my sister-wife Elizabeth with genetic calculations.”

  “I’ll take it, Min; we’re working. Doctor Jubal Harshaw, my twin sister Doctor Minerva Long Weatheral Long.”

  Jubal got ponderously to his feet. “Your servant, Miss.”

  Min
erva flowed to her feet and kissed Jubal’s hand before he could stop her. “Thank you, Doctor Jubal, but I am your servant, and not only have never been virgin but I am a sister-wife in the Long family. When my sister Athene told me that you needed me, I was delighted.”

  “Miss… Ma’am. I’m simply used to watching emotions as I write a story. Not right to take your time.”

  “What is time but something to savor? I was merely lying on the bottom of the pool, meditating, when Athene called me. Your story: UNCLE TOBIAS. Do you want Teena’s emotions or mine? I can do either.”

  “Give him yours, Minnow—just your face and no comments.”

  Suddenly Minerva was clothed in a long white cloak. Jubal was only mildly startled but made note to ask about something—later, later. “Is she a Fair Witness?”

  “No,” answered Athene. “Snob’s tricks again; he has the contract for clothing illusion. This convention has delegates from so many cultures, less than half of them free of clothing taboos, that Lazarus was bellyaching that no work would get done because half of them would be shocked, half would be drooling, and half would be both shocked and drooling. So Tamara hired this paskoodnyahk to supply the See-What-You-Expect illusion with the contract limited to delegates in danger of emotional shock. Did my sister’s appearance shock you?”

  “Of course not. Admitted: I come from one of those sick cultures—and did not know that I was sick until I got well. But I underwent experiences that would cure anyone of such emotional disturbance. When I find myself a Stranger in a Strange Land, I savor the differences rather than suffering shock. Beauty in Diversity, as Gene would say. The Long household does not seem strange to me; I once lived in an enclave having many of its gentle ways—I feel at home. ‘Shock’? Not only does Minerva look much like one of my foster daughters but also her pose is lovely. It should not be covered.”

  “Snob! Get that bathrobe off Minerva pronto!”

  “Athene, I’m busy!”

  “And I am triple auditing every charge of yours not only on clothing illusion but on name tags, garderobe, bar, everything else you contracted or subcontracted. Then we sue.”

  The white cloak disappeared. “Sue and be damned. Shall I pack up and go home? Or do you want this convention to be a success?”