Robert A Heinlein - The Number of the Beast

The Number Of The Beast -- Robert A. Heinlein -- (1980)

For Walter and Marion Minton

PART ONE

The Mandarin's Butterfly

I

" -- it is better to marry than to burn."

-- Saul of Tarsus

Zeb:

"He's a Mad Scientist and I'm his Beautiful Daughter."

That's what she said: the oldest cliché in pulp fiction. She wasn't old

enough to remember the pulps.

The thing to do with a silly remark is to fail to hear it. I went on

waltzing while taking another look down her evening formal. Nice view. Not

foam rubber.

She waltzed well. Today most girls who even attempt ballroom dancing

drape themselves around your neck and expect you to shove them around the

floor. She kept her weight on her own feet, danced close without snuggling,

and knew what I was going to do a split second before I led it. A perfect

partner -- as long as she didn't talk.

"Well?" she persisted.

My paternal grandfather -- an unsavory old reactionary; the FemLibbers

would have lynched him -- used to say, "Zebadiah, the mistake we made was not

in putting shoes on them or in teaching them to read -- we should never have

taught them to talk!"

I signaled a twirl by pressure; she floated into it and back into my

arms right on the beat. I inspected her hands and the outer corners of her

eyes. Yes, she really was young -- minimum eighteen (Hilda Corners never

permitted legal "infants" at her parties), maximum twenty-five, first

approximation twenty-two. Yet she danced like her grandmother's generation.

"Well?" she repeated more firmly.

This time I openly stared. "Is that cantilevering natural? Or is there

an invisible bra, you being in fact the sole support of two dependents?"

She glanced down, looked up and grinned. "They do stick out, don't they?

Your comment is rude, crude, unrefined, and designed to change the subject."

"What subject? I made a polite inquiry; you parried it with amphigory."

"`Amphigory' my tired feet! I answered precisely."

"`Amphigory,'" I repeated. "The operative symbols were `mad,'

`scientist,' `beautiful,' and `daughter.' The first has several meanings --

the others denote opinions. Semantic content: zero."

She looked thoughtful rather than angry. "Pop isn't rabid...although I

did use `mad' in ambivalent mode. `Scientist' and `beautiful' each contain

descriptive opinions, I stipulate. But are you in doubt as to my sex? If so,

are you qualified to check my twenty-third chromosome pair? With transsexual

surgery so common I assume that anything less would not satisfy you."

"I prefer a field test."

"On the _dance floor?_"

"No, the bushes back of the pool. Yes, I'm qualified -- laboratory or

field. But it was not your sex that lay in the area of opinion; that is a fact

that can be established...although the gross evidence is convincing. I -- "

"Ninety-five centimeters isn't gross! Not for my height. One hundred

seventy bare-footed, one eighty in these heels. It's just that I'm wasp-

waisted for my mass -- forty-eight centimeters versus fifty-nine kilos."

"And your teeth are your own and you don't have dandruff. Take it easy,

Deedee; I didn't mean to shake your aplomb" -- or those twin glands that are

not gross but delicious. I have an infantile bias and have known it since I

was six -- six months, that is. "But the symbol `daughter' encompasses two

statements, one factual -- sex -- and the other a matter of opinion even when

stated by a forensic genetohematologist."

"Gosh, what big words you know, Mister. I mean `Doctor'."

"`Mister' is correct. On this campus it is swank to assume that everyone

holds a doctorate. Even I have one, Ph.D. Do you know what that stands for?"

"Doesn't everybody? I have a Ph.D., too. `Piled Higher and Deeper.'"

I raised that maximum to twenty-six and assigned it as second

approximation. "Phys. ed.?"

"Mister Doctor, you are trying to get my goat. Won't work. I had an

undergraduate double major, one being phys. ed. with teacher's credentials in

case I needed a job. But my real major was math -- which I continued in

graduate school."

"And here I had been assuming that `Deedee' meant `Doctor of Divinity.'"

"Go wash out your mouth with soap. My nickname is my initials -- Dee

Tee. Or Deety. Doctor D. T. Burroughs if being formal, as I can't be `Mister'

and refuse to be `Miz' or `Miss.' See here, Mister; I'm supposed to be luring

you with my radiant beauty, then hooking you with my feminine charm...and not

getting anywhere. Let's try another tack. Tell me what you piled higher and

deeper."

"Let me think. Flycasting? Or was it basketweaving? It was one of those

transdisciplinary things in which the committee simply weighs the

dissertation. Tell you what. I've got a copy around my digs. I'll find it and

see what title the researcher who wrote it put on it."

"Don't bother. The title is `Some Implications of a Six-Dimensional Non-

Newtonian Continuum.' Pop wants to discuss it."

I stopped waltzing. "Huh? He'd better discuss _that_ paper with the

bloke who wrote it."

"Nonsense; I saw you blink -- I've hooked you. Pop wants to discuss it,

then offer you a job."

"_`Job'!_I just slipped off the hook."

"Oh, dear! Pop will be _really_ mad. Please? Please, sir!"

"You said that you had used `mad' in ambivalent mode. How?"

"Oh. Mad-angry because his colleagues won't listen to him. Mad-psychotic

in the opinions of some colleagues. They say his papers don't make sense."

"Do they make sense?"

"I'm not that good a mathematician, sir. My work is usually simplifying

software. Child's play compared with _n_ -- dimensional spaces."

I wasn't required to express an opinion; the trio started _Blue Tango,_

Deety melted into my arms. You don't talk if you know tango.

Deety knew. After an eternity of sensual bliss, I swung her out into

position precisely on coda; she answered my bow and scrape with a deep curtsy.

"Thank you, sir."

"Whew! After a tango like that the couple ought to get married."

"All right. I'll find our hostess and tell Pop. Five minutes? Front

door, or side?"

She looked serenely happy. I said, "Deety, do you mean what you appear

to mean? That you intend to marry _me?_ A total stranger?"

Her face remained calm but the light went out -- and her nipples went

down. She answered steadily. "After that tango we are no longer strangers. I

construed your statement as a proposal -- no, a willingness -- to marry me.

Was I mistaken?"

My mind went into emergency, reviewing the past years the way a drowning

man's life is supposed to flash before his eyes (how could anyone know that?):

a rainy afternoon when my chum's older sister had initiated me into the

mysteries; the curious effect caused by the first time strangers had shot back

at me; a twelve-month cohabitation contract that had started with a bang and

had ended without a whimper; countless events which had left me determined

never to marry.

I answered instantly, "I meant what I implied -- marriage, in its older

meaning. I'm willing. But why are _you_willing? I'm no prize."

She took a deep breath, straining the fabric, and -- thank Allah! -- her

nipples came up. "Sir, you are the prize I was sent to fetch, and, when you

said that we really ought to get married -- hyperbole and I knew it -- I

suddenly realized, with a deep burst of happiness, that _this_ was the means

of fetching you that I wanted above all!"

She went on, "But I will not trap you through misconstruing a gallantry.

If you wish, you may take me into those bushes back of the pool...and _not_

marry me." She went on firmly, "But for that...whoring...my fee is for you to

talk with my father and to let him show you something."

"Deety, you're an idiot! You would ruin that pretty gown."

"Mussing a dress is irrelevant but I can take it off. I will. There's

nothing under it."

"There's a great deal under it!"

That fetched a grin, instantly wiped away. "Thank you. Shall we head for

the bushes?"

"Wait a half! I'm about to be noble and regret it the rest of my life.

You've made a mistake. Your father doesn't want to talk to _me_; I don't know

anything about _n_ -- dimensional geometry." (Why do I get these attacks of

honesty? I've never done anything to deserve them.)

"Pop thinks you do; that is sufficient. Shall we go? I want to get Pop

out of here before he busts somebody in the mouth."

"Don't rush me; I didn't ask you to rassle on the grass; I said I wanted

to marry _you_ -- but wanted to know why you were willing to marry me. Your

answer concerned what your father wants. I'm not trying to marry your father;

he's not my type. Speak for yourself, Deety. Or drop it." (Am I a masochist?

There's a sunbathing couch back of those bushes.)

Solemnly she looked me over, from my formal tights to my crooked bow tie

and on up to my thinning brush cut -- a hundred and ninety-four centimeters of

big ugly galoot. "I like your firm lead in dancing. I like the way you look. I

like the way your voice rumbles. I like your hair-splitting games with words -

- you sound like Whorf debating Korzybski with Shannon as referee." She took

another deep breath, finished almost sadly: "Most of all, I like the way you

smell."

It would have taken a sharp nose to whiff me. I had been squeaky clean

ninety minutes earlier, and it takes more than one waltz and a tango to make

me sweat. But her remark had that skid in it that Deety put into almost

anything. Most girls, when they want to ruin a man's judgment, squeeze his

biceps and say, "Goodness, you're strong!"

I grinned down at her. "You smell good too. Your perfume could rouse a

corpse."

"I'm not wearing perfume."

"Oh. Correction: your natural pheromone. Enchanting. Get your wrap, Side

door. Five minutes."

"Yes, sir."

"Tell your father we're getting married. He gets that talk, free. I

decided that before you started to argue. It won't take him long to decide

that I'm not Lobachevski."

"That's Pop's problem," she answered, moving. "Will you let him show you

this thing he's built in our basement?"

'Sure, why not? What is it?"

"A time machine."

II

"This Universe never did make sense -- "

Zeb:

Tomorrow I will seven eagles see, a great comet will appear, and voices

will speak from whirlwinds foretelling monstrous and fearful things -- This

Universe never did make sense; I suspect that it was built on government

contract.

"Big basement?"

"Medium. Nine by twelve. But cluttered. Work benches and power tools."

A hundred and eight square meters -- Ceiling height probably two and a

half -- Had Pop made the mistake of the man who built a boat in his basement?

My musing was interrupted by a male voice in a high scream: "You

overeducated, obstipated, pedantic ignoramus! Your mathematical intuition

froze solid the day you matriculated!"

I didn't recognize the screamer but did know the stuffed shirt he

addressed: Professor Neil O'Heret Brain, head of the department of mathematics

-- and God help the student who addressed a note to "Professor N.O. Brain" or

even "N. O'H. Brain." "Brainy" had spent his life in search of The Truth --

intending to place it under house arrest.

He was puffed up like a pouter pigeon with is professional pontifical

pomposity reeling. His expression suggested that he was giving birth to a

porcupine.

Deety gasped, "It's started," and dashed toward the row. Me, I stay out

of rows; I'm a coward by trade and wear fake zero-prescription glasses as a

buffer -- when some oaf snarls, "Take off your glasses!" that gives me time to

retreat.

I headed straight for the row.

Deety had placed herself between the two, facing the screamer, and was

saying in a low but forceful voice, "Pop, don't you dare! -- I won't bail you

out!" She was reaching for his glasses with evident intent to put them back on

his face. It was clear that he had taken them off for combat; he was holding

them out of her reach.

I reached over their heads, plucked them out of his hand, gave them to

Deety. She flashed me a smile and put them back on her father. He gave up and

let her. She then took his arm firmly. "Aunt Hilda!"

Our hostess converged on the row. "Yes, Deety? Why did you stop them,

darling? You didn't give us time to get bets down." Fights were no novelty at

"Sharp" Corners' parties. Her food and liquor were lavish, the music always

live; her guests were often eccentric but never dull -- I had been surprised

at the presence of N. O. Brain.

I now felt that I understood it: a planned hypergolic mixture.

Deety ignored her questions. "Will you excuse Pop and me and Mr. Carter?

Something urgent has come up."

"You and Jake may leave if you must. But you can't drag Zebbie away.

Deety, that's cheating."

Deety looked at me. "May I tell?"

"Eh? _Certainly!"_

That bliffy "Brainy" picked this moment to interrupt. "Mrs. Corners,

Doctor Burroughs can't leave until he apologizes! I insist. My privilege!"

Our hostess looked at him with scorn. "Merde, Professor. I'm not one of

your teaching fellows. Shout right back at Jake Burroughs if you like. If your

command of invective equals his, we'll enjoy hearing it. But just _one more

word_that sounds like an order to me or to one of my guests -- and out you go!

Then you had best go straight home; the Chancellor will be trying to reach

you." She turned her back on him. "Deety, you started to add something?"

"Sharp" Corners can intimidate Internal Revenue agents. She hadn't cut

loose on "Brainy" -- just a warning shot across his bow. But from his face one

would have thought she had hulled him. However, her remark to Deety left me no

time to see whether he would have a stroke.

"Not Deety, Hilda. Me. Zeb."

"Quiet, Zebbie. Whatever it is, the answer is No. Deety? Go ahead,

dear."

Hilda Corners is related to that famous mule. I did not use a baseball

bat because she comes only up to my armpits and grosses forty-odd kilos. I

picked her up by her elbows and turned her around, facing me. "Hilda, we're

going to get married."

"Zebbie darling! I thought you would _never_ ask."

"Not you, you old harridan. Deety. I proposed, she accepted; I'm going

to nail it down before the anesthetic wears off."

Hilda looked thoughtfully interested. "That's reasonable." She craned

her neck to look at Deety. "Did he mention his wife in Boston, Deety? Or the

twins?"

I set her back on her feet. "Pipe down, Sharpie; this is serious. Doctor

Burroughs, I am unmarried, in good health, solvent, and able to support a

family. I hope this meets with your approval."

"Pop says Yes," Deety answered. "I hold his power of attorney."

"You pipe down, too. My name is Carter, sir -- Zeb Carter. I'm on

campus; you can check my record. But I intend to marry Deety at once, if she

will have me."

"I know your name and record, sir. It doesn't require my approval; Deety

is of age. But you have it anyhow." He looked thoughtful. "If you two are

getting married at once, you'll be too busy for shop talk. Or would you be?"

"Pop -- let it be; it's all set."

"So? Thank you, Hilda, for a pleasant evening. I'll call you tomorrow."

"You'll do no such thing; you'll come straight back and give me a full

report. Jake, you are _not_ going on their honeymoon -- I heard you."

"Aunt Hilda -- please! I'll manage everything."

We were out the side door close on schedule. At the parking lot there

was a bobble: which heap, mine or theirs. Mine is intended for two but can

take four. The rear seats are okay for two for short trips. Theirs was a four-

passenger family saloon, not fast but roomy -- and their luggage was in it.

"How much luggage?" I asked Deety, while I visualized two overnight bags

strapped into one back seat with my prospective father-in-law stashed in the

other.

"I don't have much, but Pop has two big bags and a fat briefcase. I had

better show you."

(Damn.) "Perhaps you had better." I like my own rig, I don't like to

drive other people's cars, and, while Deety probably handled controls as

smoothly as she danced, I did not _know_ that she did -- and I'm chicken. I

didn't figure her father into the equation; trusting my skin to his temper did

not appeal. Maybe Deety would settle for letting him trail us -- but my bride-

to-be was going to ride with _me!_ "Where?"

"Over in the far corner. I'll unlock it and turn on the lights." She

reached into her father's inside jacket pocket, took out a Magic Wand.

_"Wait for baby!"_

The shout was from our hostess. Hilda was running down the path from her

house, purse clutched in one hand and about eight thousand newdollars of

sunset mink flying like a flag from the other.

So the discussion started over. Seems Sharpie had decided to come along

to make certain that Jake behaved himself and had taken just long enough to

tell Max (her bouncer-butler-driver) when to throw the drunks out or cover

them with blankets, as needed.

She listened to Deety's summary, then nodded. "Got it. I can handle

yours, Deety; Jake and I will go in it. You ride with Zebbie, dear." She

turned to me. "Hold down the speed, Zebbie, so that I can follow. No tricks,

Buster. Don't try to lose us or you'll have cops busting out of your ears."

I turned my sweet innocent eyes toward her. "Why, Sharpie darling, you

know I wouldn't do anything like that."

"You'd steal city hall if you could figure a way to carry it. Who dumped

that load of lime Jello into my swimming pool?"

"I was in Africa at that time, as you know."

"So you say. Deety darling, keep him on a short leash and don't feed him

meat. But marry him; he's loaded. Now where's that radio link? And your car."

"Here," said Deety, pointed the Magic Wand and pressed the switch.

I gathered all three into my arms and dived. We hit the ground as the

blast hit everything else. But not us. The blast shadow of other cars

protected us.

III

" -- Professor Moriarty isn't fooled -- "

Zeb:

Don't ask me how. Ask a trapeze artist how he does a triple 'sault. Ask

a crapshooter how he knows when he's "hot." But don't ask me how I know it's

going to happen just before it hits the fan.

It doesn't tell me anything I don't need to know. I don't know what's in

a letter until I open it (except the time it was a letter bomb). I have no

precognition for harmless events. But this split-second knowledge when I need

it has kept me alive and relatively unscarred in an era when homicide kills

more people than does cancer and the favorite form of suicide is to take a

rifle up some tower and keep shooting until the riot squad settles it.

I don't see the car around the curve on the wrong side; I automatically

hit the ditch. When the San Andreas Fault cut loose, I jumped out a window and

was in the open when the shock arrived -- and didn't know why I had jumped.

Aside from this, my E.S.P. is erratic; I bought it cheap from a war-

surplus outlet.

I sprawled with three under me. I got up fast, trying to avoid crushing

them. I gave a hand to each woman, then dragged Pop to his feet. No one seemed

damaged. Deety stared at the fire blazing where their car had been, face

impassive. Her father was looking at the ground, searching. Deety stopped him.

"Here, Pop." She put his glasses back on him.

"Thank you, my dear." He started toward the fire.

I grabbed his shoulder. "_No!_ Into my car -- _fast!"_

"Eh? My briefcase -- could have blown clear."

"Shut up and move! All of you!"

"Do it, Pop!" Deety grabbed Hilda's arm. We stuffed the older ones into

the after space; I shoved Deety into the front passenger seat and snapped:

"Seat belts!" as I slammed the door -- then was around to the left so fast

that I should have caused a sonic boom. "Seat belts fastened?" I demanded as I

fastened my own and locked the door.

"Jake's is fastened and so is mine, Zebbie dear," Hilda said cheerfully.

"Belt tight, door locked," Deety reported.

The heap was hot; I had left it on trickle -- what use is a fast car

that won't go _scat?_ I switched from trickle to full, did not turn on lights,

glanced at the board and released the brake.

It says here that duos must stay grounded inside city limits -- so I was

lifting her nose before she had rolled a meter and she was pointed straight up

as we were clearing the parking lot.

Half a klick straight up while the gee meter climbed -- two, three, four

-- I let it reach five and held it, not being sure what Pop's heart would

take. When the altimeter read four klicks, I cut everything -- power,

transponder, the works -- while hitting a button that dropped chaff, and let

her go ballistic. I didn't _know_ that anyone was tracking us -- I didn't want

to find out.

When the altimeter showed that we had topped out, I let the wings open a

trifle. When I felt them bite air, I snap-rolled onto her belly, let wings

crawl out to subsonic aspect and let her glide. "Everybody okay?"

Hilda giggled. "Whoops, dear! Do that again! This time, somebody kiss

me."

"Pipe down, you shameless old strumpet. Pop?"

"I'm okay, son."

"Deety?"

"Okay here."

"Did that fall in the parking lot hurt you?"

"No, sir. I twisted in the air and took it on one buttock while getting

Pop's glasses. But next time put a bed under me, please. Or a wrestling mat."

"I'll remember." I switched on radio but not transponder, tried all

police frequencies. If anyone had noticed our didoes, they weren't discussing

it on the air. We were down to two klicks; I made an abrupt wingover to the

right, then switched on power. "Deety, where do you and your Pop live?"

"Logan, Utah."

"How long does it take to get married there?"

"Zebbie," Hilda cut in, "Utah has no waiting time -- "

"So we go to Logan."

" -- but does require blood test. Deety, do you know Zebbie's nickname

around campus? The Wasp. For 'Wassermann Positive.' Zebbie, everybody knows

that Nevada is the only state that offers twenty-four-hour service, no waiting

time, no blood test. So point this bomb at Reno and sign off."

"Sharpie darling," I said gently, "would you like to walk home from two

thousand meters?"

"I don't know; I've never tried it."

"That's an ejection seat...but no parachutes."

"Oh, how romantic! Jake darling, we'll sing the _Liebestod_ on the way

down -- you sing tenor, I'll force a soprano and we'll die in each other's

arms. Zebbie, could we have more altitude? For the timing."

"Doctor Burroughs, gag that hitchhiker. Sharpie, _Liebestod_ is a solo."

"Picky, picky! Isn't dead-on-arrival enough? Jealous because you can't

carry a tune? I _told_ Dicky Boy that should be a duet and Cosima agreed with

me -- "

"Sharpie, button your frimpin' lip while I explain. One: Everybody at

your party knows why we left and will assume that we headed for Reno. You

probably called out something to that effect as you left -- "

"I believe I did. Yes, I did."

"Shut up. Somebody made a professional effort to kill Doctor Burroughs.

Not just kill but overkill; that combo of high explosive and Thermit was

intended to leave nothing to analyze. But it is possible that no one saw us

lift. We were into this go-wagon and I was goosing it less than thirty seconds

after that booby trap exploded. Innocent bystanders would look at the fire,

not at us. _Guilty_ bystanders -- There wouldn't be any. A professional who

booby-traps a car either holes up or crosses a state line and gets lost. The

party or parties who paid for the contract may be nearby, but if they are,

Hilda, they're in your house."

"One of my _guests?"_

"Oh, shut it, Sharpie; you are never interested in the morals of your

guests. If they can be depended on to throw custard pies or do impromptu

strips or some other prank that will keep your party from growing dull, that

qualifies them. However, I am _not_ assuming that the boss villain was at your

party; I am saying that he would not be lurking where the Man might put the

arm on him. Your house would be the best place to hide and watch the plot

develop.

"But, guest or not, he was someone who _knew_ that Doctor Burroughs

would be at your party. Hilda, who knew that key fact?"

She answered with uncustomary seriousness. "I don't know, Zebbie. I

would have to think."

"Think hard."

"Mmm, not many. Several were invited because Jake was coming -- you, for

example -- "

"I became aware of that."

" -- but you weren't told that Jake would be present. Some were told --

`No Brain,' for example -- but I can't imagine that old fool booby-trapping a

car."

"I can't either, but killers don't look like killers; they look like

people. How _long_ before the party did you tell `Brainy' that Pop would be

present?"

"I told him when I invited him. Mmm, eight days ago."

I sighed. "The possibles include not only the campus but the entire

globe. So we must try to figure probables. Doctor Burroughs, can you think of

anyone who would like to see you dead?"

"Several!"

"Let me rephrase it. Who hates your guts so bitterly that he would not

hesitate to kill your daughter as long as he got _you?_ And also bystanders

such as Hilda and me. Not that we figure, save to show that he didn't give a

hoot who caught it. A deficient personality. Amoral. _Who is he?"_

Pop Burroughs hesitated. "Doctor Carter, disagreement between

mathematicians can be extremely heated...and I am not without fault." (You're

telling _me,_ Pop!) "But these quarrels rarely result in violence. Even the

death of Archimedes was only indirectly related to his -- our -- profession.

To encompass my daughter as well -- no, even Doctor Brain, much as I despise

him, does not fit the picture."

Deety said, "Zeb, could it have been _me_ they were shooting at?"

"_You_ tell _me._ Whose dolly have you busted?"

"Hmm -- I can't think of anyone who dislikes me even enough to snub me.

Sounds silly but it's true."

"It's the truth," put in Sharpie. "Deety is just like her mother was.

When Jane -- Deety's mother, and my best friend until we lost her-when Jane

and I were roommates in college, I was always getting into jams and Jane was

always getting me out-and never got into one herself. A peacemaker. So is

Deety."

"Okay, Deety, you're out of it. So is Hilda and so am I, as whoever

placed that booby trap could not predict that either Hilda or I would be in

blast range. So it's Pop they're gunning for. Who we don't know, why we don't

know. When we figure out why, we'll know who. Meantime we've got to keep Pop

out of range. I'm going to marry you as fast as possible, not only because you

smell good but to give me a legitimate interest in this fight."

"So we go first to Reno."

"Shut up, Sharpie. We've been on course for Reno since we leveled off."

I flipped on the transponder, but to the left, not right. It would now answer

with a registered, legal signal...but not one registered to my name. This cost

me some shekels I did not need but were appreciated by a tight -- lipped

family man in Indio. Sometimes it is convenient not to be identified by sky

cops every time one crosses a state line.

"But we aren't going to Reno. Those cowboy maneuvers were intended to

deceive the eye, radar, and heat seekers. The evasion against the heat seekers

-- that rough turn while we were still in glide -- either worked or was not

needed, as we haven't had a missile up the tail. Probably wasn't needed;

people who booby-trap cars aren't likely to be prepared to shoot a duo out of

the sky. But I couldn't be certain, so I ducked. We may be assumed to be dead

in the blast and fire, and that assumption may stand up until the mess has

cooled down and there is daylight to work by. Even later it may stand up, as

the cops may not tell anyone that they were unable to find organic remains.

But I _must_ assume that Professor Moriarty isn't fooled, that he is watching

by repeater scope in his secret HQ, that he knows we are headed for Reno, and

that hostiles will greet us there. So we won't go there. Now quiet, please; I

must tell this baby what to do."

The computer-pilot of my car can't cook but what she can do, she does

well. I called for display map, changed scale to include Utah, used the light

pen to trace route -- complex as it curved around Reno to the south, back

north again, made easting over some very empty country, and passed north of

Hill Air Force Range in approaching Logan. I fed in height-above-ground while

giving her leeway to smooth out bumps, and added one change in speed-over-

ground once we were clear of Reno radar. "Got it, girl?" I asked her.

"Got it, Zeb."

"Ten-minute call, please."

"Call you ten minutes before end of routing -- right!"

"You're a smart girl, Gay."

"Boss, I bet you tell that to all the girls. Over."

"Roger and out, Gay." The display faded.

Certainly I could have programmed my autopilot to accept a plan in

response to a punched "Execute." But isn't it pleasanter to be answered by a

warm contralto? But the "smart girl" aspect lay in the fact that it took _my_

voice to make a flight plan operative. A skilled electron pusher might find a

way to override my lock, then drive her manually. But the first time he

attempted to use autopilot, the car would not only not accept the program but

would scream for help on all police frequencies. This causes car thieves to

feel maladjusted.

I looked up and saw that Deety had been following this intently. I

waited for some question. Instead Deety said, "She has a very pleasant voice,

Zeb."

"Gay Deceiver is a very nice girl, Deety."

"And talented. Zeb, I have never before been in a Ford that can do the

things this car -- Gay Deceiver? -- can do."

"After we're married I'll introduce you to her more formally. It will

require reprogramming."

"I look forward to knowing her better."

"You will. Gay is not exactly all Ford. Her external appearance was made

by Ford of Canada. Most of the rest of her once belonged to Australian Defense

Forces. But I added a few doodads. The bowling alley. The powder room. The

veranda. Little homey touches."

"I'm sure she appreciates them, Zeb. I know I do. I suspect that, had

she not had them, we would all be as dead as canasta."

"You may be right. If so, it would not be the first time Gay has kept me

alive. You have not seen all her talents."

"I'm beyond being surprised. So far as I could see you didn't tell her

to land at Logan."

"Logan seems to be the next most likely place for a reception committee.

Who in Logan knows that you and your father were going to visit Hilda?"

"No one, through me."

"Mail? Milk cartons? Newspapers?"

"No deliveries to the house, Zeb." She turned her head, "Pop, does

anyone in Logan know where we went?"

"Doctor Carter, to the best of my knowledge, no one in Logan knows that

We left. Having lived many years in the buzzing gossip of Academe, I have

learned to keep my life as private as possible."

"Then I suggest that you all ease your belts and sleep. Until ten

minutes before reaching Logan there is little to do."

"Doctor Carter -- "

"Better call me Zeb, Pop. Get used to it."

"`Zeb' it is, son. On page eighty-seven of your monograph, after the

equation numbered one-twenty-one in your discussion of the rotation of six-

dimensional spaces of positive curvature, you said, `From this it is evident

that -- ' and immediately write your equation one-twenty-two. How did you do

it? I'm not disagreeing, sir -- on the contrary! But in an unpublished paper

of my own I used a dozen pages to arrive at the same transformation. Did you

have a direct intuition? Or did you simply omit publishing details? No

criticism, I am impressed either way. Sheer curiosity."

"Doctor, _I_ did not write that paper. I told Deety so."

"That _is_ what he claimed, Pop."

"Oh, come now! _Two_ Doctors Zebulon E. Carter on one campus?"

"No. But that's not my name. I'm Zebadiah J. Carter. Zebulon E. -- for-

Edward Carter and called 'Ed' is my cousin. While he is probably listed as

being on campus, in fact he is doing an exchange year in Singapore. It's not

as improbable as it sounds; _all_ male members of my family have first names

starting with 'Z.' It has to do with money and a will and a trust fund and the

fact that my grandfather and his father were somewhat eccentric."

"Whereas _you_ aren't," Hilda said sweetly.

"Quiet, dear." I turned toward Deety. "Deety, do you want to be released

from our engagement? I _did_ try to tell you that you had trapped the wrong

bird."

"Zebadiah -- "

"Yes, Deety?"

"I intend to marry you before this night is over. But you haven't kissed

me. I want to be kissed."

I unfastened my seat belt, started to unfasten hers, found that she had

done so.

Deety kisses even better than she tangos.

During a break for oxygen, I asked her in a whisper: "Deety, what do

your initials stand for?"

"Well...please don't laugh."

"I won't. But I have to know them for the ceremony."

"I know. All right, Dee Tee stands for Dejah Thoris."

Dejah Thoris -- Dejah Thoris Burroughs -- Dejah Thoris _Carter!_ I

cracked up.

I got it under control after two whoops. Too many. Deety said sadly,

"You said you wouldn't laugh."

"Deety darling, I wasn't laughing at _your_ name; I was laughing at

_mine."_

Robert A Heinlein - The Number of the Beast

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