The Number of the Beast

  “Chief Pilot.”

  “I understand—”

  “Short form. Deety defined it.”

  “Roger Wilco, Captain!”

  Aunt Hilda turned in the air toward Pop—and I held my breath, three endless seconds. “Jacob?”

  “Roger Wilco, Captain.”

  “Very well. We will ground as soon as we get clearance but will not ask for clearance until I’ve heard the news and translated that Russian.” Whereupon I told her that we all intended to put on our best bib and tucker; the time should come out about right—and could we be relieved one by one? As I intended to use that darned thunder mug—when you must, you must.

  Aunt Hilda frowned slightly. “I do wish that I had a jump suit in my size. This outfit—”

  “Aunt Hilda! Your crew is in uniform but you are wearing the latest Hollywood style. That model was created by Ferrara himself and he charged you more than you paid for that mink cape. You are the Captain and dress to please yourself. I tell you three times!”

  Aunt Hilda smiled. “Should I acknowledge in paraphrase?”

  “By all means.”

  “Deety, I require my crew to wear uniforms. But I dress to suit myself, and when I saw what the world-famous couturier Mario Ferrara was doing to change the trend in women’s sports clothes, I sent for him and worked him silly until he got just what I wanted. Including repeated washings of the trousers to give them that not-quite-new look so favored by the smart set for yachting. When you come back will you fetch your little shoes—my Keds—and the hair ribbon you gave me? They are part of Signor Ferrara’s creation.”

  “Aunt Hilda honey, you make it sound true!”

  “It is true. You told me three times. I don’t even regret the thousand newdollar bonus I gave him. That man is a genius! Get along dear—git. Chief Pilot, you have the conn; I want the earphones.”

  I was back in ten minutes with jump suits for self and Pop and clean pilot suit for my husband.

  I sailed their clothes toward Pop and Zebadiah. Aunt Hilda was handing phones back to Zebadiah; his suit caught both of them. “Wups, sorry but not very. What do the Russians say?”

  “We’re baddies,” said my husband.

  “We are? The suit I took off is loose back aft. Wrap it around your pistol and belt and shove them under the sleeping bag—pretty please?”

  “With sugar on it?”

  “At today’s prices? Yes. Beat it. Cap’n, what sort of baddies?”

  “Spies and agents-saboteurs and other things and indemnity is demanded in the name of the Tsar and the surrender of our persons, all twelve of us—”

  “Twelve?”

  “So they claim.—for trial before they hang us. Or else. The ‘or-else’ amounts to a threat of war.”

  “Heavens! Are we going to ground?”

  “Yes. The British comment was that a source close to the Governor reports that the Russians have made another of their periodic claims of territorial violation and espionage and the note was routinely rejected. I intend to be cautious. We won’t leave the car unless I am convinced that we will receive decent treatment.”

  Shortly we were again doing one-second jumps in a circle around Windsor City. Had Pop not pulled another blunder in handling Aunt Hilda we would have been on the ground two hours ago. “Blunder,” rather than “insult”—but I’m not Hilda, I’m Deety. My ego is not easily bruised. Before I married, if a man patronized me and it mattered, I used to invite him to go skeet shooting. Even if he beat me (happened once), he never patronized me again.

  If it’s an unsocial encounter—I’m big, I’m strong, I fight dirty. A male has to be bigger, stronger, and just as well trained or I can take him. Haven’t had to use the fléchette gun yet. But twice I’ve broken arms and once I kicked a mugger in the crotch and said he fainted.

  Zebadiah was having trouble with traffic control. “—request permission to ground. This is private yacht Gay Deceiver, U.S. registry, Chief Pilot Carter speaking. All we want is clearance to ground. You’re behaving like those you-know-what-I-mean Russians. I didn’t expect this from Englishmen.”

  “Now, now! Where are you? You sound close by…but we can’t get a fix on you.”

  “We are circling your city at a height above ground of five kilometers.”

  “How much is that in feet? Or miles?”

  I touched my husband’s shoulder. “Tell him sixteen thousand feet.”

  “Sixteen thousand feet.”

  “What bearing?”

  “We’re circling.”

  “Yes, but—See Imperial House at City Center? What bearing?”

  “We are much too fast for you to take a bearing. While you speak one sentence, we’ve gone around twice.”

  “Oh, tell that to the Jollies; old sailors will never believe it.”

  Aunt Hilda tapped Zebadiah; he passed the microphone to her. Aunt Hilda said crisply, “This is Captain Burroughs, commanding. State your name, rating, and organization number.”

  I heard a groan, then silence. Twenty-three seconds later another voice came on. “This is the officer of the watch, Leftenant Bean. Is there a spot of trouble?”

  “No, Lieutenant, merely stupidity. My chief pilot has been trying for fifteen minutes for clearance to ground. Is this a closed port? We were not told so by your embassy on Earth. We were warned that the Russians discouraged visitors, and indeed, they tried to shoot us out of the sky. What is your full name and your regiment, Lieutenant; I intend to make a formal report when I return home,”

  “Please, Madam! This is Leftenant Brian Bean, Devonshire Royal Fusiliers. May I ask to whom I am speaking?”

  “Very well. I will speak slowly; please record. I am Captain Hilda Burroughs, commanding space yacht Gay Deceiver, out of Snug Harbor in the Americas.”

  “Captain, let me get this clear. Are you commanding both a spaceship in orbit and a landing craft from your ship? Either way, please let me have the elements of your ship’s orbit for my log, and tell me the present position of your landing craft. Then I can assign you a berth to ground.”

  “Do I have your word as a British officer and gentleman that you will not shoot us out of the sky as those Russian vandals attempted to do?”

  “Madam—Captain—you have my word.”

  “Gay Bounce. We are now approximately forty-nine thousand feet above your city.”

  “But—We understood you to say ‘Sixteen thousand’?”

  “That was five minutes ago; this craft is fast.” Aunt Hilda released the button. “Deety, get rid of the special ‘Tramp’ program.”

  I told Gay to return “Tramp” to her perms and to wipe the temporary mods. “Done.”

  Aunt Hilda pressed the mike button. “Do you see us now?” She released the button. “Deety, I want us over that big building—‘Imperial House,’ probably—in one transition. Can you tell Zebbie and Jacob what it takes?”

  I looked it over. We should be at the edge of the city—but were we? Get a range and triangulate? No time! Guess at the answer, double it and divide by two. Arc tan four tenths. “Pop, can you transit twenty-one degrees from vertical toward city hall?”

  “Twenty-one degrees. Sixty-nine degrees of dive toward the big barn in the park, relative bearing broad on the port bow, approx—set! One unit transition, ten klicks—set!”

  “I can see you now, I do believe,” came Mr. Bean’s voice. “Barely.”

  “We’ll come lower.” Aunt Hilda chopped off the lieutenant. “Zebbie, put her into glide as soon as you execute. Deety, watch H-above-G and scram if necessary—don’t wait to be told. Zebbie, execute at will.”

  “Jake, execute!”—and we were down so fast I got goose bumps…especially as Zebadiah then dived vertically to gain glide speed and that’s mushy, slow, slow, on Mars.

  But soon Aunt Hilda was saying tranquilly, “We are over Imperial House. You see us?”

  “Yes, yes! My word! Bloody!”

  “Leftenant, watch your language!” Aunt Hilda winked at me a
nd snickered silently.

  “Madam, I apologize.”

  “‘Captain,’ if you please,” she said, smiling while her voice dripped icicles.

  “Captain, I apologize.”

  “Accepted. Where am I to ground?”

  “Ah, figured from Imperial House, there is a landing field due south of it twelve miles. I will tell them to expect you.”

  Hilda let up on the button, said, “Gay Bounce” and racked the microphone. “How unfortunate that the lieutenant’s radio cut out before he could tell us how far away that field is. Or was it our radio?”

  I said, “Captain, you know durn well both radios worked okay.”

  “Mercy, I must be getting old. Was Smart Girl in recording mode?”

  I said, “She always is, during maneuvers. She wipes it in a ten-hour cycle.”

  “Then my bad hearing doesn’t matter. Please ask her to repeat the lieutenant’s last speech.” I did, and Gay did. “Deety, can you have her wipe it right after the word ‘it’?”

  “Auntie, you ain’t goin’ to Heaven.” I had Gay wipe twelve-miles-I-will-tell-them-to-expect-you. “But you wouldn’t know anybody there.”

  “Probably not, dear. Zebbie, how does one have Smart Girl ground herself without juice?”

  “Deety had better go over it again. Unless—Jake, will you explain it?”

  “It’s Deety’s caper. I could use another drill.”

  “All right,” I agreed. “Switch off Gay’s ears, Zebadiah. Gay can make any transition exactly if she knows precisely where her target is. Even a jump of less than one minimum. I found that out the day we got here when we were testing remote control. The rest came from perfecting the ‘Bug-Out’ routine by having her pause and sweep the target and if it’s obstructed, she bounces. Aunt Hilda, if you intend to ground, we had better not be much under five klicks or we’ll have to bounce and start over.”

  “I’ve got air bite, Captain. I’ll stretch it.”

  “Thanks, Zebbie. Deety, you do it. Let us all learn.”

  “Okay. I need both pilots. You haven’t said where to ground.”

  “Wasn’t that clear? Due south of Imperial House. I think it is a parade ground. Nothing on it but a flagpole on the north side. Put her down in front of the building but miss that flagpole.”

  “It would take override to hit that flagpole. Zebadiah, gunsight the spot you want to park on. I’ll talk to Gay. Then put her in level flight in the orientation you want, and give ‘Execute.’ Pop, Gay should pause at exactly one-half klick, to see that her parking spot is clear and to recheck distance. That stop won’t be long—a fraction of a second—but, if she fails to make it, try to bounce. Probably you can’t; if I missed in debugging, maybe we’ll all be radioactive. Been nice knowing you all. Okay, switch on her ears.” My husband did so.

  “Gay Deceiver.”

  “Hello, Deety. I’ve missed you.”

  “Unpowered autogrounding mode.”

  “Gonna ground by myself without a drop of juice! Where?”

  “New target. Code word: ‘Parade Ground.’ Point of aim and range-finder method.”

  “Show him to me. I can lick him!”

  I touched my husband’s shoulder. “Let her know.”

  “On target, Gay. Steady on target.”

  “Range three-seven-two-nine, three-seven-naughty-nought, three-five-nine-nine—got him, Deety!”

  Zebadiah leveled us out, headed us north. “Execute!”

  We were parked facing the big front steps. That flagpole was ten meters from Gay’s nose.

  Pop said, “Deety, I could see the check stop but it was too short for me to act. But your programs always work.”

  “Until the day one blows up. Aunt Hilda, what do we do now?”

  “We wait.”

  XXVI

  The Keys to the City

  Jake:

  I do not believe that I am wrong in insisting that Zeb should lead us. I am forced to conclude that being right has little to do with holding a woman’s affections. I never intend to hurt Hilda’s feelings. I now plan to make a career of keeping my mouth shut.

  But I do not think it was diplomatic to spat with that radio operator or proper to be—well, yes, rude—rude to his officer. As for grounding twelve miles, nineteen klicks, from where we were told to—is this the behavior of guests!

  But we did ground where we should not have. I started to open the door to get out, then help Hilda to disembark, when I heard her say: “We wait.”

  Hilda added, “Leave doors locked and belts fastened. Gay Deceiver, remain in maneuvering mode. Lock the bulkhead door.”

  “Hot and rarin’ to go, Hilda. Bulkhead door locked.”

  “You’re a smart girl, Gay.”

  “That makes two of us, Hilda.”

  “Chief Pilot, in this mode does she record outside as well as inside?”

  “She does if I switch on outside speakers and mikes, Captain.”

  “Please do.”

  “What volume, Captain? Outside, and inside.”

  “I didn’t know they were separate. Straight-line gain?”

  “Logarithmic, Ma’am. From a gnat’s whisper to a small earthquake.”

  “I would like outside pickup to amplify enough that we won’t miss anything. What I send out should be a bit forceful.”

  “Captain, I’ll give you a decibel advantage. You want it louder, squeeze my shoulder. I won’t turn it higher than seven—unless you want to use it as a weapon. But to talk privately inside I have to keep switching off, then on. As with the Russians—remember?”

  “Oh, yes. All hands, I will speak for all of us. If anyone needs to speak to me, attract Zebbie’s attention—”

  “Slap my shoulder.”

  “—and he’ll give us privacy and confirm it with thumbs-up. Don’t ask for it unnecessarily.”

  “Hilda, why these complex arrangements? Here comes someone now; it would be polite to go meet them. In any case, we can open the door to talk—these are not Russians.” I simply could not bear to watch my darling handle this delicate matter with such—well, rudeness!

  Was I thanked? “Copilot, pipe down. All hands, we may go upstairs any instant; report readiness for space. Astrogator.”

  “Ready, Captain.”

  “Chief Pilot.”

  “Still ready. Outside audio hot.”

  “Copilot.”

  “I’m checking this door seal again. Earlier I started to open it. There! Ready for space. Hilda, I don’t think—”

  “Correct! But the Chief Pilot did think, and gave me thumbs-up as soon as you started to talk. Pipe down! Chief Pilot, cut in our sender as soon as one of them speaks. Copilot, call me ‘Captain’ as the others do. Protocol applies; I’ll explain family relationships later, when appropriate.”

  I resolved not to open my mouth for any reason, feeling quite disgruntled. Disgruntled? I found myself giving serious thought to whether or not Hilda’s temporary and inappropriate authority could do permanent harm to her personality.

  But the top of my mind was observing the Lord High Executioner, approaching us flanked by two henchmen. He was wearing a uniform more suited to musical comedy than to the field. Fierce moustaches, sunburn-pink complexion, service ribbons, and a swagger cane completed the effect.

  His henchmen were younger, not so fancy, fewer ribbons, and appeared to be sergeants. I could not read the officer’s shoulder straps. A crown, I thought, but was there a pip beside it?

  He strode toward us and was ten meters from my door when Hilda said firmly, “That’s close enough. Please tell the Governor General that Captain Burroughs has grounded as directed and awaits his pleasure.”

  He stopped briefly and bellowed, “You were not directed to land here! You’re supposed to be at the field! Customs, immigration, health inspection, visas, tourist cards, intelligence—”

  I saw Hilda squeeze Zeb’s shoulder. “Quiet!” Her voice came more loudly from outside than from her despite Gay’s soundproofing. Zeb
reduced gain as she continued, “My good man, send one of your ratings to the Governor General to deliver my message. While we wait, state your name, rank, and regiment; I shall make formal report of your behavior.”

  “Preeeposterous!”

  “Behavior ‘unbecoming an officer and a gentleman,’” Hilda said with gentle sweetness, “since you insist. While you won’t tell your name, like a naughty boy, others know it. The Paymaster. The Governor General. Others.” She squeezed Zeb’s shoulder. “Deliver my message!”

  “I’m Colonel Brumby, Chief Constable of the Imperial Household, and not your messenger boy! Open up! I’m going to parade you before the Governor General—under arrest!”

  Hilda said quietly to Zeb, “Seven”—allowed the Chief Constable to stride two more steps before saying, “STOP!”

  My ears hurt.

  All three stopped. The old fool braced himself and started again. Hilda must have poked Zeb; he answered with thumbs-up. “Back to normal volume but be ready with that earthquake.”

  He nodded; she went on, “Leftenant Colonel, is it not? I don’t see that extra pip. Leftenant Colonel, I warn you for your own safety not to come closer.”

  He did not answer, kept coming, took his cane from under his arm. His sergeants followed—slowly, at a respectful distance. Hilda let him reach my door—I could see a network of broken veins on his nose—and for the second time in two days someone started to pound on Gay’s door. He raised his cane—

  “Stop that!”

  I was deafened. The Chief Constable was missing. The sergeants were a long way back. They stopped running, turned and faced us. I looked down through my door’s port, saw a pair of legs and a swagger cane—inferred a torso.

  I turned my head, saw that Zeb had his thumb up. “Captain,” he said, “I disobeyed you.”

  “How, Zebbie?”

  “I gave him an eight; I wasn’t sure his heart could take a ten. He looks like an old bottle-a-day man.”

  “An eight may have been too much,” I commented. “He’s on the ground. Dead, maybe.”

  “Oh, I hope not!”

  “Unlikely, Captain,” Zeb told her. “Shall I tell his noncoms to come get him?”

  “I’ll tell them, Zebbie. Normal level.” Hilda waited until he signalled, then called out, “Sergeants! Colonel Brumby needs help. There will be no more loud noises.”