The Number of the Beast

  Zeb was saying, “That’s it! Got it in the gunsight—got the range, Smart Girl?”

  “Got it nailed, Boss!”

  “Keep it so. Deety! Yellow roadable?”

  “Just spotted it. Gay, count down! Six… Five… Four… Three… Two… One…Now!”

  We were diagonally in that intersection; Gay’s portside door was popping open. I heard Zeb say, “Oh, my God!” He was out of the car, kneeling, picking up a body, kicking a cop in the stomach, and throwing that body to me, as he scrambled inside and shouted, “GayBounce!”

  Gay bounced. Gay is not supposed to lift with a door open and “Bounce!” means ten klicks. She bounced one klick, finished closing her door, waited while Zeb checked the seal—completed the bounce. I am now a believer.

  I was passing this little old lady back to Elizabeth, and looking for resemblance to Lazarus when I heard Zeb moan, “I didn’t get her purse, I didn’t get her purse!”

  “What of it?” said Deety. “It’s where we want it. Gay Deceiver. Tertius Orbit. Execute.”

  A beautiful planet—

  Zeb was saying, “Lib, can you coach us? Or are you too busy?”

  “Not that busy. Maureen fainted but her heart is strong and steady, and I have a strap holding her. Is Gay on frequency?”

  Deety reported, “Right on. Go ahead, Lib.”

  The next I can’t report; it was in Galacta. Then Elizabeth said, “We’ll be passing over Boondock in three minutes twenty-two seconds. Roof of the clinic is designated. Shall I come forward and point it out?”

  “Can you handle yourself in free fall?” Zeb asked.

  “I’ve some experience. Eight centuries.”

  “My big mouth. Come forward.”

  In four or five minutes we grounded on a flat roof in a wooded part of a moderately large city. I saw a figure in a white coverall, plus two others with a wheeled stretcher—and only then did I recall that none of us had dressed. Hilda had asked; Lazarus had vetoed, Elizabeth had concurred.

  So I found myself bare to my ears, bowing over a lady’s hand and saying, “I am honored, Doctor Ishtar.”

  She is indeed beautiful—a Valkyrie sculptured from cream and marshmallow and honey. She smiled and kissed my hand.

  Elizabeth said something in this other language; Ishtar smiled again and said, in careful, fluent English, “In that case, he is one of us”—took my head in her hands and kissed me thoroughly.

  Ishtar so distracted me that I did not notice that Maureen had been handed out—awake but dazed—been rolled away, and was gone. All of us were thoroughly and carefully kissed, then Elizabeth discussed matters with Ishtar in Galacta. “Ish says that she has been slowly warming the thing. It is now at four degrees Celsius. She would like more time but will bring it to thirty-seven degrees Celsius in six hours if she must.”

  Deety said, “How about twenty-four hours?”

  Ishtar was pleased at this, agreed that she understood that the substitute must be dressed in the patient’s (client’s) clothing, agreed that the space we were in would be kept clear—and asked, “What’s that pounding noise?”

  Elizabeth explained that it was Lazarus. “He is in a magic space warp about where we were standing. He knows that he is supposed to remain there, but he changed his mind—and has just discovered that he is locked in.”

  Ishtar’s smile suddenly became a grin, as quickly left. “A magic space warp? Lib, I want to hear about that.”

  “You will.”

  We climbed back inside, Deety told Gay “Twenty-four hours”—and we stepped out again. Ishtar was lying on a pad, taking the sun…this time as bare as we were—and I was still more impressed.

  “Right on time,” she said, standing (taller than I am) and, as always, smiling. “The substitute is waiting, and I have had time to examine and talk with the client. She is in good shape for her age, understands in part at least what has happened, and is undismayed by it. Please tell Lazarus that, if he returns to Tertius soon, he will not be admitted to this building for seventeen months. The client is most firm: she will not see Lazarus until I have completed rejuvenating her.”

  “Lib,” said my daughter Deety, “seventeen what sort of months? I want to set an exact rendezvous—and Gay’s time calibration is not Tertian but Earth-Prime and Earth-zero. Old Home Terra.” With Elizabeth as interface the three agreed on an exact time. Then Elizabeth again discussed something in that language.

  Ishtar nodded. “No problem, I have seen that picture. And a hooded cape is even less trouble.”

  So we left.

  Dropping that pseudo corpse was routine but I was glad to be quit of it (I had swapped seats with my daughter). Then we were back on Tertius.

  “Always prompt,” said Ishtar—and I was astounded to see that she was quite pregnant, close to birthing…when I had seen her, slender for her height, two minutes earlier. “And we are on time, too. Maureen, my friends and yours.” She named us.

  Maureen Johnson spoke to us first in Galacta, shifted to English when she realized that we did not know the common tongue. Yes, she does look like Laz and Lor—but prettier. A woman of beauty and great charm. I find that I am growing accustomed to perfect ladies who embrace, bare body to bare body, on meeting a fully-vouched-for stranger. She thanked each of us and made us believe it.

  “Still pounding?” Ishtar inquired.

  “It has been less than five minutes for him, Ish,” Elizabeth explained. “But you know his temper; perhaps we had better leave. Home soon, I think.”

  So we left again, with Maureen squeezed between me and my wife, with a package and a cloak in her lap. We were back inside Dora at once. Elapsed time: zero seconds. We still had an hour and twenty minutes to prepare for dinner. I found that I was hungry, even though breakfast was three hours ago, biological time—almost all of it spent in Beulahland, programming for the caper, as all three phases took only a few durational minutes, mostly on a rooftop in Boondock.

  Maureen put on the cloak, a hooded cape, and carried the little package. “Silly but fun,” she said. “Where do we go now?”

  “Come with me,” Hilda told her. “Beloved, you can let Woodie out as soon as Dora tells Gay that I have reached flag cabin. When he yelps, tell him that we were too busy to play games with him…and the next time he wants a favor from me he can crawl on his knees. Pounding indeed! Tell him that I am extremely tired and am going to nap until just before dinner and he is not to call me or to come to the flag cabin between now and dinner without suffering my extreme displeasure and a punch in the nose from you. All of you come up to flag cabin as soon as you wish but try not to be seen by Woodie. You’ll probably find Maureen and me in the lounging pool.”

  XLVI

  “I’m gifted with second sight.”

  Deety:

  When the Hillbilly stages a production, she doesn’t stint. By protocol decreed by Lazarus Long, dinner in Dora is formal, but with wide latitude in “formal”—casual dress being the only thing utterly verboten. Dinner is preceded by a happy hour where one can sip Coca-Cola or get roaring drunk.

  Aunt Hilda changed all that for this night. No happy hour but be on time—two minutes before twenty o’clock, ship’s time. No one permitted to eat in her/his quarters—a command performance.

  No options in dress—Commodore Auntie decided what each would wear, where each would sit. I said, “Commodore Hilda honey, aren’t you kind o’ throwing your weight around? What there is of it?”

  She answered, “Yes, I am, Deetikins, for this occasion. But before you criticize, ask your husband whether or not I ever permitted one of my parties to flop.”

  “Don’t need to ask him. Why, at your last one, our old Buick blew up. Never a dull moment.”

  “I didn’t plan that. But we got husbands out of it; let’s not complain. Before you deliver my message to the twins, tell me this. Is it safe to let them in on our secret?”

  “Hillbilly, I tell Zebadiah anything even though someone—you, for example—has as
ked me not to.”

  “Deety, I thought we had a ‘You’ll-keep-my-secrets-and-I’ll-keep-your-secrets’ agreement?”

  “We do. But telling Zebadiah gives you two covering for you instead of one. About Laz-Lor—remember that they are his wives as well as his clones.”

  “Hon, you were always a wise one. All right, we keep it secret. Tell them what to wear—and please understand that I’m hiding behind you to avoid argument; it’s a favor I appreciate. Sending up sword and saber is a favor to your husband and to your father but I thank you on their behalf if they forget. Send the blades to your suite; they’ve decided they can dress more easily without women underfoot.”

  “A canard,” Pop said, just back of my neck. “The women don’t want us underfoot.”

  “I knew it was one or the other, Jacob,” Aunt Hilda agreed. “But Dora has already taken your uniforms to our suite and your swords will—”

  “—be there, too, and I can recognize a fact when I fall over it and have never been happier, my love, than I have been since you took charge of my life and started telling me what to decide.”

  “Jacob, you’re making me teary.”

  “Jake! Can you hear me?”—Lazarus’ voice and Aunt Hilda used family sign language; Pop nodded and answered promptly:

  “Certainly, Lazarus—what’s on your mind?”

  “I’m faced with the impossible and need help. I received an order—you, too, I think—to dress in military uniform at dinner. The only uniform I have aboard is in the flag cabin and—say, are you in the flag cabin?”

  Aunt Hilda shook her head. Pop answered, “I’m in our suite, dressing for dinner. Hilda needed a nap. I told you.”

  “You certainly did, sir. I’m allergic to being punched in the snoot. But—Well, if you would use your influence—”

  “If any.”

  “If any, to get me that uniform twenty minutes before dinner”—Aunt Hilda nodded—“or even ten, you would save me the horrible dilemma of deciding which order to break.”

  “Don’t decide to break the one telling you not to disturb Hilda.”

  “I didn’t even consider breaking that one! And it’s not your fist in my snoot. Jake…she terrifies me. I don’t understand it. I’m twice her mass and all muscle; she couldn’t possibly hurt me.”

  “Don’t be certain. She has a poisoned fang. But calm yourself, comrade. I guarantee delivery by nineteen minutes before the bell at latest.”

  “Jake, I knew I could depend on you. Let me know when you want a bank robbed.”

  I gave Maureen a special hug before I left to carry out my orders. I knew what the Hillbilly was doing: rigging it so that she could have a quiet hour in which to get acquainted with Maureen. I didn’t resent it; I would have rigged it for me had I been able.

  I curved down the corridor, whistled for Lib to let me in, stopped dead and whistled another sort of whistle. She was dressed, if “dressed” is the word. “Wheeeewhoo!”

  “Like it?”

  “I can’t wait to get into mine. It is the most indecent outfit I’ve ever seen, with no other purpose than to excite lewd, libidinous, lascivious, licentious, lecherous, lustful longings in the loins of Lotharios.”

  “Isn’t that the purpose of clothing?”

  “Well…aside from protection—yes. But I’m beginning to realize that a culture with no body taboo has to go much farther in styling to achieve that purpose.”

  It was a “dress” with a “skirt” that was a 10-cm ruffle worn low. The material was silky stuff in pastel green. The bodice had no back but the front came clear up to the neck—with cutouts for each teat. The designer did not stop there. Lib’s left teat was bare—but her right one was barer yet: a transparent film that clung and was covered with rainbow iridescence that moved in endless patterns with every jiggle—and jiggle we do no matter how firm. Elizabeth is as firm as I am but hers quivered enough to swirl that iridescence just from breathing.

  Whew!

  If both had been bare, or both iridescent, it would not have done a quarter as much. It was the contrast that would make ’em howl at the Moon.

  My dress was exactly like hers save that my right teat was the bare one.

  Lib got me into it, then I hurried to the bridge, with a hope-promise to be back ten minutes before the hour to have her touch up my eyebrows and lashes. I’m not much for cosmetics (neither is she) but our lashes and brows hardly show without help and this was a formal occasion.

  One of Dora’s blue fireflies led me to a lift that took me to the bridge, where Dora had told me I would find Laz and Lor. Laz spotted me first, made a yelling noise while patting her lips, which I took to mean enthusiasm. Those kids—correction: women close to Pop’s age but they feel like kids—Laz-Lor are as female as I am and recognize what incites the lovely beast in men. They liked my dress.

  I liked that bridge. Reminded me of Star Trek; pointed ears would not have surprised me. Or Nichelle Nichols backed by colored lights. “This place makes my mouth water. Maybe someday a guided tour? Pretty please!”

  Captain Lor said, “Certainly—”

  “—but how about a swap as—”

  “—we haven’t even been inside—”

  “—Gay Deceiver and Dora says she—”

  “—is wonderful and when this job is—”

  “—done and we’ve rescued Mama Maureen there—”

  “—won’t be anything to stop us once Dora—”

  “—is safe on the ground at Tertius. Huh?”

  “Certainly,” I answered…gleefully as now I knew that our 17-hour absence in zero seconds had not been noticed. To Lor and Laz the snatch was still in the planning stage. Apparently Ol’ Buddy Boy had not yet told his sisters. Had not yet worked up a set of lies, probably, that would account for his being locked in the bathroom while the rest of us did the job.

  “At the earliest opportunity,” I went on. “Want to take a ride in Gay?”

  “Oh, my! Could we?”

  “Not for me to say. But I can tell you what works. Cuddle up to the Commodore. Pet her, be sweet to her. Ask her if she will let you call her ‘Aunt Hilda’ when you’re off duty; that will please her. She’s a cat; pet her and respect her feelings and she purrs—push her and she scratches.”

  They glanced at each other. “We will. Thanks.”

  “De nada, chicas—”

  “You’ve learned Galacta!” (In chorus—)

  “What? No. Probably a phrase that carried over. But I was sent here on duty and I’ve been chatting instead. Commodore’s compliments to the Captain and the Commodore requests that Captain Lorelei Lee Long and First Officer Lapis Lazuli Long join her at dinner at twenty o’clock and, as a favor to the Commodore, please dress in the same fashion as Doctors Libby and Deety—and that’s me and I’m wearing the fashion you are to wear.”

  Captain Lor answered, “Certainly we’ll be there; we never miss dinner and—”

  “—always dress formally and I don’t—”

  “—mean bare skin. Skin is for working or—”

  “—sleeping. But we treat dinner in the Dora as a—”

  “—formal party and that calls for the works. Formal evening—”

  “—dress and jewelry and cosmetics and perfume and we are about—”

  “—to bathe and change, but we can’t dress the way you are—”

  “—because our dresses are already picked out and—”

  “—it’s too late to start over!”

  I said, “Look, chums, you brought this on yourselves by urging Lib and me to dress this way. Neither of us was enthusiastic but we promised. The Commodore learned what Libby and I expected to wear, and decided that four of us, all about the same size and coloration, would look wonderful in matching green dresses. So Lib and I are to be opposite you two, balancing you, and the men are required to wear uniforms so as not to compete with us four. All clear?”

  They got their stupid look which actually is a cover for stubborn determination.
Lor said:

  “The Captain sends her respects to the Commodore and regrets—”

  “Hold it! Does this ship have a lifeboat?”

  “Yes,” answered Lor, “but—”

  “But you are master of this ship. Yes, I know. And I’m gifted with second sight. I see only two viable futures for you. Did you get your pirate flag up in the lounge?”

  “Yes, we did, but—”

  “If you’ll tell me what lifeboat and where, I’ll get the flag to you before twenty. I see you starting out in that lifeboat to be pirates. Or I see you at dinner in dresses of any green cloth you can find, cut hastily in this style and pinned together. No jewelry. No cosmetics that show. I don’t think you can fake this iridescent stuff but that stick-on transparent wrapping, used instead, would show that you had tried. The Commodore never rejects anyone for failing; what she despises is not trying. Send your answer via Dora. I can’t be your messenger boy; I have work to do before dinner, now only forty-seven minutes away. Will the Captain excuse me?”

  I got out fast. I didn’t believe for one second that a ship stocked like the Dora, run by identical redheads, could fail to have endless formals in green—including this style or close to it. By now the twins were frantically consulting their brother via Dora, and from what I heard him say to Pop, I thought Lazarus would tell them that it was safer to jump ship and change their names than it would be to tangle with the miniature buzz saw—but if Dora couldn’t fake something that would at least show a hard try, he would sell her off as spare parts and install one of those new-model “Susan Calvin” positronic brains that everybody said was the coming thing for smartships.

  I said Hello to Gay, then tried to reach under the instrument board and find the catch by touch.

  I got out of the car in order to stand up in the ship’s passageway and took off my deliciously indecent dress. Then I was able to fold, bend, and staple, to open the stowage. A saber and a sword—no belts. “Gay.”

  “What, Deety?”

  “I’m looking for two sword belts. Category should be personal possessions, miscellaneous, weapons, belts for weapons.”