The Number of the Beast

  “Remember those performance bonds, you gonof. Run out on us at this point and you had better head for Lundmark’s Nebula; Iskander won’t be far enough. Out!”

  Minerva smiled timidly. “While I was covered, I found that I could not talk. Odd. Unpleasant.”

  Jubal nodded soberly. “That figures…if the illusion was patterned on a true Fair Witness cloak. Anne once told me that the inhibition against talking while cloaked was so great that it took an act of will even to testify in court. Ladies? Shall we go ahead? Or drop the matter? Being a guest should have caused me to refrain.”

  “Doc, Maureen and Tamara both stamped their approval on you. Even Lazarus can’t—or wouldn’t dare—veto either of them. That makes you not just a guest, or a house guest, but a Family guest. So behave as you would at home. Shall I take it from the top or where we broke off?”

  “Uh, let’s take it from the top.”

  “Very well. Title: UNCLE TOBIAS.

  “Start. Uncle Tobias we kept in a bucket.

  “Paragraph. He preferred it, of course. After all, it was necessary, in view of the circumstances. As I once heard Andrew—that’s my disappearing brother—say: ‘Life consists in accommodating oneself to the Universe.’ Although the rest of our family has never taken that view. We believe in forcing the Universe to accommodate itself to us. It’s all a question of which one is to be master.

  “Paragraph. That was the Year of the Big Drouth. A natural phenomenon, you might say—but you’d be wrong. Aunt Alicia. Yes indeedy Aunt Alicia every time. ‘Horus,’ she said to me early that spring, ‘I’m going to practice a little unsympathetic magic. Fetch me these books.’ She hands me a list and I skedaddled. She was a stern woman.

  “Paragraph. Once out of her sight I looked the list over. I could see right away what she was up to—a drier bunch of books was never published: Thoughts at Evening, by Roberta Thistleswaite Smithe, published by the author; The Yearbook of the Department of Agriculture, 1904; China Painting Self-Taught; the 8th, 9th, and 11th volumes of the Elsie Dinsmore series; and a bound thesis titled A Survey of the Minor Flora of Clay County, Missouri, which Cousin Julius Farping had submitted for his master’s degree. Cousin Julius was a Stonebender only by marriage. But ‘Once a Stonebender, always a Stonebender’ Grandfather always says.

  “Paragraph. Maybe so, but Cousin Jule’s magnum opus was nothing I would sit up all night reading. I knew where to find them: on the bookshelf in the guest room. Ma claimed she kept them there to insure sound sleep for the stranger within the gate, but Pa devilled her with the accusation that it was a cheap and unselective revenge for things she had been obliged to put up with in other people’s houses.

  “Paragraph. As may be, an armload of books that could have dried up Reno, Nevada, and Lake Superior in one afternoon, then switched off Niagara Falls as an—”

  Athene interrupted herself: “The presence of Doctors Harshaw and Hubert is urgently requested in the Main Lounge.”

  Lazarus opened one eye. “Not enough, Teena. I feel no urgency. Who? Why?”

  “‘Why’: To buy you each a drink. ‘Who’: Doctor Hazel Stone.”

  “That’s different. Tell her we’ll be there as quick as I can clean up about five minutes of business.”

  “I’ve told her. Pappy, you lost me a bet. You let me think that nothing could stir you out of that hammock—”

  “It’s not a hammock.”

  “—because you were giving this convention, not attending it.”

  “I said I had no plans to attend the plenary sessions. I am not ‘giving’ this convention other than free rental on the land for the Big Top. Tamara says we’ll make expenses, Hilda thinks we might net a little, give or take a milliard or two. I made you no promises. If you had bothered to ask, I would have told you that Hazel Stone hasn’t lost a bet since Jess Willard knocked out Jack Johnson. How much did you lose?”

  “None of your business! Pappy, you give me a pain in what I lack.”

  “I love you, too, dear. Give me printouts on star guests and latest revisions of convention program.” Lazarus added, “Minerva, you’re not armed. Teena, don’t let her stir out of the house unarmed.”

  “Lazarus, do I really need to? Tamara isn’t armed.”

  “Tamara has a concealed weapon. Some of the most bloodthirsty people in Known Space are attending this convention. Female authors. Critics. Harlan. Both Heinleins. I not only insist that you be armed but I hope you stick close to someone fast on the draw. Justin. Zeb. Mordan Claude. Galahad. Better yet, stay home. Teena can display any of it here better than you can see it through mixing with rabble. Belay that. I’ve no more business telling you to be careful than you have telling me. Getting yourself mugged, raped, or killed are among the privileges you opted when you decided to go the protein route. I spoke selfishly, dear; forgive me.”

  “Lazarus, I will be careful. Galahad invited me to tag along.”

  “Perfect. Teena, where’s Galahad?”

  “Hazel Stone’s table.”

  “Good! Stick with us, Min. But armed.”

  Lazarus suddenly became aware of something cold against his left kidney. He looked cautiously to the left and down, noted that it was: a) a lady’s burner, small but lethal (of that he was certain as he collected a royalty on this model); b) the dial showed full charge; c) the intensity setting was “overkill”; and d) it was unlocked.

  “Minerva,” he said gently, “will you please move that thing—slowly!—away from my hide and point it at the ground, then lock it, then tell me where you had it? You came out of the pool dressed in nothing but long wet hair. You are now dressed in long dry hair. How? And no wisecracks; in your case I know better.”

  “Forfeit. Kiss.”

  “Go ahead and kill me.”

  “Stingy.” Minerva removed the weapon, locked it, and it disappeared.

  Lazarus blinked. “Jubal, did you see that?”

  “Yes. I mean, ‘No, I did not see where Minerva hid that equalizer.’”

  “Doctor Jubal, by ‘equalizer’ did you mean this?” Suddenly the lady’s weapon (locked, Lazarus noted at once) was in her right hand. “Or this?” Its twin was in her left hand.

  Jubal and Lazarus looked at each other, looked back at Minerva. She now appeared to be unarmed and totally lacking in any means of hiding a weapon. Lazarus said, “Jubal, are there days when you feel obsolete?”

  “Correction, Lafe. There occasionally comes a day when I do not feel obsolete. They’ve been scarce lately.” Harshaw took a deep breath, exhaled. “I grok I should have let Mike train me. But this incident has made up my mind for me; I am going to seek the services of Doctor Ishtar. Minerva, are you going to show us how you did that?”

  “Or are you going to let us die of frustration?” added Lazarus.

  “This?” Again she appeared as a two-gun woman, with each of her companions covered. This time she handed them over, one to each. “Have one, they’re good”—and peeled the foil off a third, a candy bar molded to look like a purse weapon. “Crunchy, but mostly shokolada. ‘Chocolate’? Mostly chocolate.”

  “Minerva, that burner you shoved into my ribs was not a candy bar.”

  “It was—” She stopped to munch and swallow. “Shouldn’t talk with my mouth full.” She licked at some chocolate clinging to the candy wrapping. “It was this.” Her slender left hand gripped what Lazarus quickly ascertained was a weapon, not candy.

  Minerva rolled her candy wrapping into a lump, looked around for the nearest oubliette, spotted it and tossed the discard—missed it; it bounced against the side. She retrieved the wad of waste, put it into the trash receiver. In the course of this the weapon disappeared.

  “Lazarus,” she said seriously, “when you were training me, you told me that I should never tell anyone how a concealed weapon was concealed. Are you suspending this rule?”

  Lazarus looked baffled. Jubal said, “Old friend, I suggest that we die of frustration. The girl is right.”

  “I agr
ee,” Lazarus answered, with a sour look. “All but the word ‘girl.’ This baggage is half a century old as protein, at least two centuries older than that as the smartest computer ever built. Minerva, I remove all restrictions. You are able to protect yourself.”

  “Father, I don’t want to be turned loose!”

  “It’s been thirty years since you last called me Father. Very well, you aren’t ‘turned loose’—but from here on you protect me. You’re smarter than I am; we both know it. Keep your weapon secrets to yourself; I always have.”

  “But you taught it to me. Not the details, the method. You attributed it to Master Poe. The Purloined Letter Method, you called it.”

  Lazarus stopped short. “If I understand you, I’m looking at your holdout this instant but can’t see it.”

  Into her off ear Athene whispered, “Don’t give him any more hints. Lazarus isn’t as stupid as he looks and neither is Fatso.” Minerva subvocalized, “Okay, Sis,” and said aloud, “I find no fault with your logic, sir. Would you like another candy bar?”

  Fortunately the subject was changed by one of Athene’s extensions handing to Lazarus printouts: revised programs for each, and a fresh report for Lazarus on his star guests. They continued walking through the east peristyle of the new wing, while reading. Lazarus asked, “Teena, anything new on Isaac, Robert, or Arthur?”

  “Negative, zero, nix.”

  “Damn. Let me know soonest. Jubal, here’s an odd one. A doctor’s degree was not a requirement for the limited list—many thousands but nevertheless most strictly limited—of people invited to subscribe to this convention. But most do have a doctor’s degree or their cultural equivalent, or higher—Worsel, for example. I have a much shorter star list of people I wanted to see again—Betsy and Patricia and Buz and Joan, et al.—and people I wanted to meet…most of whom I had considered fictional until Jake’s Gee-Whizzer opened the other universes to us. You, for example.”

  “And you, sir. Lafe, I considered you to be a spectacularly unlikely piece of fiction…until I received your invitation. It took some extraordinary convincing even then by your courier…because it meant missing an important date.”

  “Who was my courier?”

  “Undine.”

  “You never stood a chance. Two bits to a lead nickel she sold it to Gillian and Dawn, then all of your staff, before she seduced you. What was this date I caused you to miss?”

  Harshaw looked embarrassed. “Under the Rose?”

  “‘Under the—’ No! Jubal, I promise to keep secrets only through evil motives, my own. If you don’t wish to tell me, then don’t tell me.”

  “Eh—Damn it, remember if possible that I prefer not to have it discussed…then do as you bloody please; you will anyhow—I always have. Lafe, when I turned fifty, I made myself a solemn vow that, if I held together that long, I would close shop the day I turned one hundred. I had made all rational preparations to do so, including distributing my worldly goods without allowing any of it to reach the sticky fingers of publicans…when your invitation arrived…five days before my hundredth birthday.” Harshaw looked sheepish. “So here I am. Senile, obviously. Even though I arranged years back for other physicians, expert gerontologists, to check me regularly, with the idea of closing shop sooner if indicated.”

  “Jubal, if you have not consulted Ishtar, then you have not yet consulted a gerontologist.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Athene. “Ish can turn your clock back and make you so young and horny you’ll stand on your hands to pee.”

  “Athene,” Lazarus said sternly, “repeat aloud your program on private conversations.”

  “Grandfather, I was on duty as secretary to your star guest when I was forced to interrupt to deliver a one-line message—interruption necessary because it was addressed to both of you. I have not been relieved and Uncle Tobias is still in that bucket. Forty-three hundred words. Instructions, please? Or shall I drown the little monster?”

  “Probably be best,” Jubal answered. “Is a climax approaching?”

  “Yes. Either an ending or a cliff-hanger.”

  “Do it both ways. Exploit first as short story, then as the first episode of an endless serial called ‘The Stonebenders,’ a double series—one angled toward adventure, the other toward sensies; exploit other rights according to the universe in which sold or leased, copyright where possible, otherwise grab the money and run. Lazarus, there are agents from other universes here, are there not?”

  “Dozens, maybe hundreds. Jubal, how rich do you want to be?”

  “Can’t say. At the moment I’m a pauper, existing on your charity and that of my former staff. The Stonebenders could change that. Teena, I gave you the title ‘Uncle Tobias’—but I’m fairly sure I never mentioned the Stonebenders. Or Aunt Alicia. Or Cousin Jule. My notes on the Stonebenders are filed in Anne…who would let herself be burned at the stake before she would part with a record to any but its owner. Well?”

  The computer did not answer. Harshaw waited. At last Minerva said timidly, “Doctor Jubal, Teena can’t help it. But she’s an ethical computer with a code as binding as that of a Fair Witness. You have no need to worry.”

  Lazarus interrupted: “Minerva, quit beating around the bush. Are you saying that Teena reads minds?”

  “I’m saying she can’t help it, sir! A large computer with extensions widespread can’t be perfectly shielded from brain waves. In self-protection, to avoid confusion, she must sort them out. After a few quadrillion nanoseconds she finds herself reading them like large print…the way a baby learns a language from hearing it.”

  Lazarus said stiffly, “Doctor Harshaw, I did not suspect that I was exposing you to this. I will take all necessary steps to repair it. In the meantime I hope that you will accept my shamed apology and believe in my intention to make full reparation.”

  “Lafe, don’t take yourself so hogwash seriously.”

  “I beg pardon?”

  “Two nice girls—One meat, one the other sort. Flat assurance that no harm was intended and that it couldn’t be helped. Let me add my flat assurance that I quit being ashamed of my sins about fifty years back. I don’t care who reads my mind because my life is an open book…that should be suppressed. Meanwhile I see a business deal. I supply story ideas but quit bothering to put ’em together; instead Teena picks my brain while I snooze. Minerva does the dirty work; she’s the managing partner. Three-way split. How about it, girls?”

  “I’ve got no use for money; I’m a computer.”

  “And I don’t know anything about business!” Minerva protested.

  “You can learn,” Jubal assured her. “Talk to Anne. Teena, don’t play stupid. In only three quintillion nanoseconds or less you are going to want new clothes and jewelry and Satan knows what. You’ll be glad your sister Minerva has saved and invested your share of the net.”

  “Minerva,” added Lazarus, “besides Anne, talk to Deety. Not Hilda. Hilda would show you how to make even more money but she would grab voting control. Meanwhile let’s shake a leg; Hazel is expecting us.”

  “And I’m thirsty,” agreed Harshaw. “What were you saying about academic degrees?”

  “Oh.” Lazarus looked at his printout as they walked. “It turns out that the degree of doctor is so common on that list of my special guests as to be not worth noting. Listen to this: ‘Asimov, Benford, Biggie, Bone, Broxon, Cargraves, Challenger, Chater, Coupling, Coster, Dorosin, Douglas, Doyle, Dula, Forward, Fu, Giblett, Gunn, Harshaw, Hartwell, Haycock, Hedrick, Hoyle, Kondo, Latham, MacRae, Martin, Mott, Nourse, Oberhelman, Passovoy, Pinero, Pournelle, Prehoda, Richardson, Rothman, Sagan, Scortia, Schmidt, Sheffield, Slaughter, Smith, Stone—Hazel and Edith—Taine, Watson, Williamson—there are more; that’s just the add-on printout. And here’s another double paradox: the Doctors Hartwell and the Doctors Benford are arriving tomorrow and thereby missing the dull opening plenary; obviously they are used to conventions. Jubal, why is it that the speaker who knows least talks longest?”


  “Isn’t that Dirac’s corollary to Murphy’s Law? But, Lazarus, according to this program you have not only invited critics but have provided them with special facilities. May I ask why? I don’t mind eating with publishers—most publishers. Editors have their place, too—although I wouldn’t want my sister to marry one. But isn’t this extreme?”

  Instead of answering at once, Lazarus said, “Where did Minerva go?”

  Athene replied, “We’re finishing off Uncle Tobias; she’ll be along later. I’ve told Galahad.”

  “Thanks, Teena, Privacy mode. Jubal, two guns, three candy bars—where?”

  “Lafe, earlier she was resting in the bottom of that pool. Has a young man named Mike visited here lately?”

  “Your foster son? The Martian preacher? No. Well, I don’t think so.”

  “One of the things I learned from him was to postpone indefinitely anything I could not explain…while accepting the fact. We were speaking of critics. I asked why you were pampering them?”

  They walked the length of the atrium in the older south wing before Lazarus replied: “Jubal, suppose I had refused to sell memberships to critics. What would have happened?”

  “Hrrrmph! They would crawl out of the woodwork.”

  “So instead I gave them free passes. And a fancy lounge with plenty of typewriters. Remarkable decorations, you must see them. By asking Athene for display—don’t go into that lounge; you are not a critic. Mr. Hoag will be checking credentials; book reviewers can’t get past him. So don’t you try.”

  “I wouldn’t be found dead there!”

  “You wouldn’t be found. Avoid it. It is clearly marked, both above its door and on this program map, and Hoag you can spot by his prissy appearance and dirty fingernails. You’ll note the stairs—critics are above the rest of us; there are Thirteen Steps up to their lounge.”

  “‘Thirteen’? Lafe, do I whiff something?”

  Lazarus shrugged. “I don’t know that the designer planned that number. Mobyas Toras, do you know him?”