The Number of the Beast

XI

"-citizens must protect themselves."

Zeb:

I felt better after I got that "ranger's" corpse dumped and the garage door closed, everyone indoors. I had told Hilda that I felt no "immediate" danger- but my wild talent does not warn me until the Moment of Truth. The "Blokes in the Black Hats" had us located. Or possibly had never lost us; what applies to human gangsters has little to do with aliens whose powers and motives and plans we had no way to guess.

We might be as naive as a kitten who thinks he is hidden because his head is, unaware that his little rump sticks out.

They were alien, they were powerful, they were multiple (three thousand? three million?-we didn't know the Number of the Beast)-and they knew where we were. True, we had killed one-by luck, not by planning. That "ranger" would be missed; we could expect more to call in force.

Foolhardiness has never appealed to me. Given a chance to run, I run. I don't mean I'll bug out on wing mate when the unfriendlies show up, and certainly not on a wife and unborn child. But I wanted us all to run-me, my wife, my blood brother who was also my father-in-law, and his wife, my chum Sharpie who was brave, practical, smart, and unsqueamish (that she would joke in the jaws of Moloch was not a fault but a source of esprit).

I wanted us to go!-Tau axis, Teh axis, rotate, translate, whatever-anywhere not infested by gruesomes with green gore.

I checked the gauge and felt better; Gay's inner pressure had not dropped. ~'oo much to expect Gay to be a spaceship-not equipped to scavenge and

replenish air. But it was pleasant to know that she would hold pressure much longer than it would take us to scram for home if we had to-assuming that unfriendlies had not shot holes in her graceful shell.

I went by the inside passageway into the cabin, used soap and hot water, rinsed off and did it again, dried down and felt clean enough to kiss my wife, which I did. Deety held onto me and reported.

"Your kit is packed, sir. I'm finishing mine, the planned weight and space, and nothing but practical clothes-"

"Sweetheart."

"Yes, Zebadiah?"

"Take the clothes you were married in and mine too. Same for Jake and Hilda. And your father's dress uniform. Or was it burned in Logan?"

"But, Zebadiah, you emphasized rugged clothes."

"So I did. To keep your mind on the fact that we can't guess the conditions we'll encounter and don't know how long we'll be gone or if we'll be back. So I listed everything that might be useful in pioneering a virgin planet-since we might be stranded and never get home. Everything from Jake's microscope and water-testing gear to technical manuals and tools. And weapons-and flea powder. But it's possible that we will have to play the roles of ambassadors for humanity at the court of His Extreme Majesty, Overlord of Galactic Empires in thousandth-and-third continuum. We may need the gaudiest clothes we can whip up. We don't know, we can't guess."

"I'd rather pioneer."

"We may not have a choice. When you were figuring weights, do you recall spaces marked 'Assigned mass such and such-list to come'?"

"Certainly. Total exactly one hundred kilos, which seemed odd. Space slightly less than one cubic meter split into crannies."

"Those are yours, snubnose. And Pop or Hilda. Mass can be up to fifty percent over; I'll tell Gay to trim to match. Got an old doll? A security blanket? A favorite book of poems? Scrapbook? Family photographs? Bring 'em all!"

"Golly!" (I never enjoy looking at my wife quite so much as when she lights up and is suddenly a little girl.)

"Don't leave space for me. I have only what I arrived with. What about shoes for Hilda?"

"She claims she doesn't need any, Zebadiah-that her calluses are getting calluses on them. But I've worked out expedients. I got Pop some Dr. Scholl's shoe liners when we were building; I have three pairs left and can trim them. Liners and enough bobby sox make her size three-and-half feet fit my clodhoppers pretty well. And I have a sentimental keepsake; Keds Pop bought me when I first went to summer camp, at ten. They fit Aunt Hilda."

"Good girl!" I added, "You seem to have everything in hand. How about food? Not stores we are carrying, I mean now. Has anybody thought about dinner? Killing aliens makes me hungry."

"Buffet style, Zebadiah. Sandwiches and stuff on the kitchen counter, and I thawed and heated an apple pie. I fed one sandwich to Hilda, holding it for

her; she says she's going to finish working, then scrub before she eats anything more."

"Sharpie munched a sandwich while she carved that thing?"

"Aunt Hilda is rugged, Zebadiah-almost as rugged as you are."

"More rugged than I am. I could do an autopsy if I had to-but not while eating. I think I speak for Jake, too."

"I know you speak for Pop. He saw me feeding her, turned green and went elsewhere. Go look at what she's been doing, Zebadiah; Hilda has found interesting things."

"Hmmm- Are you the little girl who had a tizzy at the idea of dissecting a dead alien?"

"No, sir, I am not. I've decided to stay grown up. It's not easy. But it's more satisfying. An adult doesn't panic at a snake; she just checks to see if it's got rattles. I'll never squeal again. I'm grown up at last... a wife instead of a pampered princess."

"You will always be my Princess!"

"I hope so, my Chieftain. But to merit that, I must learn to be a pioneer mother-wring the neck of a rooster, butcher a hog, load while my husband shoots, take his place and his rifle when he is wounded. I'll learn-I'm stubborn, I am. Grab a hunk of pie and go see Hilda. I know just what to do with the extra hundred kilos: books, photographs, Pop's microfilm files and portable viewer, Pop's rifle and a case of ammo that the weight schedule didn't allow for-"

"Didn't know he had it-what calibre?"

"Seven point six two millimeters, long cartridge."

"Glory be! Pop and I use the same ammo!"

"Didn't know you carried a rifle, Zebadiah."

"I don't advertise it, it's unlicensed. I must show all of you how to get at it."

"Got any use for a lady's purse gun? A needle gun, Skoda fléchettes. Not much range but either they poison or they break up and expand... and it fires ninety times on one magazine."

"What are you, Deety? Honorable Hatchet Man?"

"No, sir. Pop got it for me-black market-when I started working nights. He said he would rather hire shysters to get me acquitted-or maybe probation-than to have to go down to the morgue to identify my body. Haven't had to use it; in Logan I hardly need it. Zebadiah, Pop has gone to a great deal of trouble to get me the best possible training in self-defense. He's just as highly trained-that's why I keep him out of fist fights. Because it would be a massacre. He and Mama decided this when I was a baby. Pop says cops and courts no longer protect citizens, so citizens must protect themselves."

"I'm afraid he's right."

"My husband, I can't evaluate my opinions of right and wrong because I learned them from my parents and haven't lived long enough to have formed opinions in disagreement with theirs."

"Deety, your parents did okay."

"I think so... but that's subjective. As may be, I was kept out of blackboard jungles-public schools-until we moved to Utah. And I was trained to fight- armed or unarmed. Pop and I noticed how you handled a sword. Your moulinets are like clockwork. And when you drop into point guard, your forearm is perfectly covered."

"Jake is no slouch. He drew so fast I never saw it, and cut precisely above the collar."

"Pop says you are better at it."

"Mmm- Longer reach. He's probably faster. Deety, the best swordmaster I ever had was your height and reach. I couldn't even cross blades with him unless he allowed me to."

"You never did say where you had taken up swordsmanship."

I grinned down at her. "Y.M.C.A. in downtown Manhattan. I had foil in high school. I fiddled with saber and épée in college. But I never encountered swordsmen until I moved to Manhattan. Took it up because I was getting soft. Then during that so-called 'research trip' in Europe I met swordsmen with family tradition-sons and grandsons and great-grandsons of maItres d'armes. Learned that it was a way of life-and I had started too late. Deety, I fibbed to Hilda; I've never fought a student duel. But I did train in saber in Heidelberg under the Säbelmeister reputed to coach one underground Korps. He was the little guy I couldn't cross steel with. Fast! Up to then I had thought I was fast. But I got faster under his tutelage. The day I was leaving he told me that he wished he had had me twenty years sooner; he might have made a swordsman of me."

"You were fast enough this afternoon!"

"No, Deety. You had his eye, I attacked from the flank. You won that fight- not me, not Pop. Although what Pop did was far more dangerous than what I did."

"My Captain, I will not let you disparage yourself! I cannot hear you!"

Women, bless their warm hearts and strange minds-Deety had appointed me her hero; that settled it. I would have to try to measure up. I cut a piece of apple pie, ate it quickly while I walked slowly through the passage into the garage-didn't want to reach the "morgue" still eating.

The "ranger" was on its back with clothes cut away, open from chin to crotch, and spread. Nameless chunks of gizzard were here and there around the cadaver. It gave off a fetid odor.

Hilda was still carving, ice tongs in left hand, knife in her right, greenish goo up over her wrists. As I approached she put down the knife, picked up a razor blade-did not look up until I spoke. "Learning things, Sharpie?"

She put down her tools, wiped her hands on a towel, pushed back her hair with her forearm. "Zebbie, you wouldn't believe it."

"Try me."

"Well... look at this." She touched the corpse's right leg, and spoke to the corpse itself. "What's a nice joint like this doing in a girl like you?"

I saw what she meant: a long, gaunt leg with an extra knee lower than the

human knee; it bent backwards. Looking higher, I saw that its arms had similar extra articulation. "Did you say 'girl'?"

"I said 'girl.' Zebbie, this monster is either female or hermaphroditic. A fully developed uterus, two-horned like a cat, one ovary above each horn. But there appear to be testes lower down and a dingus that may ~e a retractable phallus. Female-but probably male as well. Bisexual but does not impregnate itself; the plumbing wouldn't hook up. I think these critters can both pitch and catch."

"Taking turns? Or simultaneously?"

"Wouldn't that be sump'n? No, for mechanical reasons I think they take turns. Whether ten minutes apart or ten years, deponent sayeth not. But I'd give a pretty to see two of 'em going to it!"

"Sharpie, you've got a one-track mind."

"It's the main track. Reproduction is the main track; the methods and mores of sexual copulation are the central feature of all higher developments of life."

"You're ignoring money and television."

"Piffle! All human activities including scientific research are either mating dances and care of the young, or the dismal sublimations of born losers in the only game in town. Don't try to kid Sharpie. Took me forty-two years to grab a real man and get myself knocked up-but I made it! Everything I've done up to the last two weeks has been 'vamp till ready.' How about you, you shameless stud? Am I not right? Careful how you answer; I'll tell Deety."

"I'll take the Fifth."

"Make mine a quart. Zebbie, I hate these monsters; they interfere with my plans-a rose-covered cottage, a baby in the crib, a pot roast in the oven, me in a gingham dress, and my man coming down the lane after a hard day flunking freshmen-me with his slippers and his pipe and a dry martini waiting for him. Heaven! All else is vanity and vexation. Four fully developed mammary glands but lacking the redundant fat characteristic of the human female-'cept me, damn it. A double stomach, a single intestine. A two-compartment heart that seems to pump by peristalsis rather than by beating. Cordate. I haven't examined the brain; I don't have a proper saw-but it must be as well developed as ours. Definitely humanoid, outrageously nonhuman. Don't knock over those bottles; they are specimens of body fluids."

"What are these things?"

"Splints to conceal the unhuman articulation. Plastic surgery on the face, too, I'm pretty sure, and cheaters to reshape the skull. The hair is fake; these Boojums don't have hair. Somethinglike tattooing-or maybe masking I haven't been able to peel off-to make the face and other exposed skin look human instead of blue-green. Zeb, seven-to-two a large number of missing persons have been used as guinea pigs before they worked out methods for this masquerade. Swoop! A flying saucer dips down and two more guinea pigs wind up in their laboratories."

"There hasn't been a flying saucer scare in years."

"Poetic license, dear. If they have space-time twisters, they can pop up

anywhere, steal what they want-or replace a real human with a convincing fake-and be gone like switching off a light."

"This one couldn't get by very long. Rangers have to take physical examinations."

"This one may be a rush job, prepared just for us. A permanent substitution might fool anything but an x-ray-and might fool even x-ray if the doctor giving the examination was one of Them... a theory you might think about. Zebbie, I must get to work. There is so much to learn and so little time. I can't learn a fraction of what this carcass could tell a real comparative biologist."

"Can I help?" (I was not anxious to.)

"Well-"

"I haven't much to do until Jake and Deety finish assembling the last of what they are going to take. So what can I do to help?"

"I could work twice as fast if you would take pictures. I have to stop to wipe my hands before I touch the camera."

"I'm your boy, Sharpie. Just say what angle, distance, and when."

Hilda looked relieved. "Zebbie, have I told you that I love you despite your gorilla appearance and idiot grin? Underneath you have the soul of a cherub. I want a bath so badly I can taste it-could be the last hot bath in a long time. And the bidet-the acme of civilized decadence. I've been afraid I would still be carving strange meat when Jacob said it was time to leave."

"Carve away, dear; you'll get your bath." I picked up the camera, the one Jake used for record-keeping: a Polaroid Stereo-Instamatic-self-focusing, automatic irising, automatic processing, the perfect camera for engineer or scientist who needs a running record.

I took endless pictures while Hilda sweated away. "Sharpie, doesn't it worry you to work with bare hands? You might catch the Never-Get-Overs."

"Zebbie, if these critters could be killed by our bugs, they would have arrived here with no immunities and died quickly. They didn't. Therefore it seems likely that we can't by hurt by their bugs. Radically different biochemistries."

It sounded logical-but I could not forget Kettering's Law: "Logic is an organized way of going wrong with confidence."

Deety appeared, set down a loaded hamper. "That's the last." She had her hair up in a bath knot and was dressed solely in rubber gloves. "Hi, dearest. Aunt Hilda, I'm ready to help."

"Not much you can do, Deety hon-unless you want to relieve Zebbie."

Deety was staring at the corpse and did not look happy-her nipples were down flat. "Go take a bath!" I told her. "Scram."

"Do I stink that badly?"

"You stink swell, honey girl. But Sharpie pointed out that this may be our last chance at soap and hot water in quite a while. I've promised her that we won't leave for Canopus and points east until she has her bath. So get yours out of the way, then you can help me stow while she gets sanitary."

"All right." Deety backed off and her nipples showed faintly-not rigid but

she was feeling better. My darling keeps her feelings out of her face, mostly- but those pretty pink spigots are barometers of her morale.

"Just a sec, Deety," Hilda added. "This afternoon you said, 'He didn't react!' What did you mean?"

"What I said. Strip in front of a man and he reacts, one way or another. Even if he tries to ignore it, his eyes give him away. But he didn't. Of course he's not a man-but I didn't know that when I tried to distract him."

I said, "But he did notice you, Deety-and that gave me my chance."

"But only the way a dog, or a horse, or any animal, will notice any movement. He noticed but ignored it. No reaction."

"Zebbie, does that remind you of anything?"

"Should it?"

"The first day we were here you told us a story about a 'zaftig co-ed."

"I did?"

"She was flunking math."

"Oh! 'Brainy."

"Yes, Professor N. O'Heret Brain. See any parallel?"

"But 'No Brain' has been on campus for years. Furthermore he turns red in the face. Not a tattoo job."

"I said this one might be a rush job. Would anyone be in a better position to discredit a mathematical theory than the head of the department of mathematics at a very prominent university? Especially if he was familiar with that theory and knew that it was correct?"

"Hey, wait a minute!" put in Deety. "Are you talking about that professor who argued with Pop? The one with the phony invitation? I thought he was just a stooge? Pop says he's a fool."

"He behaves like a pompous old fool," agreed Hilda. "I can't stand him. I plan to do an autopsy on him."

"But he's not dead."

"That can be corrected!" Sharpie said sharply.