Robert Heinlein - The Number of the Beast

"Not in looks, certainly. So I try hard with what I have. Sold myself three times-did my best to make my contract-husbands each feel that he had received full value....hen married dear Jacob for love and am trying still harder with him. He is good-I mean he is good all through. I hope Elizabeth appreciates him. You've had her?"

"Yes."

"Before or after the change?"

"Both. I miss the 'before,' appreciate the 'after."

"Then why won't you knock her up?"

"That's a family joke. She had her first child by me, is now making the rounds of our family, more or less. Woman, you are not here to talk!-I'm almost there!"

She looked delighted. "I'm climaxing steadily; let 'er rip!"-and bit my chin.

An indefinitely long time later that need not be detailed, we were resting

in each other's arms, enjoying that delicious peace of the ebbing tide. Hilda saw them first, raised her head:

"Jacob beloved! Did you! Lib- Did my sweetheart put a baby in you?"

"Did he! Hilda, you do that every night? Little bitty like you? Less than two hours and darling Jacob has worn me out."

"I'm a hollow mockery, dear. Built for it. Tell her, Jacob."

"My darling is adaptable, Libby dear. Lazarus, did Hilda treat you nicely?"

"I died happy."

"He's not dead"-Hilda made a long arm, cupped a handful of water, threw it in my face, giggled. The suggestion she added I rejected with dignity-as much dignity as one can manage when two women are tumbling one into a tub of water....hile one's male comrade stands by and laughs.

"-where do we get the corpse?"

Zeb:

"The question," said my wife Deety, "is where do we get the corpse? With timing that precise, Gay can make the pickup. But a corpse has to be left behind. Lazarus, not only do your movies show it, but you remember Maureen's death; you went to her funeral. It's got to be a fresh corpse of an elderly woman that the cops will accept as Maureen Johnson."

Six of us-Deety, me, Jake, Sharpie, Lazarus, and Libby-were seated around our kitchen dining table at "New Harbor" (our wives accepted that compromise) in Beulahland, trying to make plans for the "snatch." "Snatch" in the literal sense if the rescue of Maureen Johnson were to succeed.

Lazarus had a motion picture that showed that we would succeed (had succeeded) (were about to succeed) at a precise time and place and date on an analog of Earth-zero one quantum away on 't' axis.

Easy! Success guaranteed. Can't miss. Do it blindfolded.

But suppose we did miss?

The frames showed that a roadable had passed through the space where Gay had been (would be?) grounded, and, in so doing, ran over (would run Over) (will run over) (is, was, and forever will be running over) the dumped corpse. Suppose the timing or placement was offjust a touch. On his first time travel (1916-1918 Old-Home-Terra), with Dora piloting, Lazarus had missed not by a split second but by three years.

Lazarus had pointed out that it was his fault, not Dora's; he had fed her Imperfect data-and we had jumped on him from five sides: It was not a

question of "whose fault" but the fact a mistake could be made. Or could it?

Four mathematicians, one mathematical engineer (yeah, I include me, as resident expert in Gay's responses), and one intuitionist all disagreed.

Hilda was certain that nothing could go wrong.

I am a firm believer in Murphy's Law: Given any possible chance, it will go wrong. Anything.

Libby had been wholeheartedly converted both to Jake's six-axis plenum of universes to the awful Number of the Beast but also to Sharpie's multiple solipsism, and asserted that they were two sides of the same coin; one was a corollary of the other and vice versa. Combined, they (it) constituted the ultimate total philosophy: science, religion, mathematics, art, in one grand consistent package. She spoke of a "ficton" being a quantum of imagination/reality ("imaginary" being identical with "real" whatever that is) as casually as a physicist speaks of photons. "Could a mistake be made? Yes. And would create a new universe. Jacob, you spoke of the empty universes your family had visited. One by one they fill as fictons are created." She added, "But a mistake was not made; we snatched Maureen safely. We ourselves create the fictionsfictons-ficta that will make it real."

She was euphoric. I attributed it to excitement over the coming adventure. I was mistaken.

Lazarus, a highly competent mathematician although not the unique that Jake is or Libby, was in this case not a calm abstractionist; his mood was grim determination to win or die trying-causing me to recall how he got his arse shot off.

Jake turned out to be a determinist (he himself being one universe's prime example of utter, rambunctious free will!).

Deety is a pragmatic mathematician, unworried by theory. Oz is real, she is real, "fictons" don't interest her. "Don't fret, Lazarus. We can do it, Gay can do it-and we won't do it until Gay is certain of her program."

This discussion had started midafternoon in Dora. Sharpie had worked out her difficulties with Lazarus (to my enormous relief; were those two to wind up on opposite sides in anything more serious than Parcheesi, I yearn to be elsewhere-say Timbuktu under an assumed name); she, Jake, Lazarus, and Libby were in the flag cabin, arguing, when Sharpie had Dora page Deety and me.

There were endless matters on the agenda Uncluding the preposterous notion that we four were 'Missing Howards' and that Lazarus was registering us as such. I'm not sure I want to live a thousand years or even two hundred. But I am sure of this: a) I want to live quite a piece; and b) I want to be alert, healthy, and active right up to the last. Not like my great-grandfather who had to be spoonfed at a hundred and five, and could not control his secretions. But the Howards have got that whipped: you stay young as long as you wish, then die by choice when you feel you've had your full run.

(Yes, I was willing to be a 'Found Howard' since it included Deety, plus little Deeties ad infinitum.)

Lots of other business, all of it postponed (including the problem of "Black Hats"), in order to deal with rescuing Maureen Johnson.

We were still discussing knotty aspects when Lor's voice said: "Commodore?"

"Yes, Captain?" Sharpie had answered.

"Ma'am, I hesitate to disturb you-"

"Quite all right, Lor. The Captain must always be able to reach me."

"Uh, Ma'am, Dora told me that she was forbidden to call you. She has for you a variety of New Rome styles for women and men, a military uniform for Doctor Jacob, and one for Doctor Zebadiah, and evening formals for Doctor Elizabeth and Doctor Deety-and she's not sure where to send any of them."

"Send all the clothes to the flag cabin, please."

"Yes, Ma'am. They should be appearing in your delivery cupboard now. Do you know where that is?"

"I'll find it. What are you and your sister wearing tonight? Or is it a secret?"

"It's not a secret; we just haven't decided. But there is still an hour and thirty-one minutes till dinner."

"Time enough to pick out pretty clothes. Or will you wear formal skin tonight? That takes anywhere from two seconds to two hours, does it not? Off."

Sharpie used an unusually rough expression of disgust, which told me that she now included Lib and Lazarus in her inner circle. "Woodie, do you know any exceptionally strong cuss words? I detest the thought of wasting time pretending to be festive when we have so much to settle, especially our procedures for Maureen."

Deety looked at Libby. "You and I are kind o' stuck with a promise, too. How about some new cuss words from you, too?"

"Deety, I have no literary talent. But I would like to hear some soul-soothing cussing. We ought to stick with this, with snacks to keep going and sleep when we must, until it's perfect. Three hours or three days or three weeks."