Robert Heinlein - The Number of the Beast

"Lazarus," Podkayne said seriously, "I'll speak to Dr. Bone. If a horse is unhappy, we will soothe."

"Poddy, you're a Smart Girl."

"About average here, I think. But if someone is unhappy, I have learned what to do. I have never seen a horse but they've lived with people so long that it can't be very different."

Jubal sighed. "I'm glad the horses will be well taken care of-but, Lazarus,

I meant humans. Isn't someone going to be hurt? Maybe killed?"

"Most of them hurt, several killed. But they do it for fun. Those who are hurt won't stay hurt; we are hardly more than a loud shout from this planet's best hospital. If a man loses an arm or a leg or an eye, or even his balls, he'll have to be patient while a new part is cloned. But that sort of cloning we are learning to do right at the spot of injury, like a lizar~d or a newt. Faster. More efficient.

"If he's killed, he has two choices: Be brought to life again by Ishtar's crew- brain unlikely to be hurt; their helms are the best part of their armor. Or, they can go straight to Valhalla; we've arranged for Bifrost to extend to this Field until the end of SCA's part in the convention. Six Valkyries standing by and 'Sarge' Smith at the top of Bifrost checking them against the roster as he musters them home." Lazarus grinned. "Believe me, the Society is paying high for these services, bond posted in advance; Deety wrote the contract."

"Lafe, you're telling me that Wagnerian Valkyries are waiting to carry the slain Over The Rainbow into Asgard?"

"Jubal, these Amazons are not opera singers; these are the real hairy, sweaty McCoy. Remember the purpose of this convention. Snob."

The waiter appeared. "You wish something, sir?"

"Yes. Tell your boss that I want this table-this table only-to have a full view of Bifrost, from the Field to Valhalla. I know it's not in the clothing illusion contract but the same gear will do it....nd we can settle it when we go to court later. It will offset some of his lousy service. Git!"

"We'd better all 'git," said Libby. "They won't hold up things for us. That armor is heavy and hot. Deety?"

"Run along, I'll catch up. Here comes my first husband."

"Lafe, if they are killed, how do you know which ones to send to the clinic, which ones to send up the bridge?"

"Jubal, how would you do it? Sealed envelopes, destroyed if a knight wins, opened if he loses... and there may be some surprised widows tonight, unable to believe that their loving husbands elect to hunt all day, then feast on barbecued boar, guzzle mead, and wench all night, in preference to being restored to life in their respectable homes. But did I tell you what a winner gets? Aside from applause and a chance to kneel to 'King' John and 'Queen' Penelope. A paradox's his reward."

"A paradox?"

"No, no! Noisy in here. A pair o' doxies each his reward. The Society got a bargain. The arts are in their infancy here; Boondock is still so much a frontier that we have not yet developed distinguished hetaerae. But some of the most celebrated hetaerae in New Rome volunteered their services in exchange for transportation and the privilege of attending this convention."

Zebadiah was struck by a guided missile, female, from five meters. He managed to stay on his feet and took his first wife to the table, sat down by Hilda, pinched her thigh, pinched her glass, drained it, said, "You're too young to drink, little girl. Is this your father?"

"I'm her son," Jake answered. "Do you know Hazel Stone? If not, you should. We thought we saw you coming from the other direction."

"Shouldn't drink in the daytime, Jake. Waiter! Your servant, Ma'am. I've followed your series on 3-D since I was a kid and I'm honored to meet you. Are you covering this for Lunaya Pravda?"

"Heavens, no! LOCUS has an exclusive under the reasonable theory that LOCUS alone is competent to report this convention. Jerry and Ben are covering it for their various journals... but must clear it through Charles. I'm here as an expert, believe it or not-as an author of popular fantasy. Is the Galactic Overlord of my series real or imaginary and is there a difference? See next week's thrilling episode; the Stone family has to eat. Same thing all around, I think. You can tip him, Doctor Zebadiah, but there is no tab at the Director's table."

"And no tips," growled Lazarus. "Deliver my message to your boss again and tell that spinning arsfardel he has exactly three minutes before I invoke paragraph nine, section 'c.' Here comes your double, Zeb."

From behind the couple who, at half a klick, had been mistaken for Zebadiah and Ishtar, came out quickly a shorter, older, broad-shouldered man. All three were dressed Robin-Hood-and-his-Merry-Men style: buskins, breeks, leathern jackets, feathered caps, long bows and quivers of fletched shafts, swords and daggers, and were swinging along in style.

The shorter man hurried a few paces ahead, turned and faced their path, swept off his cap and bowed deeply. "Make way for Her Wisdom, Empress of eighty-thr-"

The woman, as if by accident, backhanded the groom. He ducked, rolled, avoided it, bounced to his feet and continued: "-worlds, and her consort the Hero Gordon."

Lazarus got up, addressed the groom. "Doctor Rufo! So happy you could make it! This is your daughter Star?"

"His grandmother," Her Wisdom corrected, dropping a quick curtsy to Lazarus. "Yes, I'm Star. Or Mrs. Gordon; this is my husband, Oscar Gordon. What is correct usage here? I've not been on this planet before."

"Mrs. Gordon, Boondock is so new that its customs have not yet calcified. Almost any behavior is acceptable if meant in a kindly way. Anybody causes real trouble, it's up to our chairman Ira Weatheral and advisers selected by him. Since Ira doesn't like the job, he tends to procrastinate, hoping the problem will go away. As a result we don't have much government and few customs."

"A man after my own heart. Oscar, we could live here if they will have us. My successor is ready; I could retire."

"Mrs. Gordon-"

"Yes, Doctor Long?"

"We-our chairman Ira especially-all know quite well who 'Her Wisdom' is. Ira would welcome you with open arms and resign in your favor at once- passed by acclamation and you would be boss for life. Better stick to the devil you know. But you are most welcome whenever you choose to visit."

She sighed. "You're right. Power is not readily surrendered; I'll probably wait for assassination."

Deety whispered, "Zebadiah... that bartender. Whom' does he look like?"

"Hmm- Brigadier Iver Hird-Jones?"

"Well, maybe. A little. I was thinking of Colonel Morinosky."

"Mrñm- Yes. No importance since it can't be either one. Mr. Gordon?"

"Call me 'Easy.' Or Oscar, Doctor Carter."

"I'm Zeb. Is that the Lady herself? The sword you were in the Quest for the Egg of the Phoenix?"

Gordon looked delighted. "Yes! The Lady Vivamus."

"Can't ask a man to draw a sword without a cause... but is the inscription close enough to the hilt that we could read it if you were simply to show steel?"

"No trouble." Gordon exposed the etched: Dum Vivimus, Vivamus!-gave them time to read it, clicked it to full return, and asked, "And is that the sword that killed the Boojum?"

"The Boo- Oh! The monster we call a 'Black Hat.' But we did not 'softly and silently vanish away."

"No, it did. That will be a point we'll discuss in the seminar panel: 'Techniques for Hunting Snarks.' You and I and Doctor Jacob and Doctor Hilda, with some others. André. Kat Moore. Fritz. Cliff. The Gordfather will moderate when he gets over his wheezes. Which he will-Tamara's treating hi- Oh, heavens! Oh, God, how beautiful!"

The "sky" had opened, for their table, and they found themselves looking at the Field of the Cloth of Gold, a half klick away and a few meters above them, on and up to high, high, high in the sky, the shimmering towers and palaces of Valhalla, with the Rainbow Bridge reaching from the field of honor to the distant gate of the eternal home of heroes.