Robert Heinlein: The Number of the Beast

(Damn.) "Perhaps you had better." I like my own rig, I don't like to drive other people's cars, and, while Deety probably handled controls as smoothly as she danced, I did not know that she did-and I'm chicken. I didn't figure her father into the equation; trusting my skin to his temper did not appeal. Maybe Deety would settle for letting him trail us-but my bride-to-be was going to ride with me! "Where?"

"Over in the far corner. I'll unlock it and turn on the lights." She reached into her father's inside jacket pocket, took out a Magic Wand.

"Wait for baby!"

The shout was from our hostess. Hilda was running down the path from her house, purse clutched in one hand and about eight thousand newdollars of sunset mink flying like a flag from the other.

So the discussion started over. Seems Sharpie had decided to come along to make certain that Jake behaved himself and had taken just long enough to tell Max (her bouncer-butler-driver) when to throw the drunks out or cover them with blankets, as needed.

She listened to Deety's summary, then nodded. "Got it. I can handle yours, Deety; Jake and I will go in it. You ride with Zebbie, dear." She turned to me. "Hold down the speed, Zebbie, so that I can follow. No tricks, Buster. Don't try to lose us or you'll have cops busting out of your ears."

I turned my sweet innocent eyes toward her. "Why, Sharpie darling, you know I wouldn't do anything like that."

"You'd steal city hall if you could figure a way to carry it. Who dumped that load of lime Jello into my swimming pool?"

"I was in Africa at that time, as you know."

"So you say. Deety darling, keep him on a short leash and don't feed him meat. But marry him- he's loaded. Now where's that radio link? And your car."

"Here," said Deety, pointed the Magic Wand and pressed the switch.

I gathered all three into my arms and dived. We hit the ground as the blast hit everything else. But not us. The blast shadow of other cars protected us.

"-Professor Moriarty isn't fooled-"

Zeb:

Don't ask me how. Ask a trapeze artist how he does a triple 'sault. Ask a crapshooter how he knows when he's "hot." But don't ask me how I know it's going to happen just before it hits the fan.

It doesn't tell me anything I don't need to know. I don't know what's in a letter until I open it (except the time it was a letter bomb). I have no precognition for harmless events. But this split-second knowledge when I need it has kept me alive and relatively unscarred in an era when homicide kills more people than does cancer and the favorite form of suicide is to take a rifle up some tower and keep shooting until the riot squad settles it.

I don't see the car around the curve on the wrong side; I automatically hit the ditch. When the San Andreas Fault cut loose, I jumped out a window and was in the open when the shock arrived-and didn't know why I had jumped.

Aside from this, my E.S.P. is erratic; I bought it cheap from a war-surplus outlet.

I sprawled with three under me. I got up fast, trying to avoid crushing them. I gave a hand to each woman, then dragged Pop to his feet. No one seemed damaged. Deety stared at the fire blazing where their car had been, face impassive. Her father was looking at the ground, searching. Deety stopped him. "Here, Pop." She put his glasses back on him.

"Thank you, my dear." He started toward the fire.

I grabbed his shoulder. "No! Into my car-fast!"

"Eh? My briefcase-could have blown clear."

"Shut up and move! All of you!"

"Do it, Pop!" Deety grabbed Hilda's arm. We stuffed the older ones into the after space; I shoved Deety into the front passenger seat and snapped: "Seat belts!" as I slammed the door-then was around to the left so fast that I should have caused a sonic boom. "Seat belts fastened?" I demanded as I fastened my own and locked the door.

"Jake's is fastened and so is mine, Zebbie dear," Hilda said cheerfully.

"Belt tight, door locked," Deety reported.

The heap was hot; I had left it on trickle-what use is a fast car that won't go scat? I switched from trickle to full, did not turn on lights, glanced at the board and released the brake.

It says here that duos must stay grounded inside city limits-so I was lifting her nose before she had rolled a meter and she was pointed straight up as we were clearing the parking lot.

Half a klick straight up while the gee meter climbed-two, three, four-I let it reach five and held it, not being sure what Pop's heart would take. When the altimeter read four klicks, I cut everything-power, transponder, the works-while hitting a button that dropped chaff, and let her go ballistic. I didn't know that anyone was tracking us-I didn't want to find out.

When the altimeter showed that we had topped out, I let the wings open a trifle. When I felt them bite air, I snap-rolled onto her belly, let wings crawl out to subsonic aspect and let her glide. "Everybody okay?"

Hilda giggled. "Whoops, deane! Do that again! This time, somebody kiss me."

"Pipe down, you shameless old strumpet. Pop?"

"I'm okay, son."

"Deety?"

"Okay here."

"Did that fall in the parking lot hurt you?"

"No, sir. I twisted in the air and took it on one buttock while getting Pop's glasses. But next time put a bed under me, please. Or a wrestling mat."

"I'll remember." I switched on radio but not transponder, tried all police frequencies. If anyone had noticed our didoes, they weren't discussing it on the air. We were down to two klicks; I made an abrupt wingover to the right, then switched on power. "Deety, where do you and your Pop live?"

"Logan, Utah."

"How long does it take to get married there?"

"Zebbie," Hilda cut in, "Utah has no waiting time-"

"So we go to Logan."

"-but does require blood test. Deety, do you know Zebbie's nickname around campus? The Wasp. For 'Wassermann Positive.' Zebbie, everybody knows that Nevada is the only state that offers twenty-four-hour service, no waiting time, no blood test. So point this bomb at Reno and sign off."

"Sharpie darling," I said gently, "would you like to walk home from two thousand meters?"

"I don't know; I've never tried it."

"That's an ejection seat... but no parachutes."

"Oh, how romantic! Jake darling, we'll sing the Liebestod on the way down- you sing tenor, I'll force a soprano and we'll die in each other's arms. Zebbie, could we have more altitude? For the timing."

"Doctor Burroughs, gag that hitchhiker. Sharpie, Liebestod is a solo."

"Picky, picky! Isn't dead-on-arrival enough? Jealous because you can't carry a tune? I told Dicky Boy that should be a duet and Cosima agreed with me-"

"Sharpie, button your frimpin' lip while I explain. One: Everybody at your party knows why we left and will assume that we headed for Reno. You probably called out something to that effect as you left-"

"I believe I did. Yes, I did."

"Shut up. Somebody made a professional effort to kill Doctor Burroughs. Not just kill but overkill; that combo of high explosive and Thermit was intended to leave nothing to analyze. But it is possible that no one saw us lift. We were into this go-wagon and I was goosing it less than thirty seconds after that booby trap exploded. Innocent bystanders would look at the fire, not at us. Guilty bystanders- There wouldn't be any. A professional who booby-traps a car either holes up or crosses a state line and gets lost. The party or parties who paid for the contract may be nearby, but if they are, Hilda, they're in your house."

"One of my guests?"

"Oh, shut it, Sharpie; you are never interested in the morals of your guests. If they can be depended on to throw custard pies or do impromptu strips or some other prank that will keep your party from growing dull, that qualifies them. However, I am not assuming that the boss villain was at your party; I am saying that he would not be lurking where the Man might put the arm on him. Your house would be the best place to hide and watch the plot develop.