Robert Heinlein - The Number of the Beast

Cap'n Zebbie was unhooking his sword belt and grabbing his coveralls as he yelped. I was inside first as I didn't stop to dress-grabbed Deety's baby shoes with one hand, my dress and panties with the other.

I wiggled into panties, slid the dress over my head, slipped on Deety's Keds.

I anticipated the order to fasten seat belts-stopped suddenly and eased my belt. I had not stopped to take off the doodads that proclaimed me a Barsoomian "princess." Now it seemed that every item of frippery was about to imprint me for life.

Deety was cursing softly over the same problem. Deety's jump suit was harder to reach into, even when she unbelted and opened the zipper all the way. I helped readjust the hardware but cautioned her not to remove it and to close the zipper clear to her chin. "Deety, if you get holes in your hide, you'll get well. But if something loose catches our captain in the eye, the culprit will be broken on the wheel."

I clucked-clucked at her answer but big ones do get in the way. Meanwhile our men were having problems. That space under the instrument board could not be seen by a full-sized male. The best position to reach it was impossible for Jacob, ridiculously impossible for Zebbie.

Zebbie's profanity was louder than Deety's but not as colorful. My own darling was keeping quiet which meant that he was really in trouble. I said, "Gentlemen-"

Zebbie grunted, "Shut up, Sharpie; we've got problems! Deety! How did you get these toadstickers into this compartment?"

"I didn't. Aunt Hilda did."

"Sharpie, can I apologize later? Those Martians are circling us now!"

So they were, at least a dozen flapping monstrosities. One appeared about to ground. "Captain, I'll do it-but there is a faster way."

"How?"

"Unhook your scabbards, put on your sword belts. Saber and sword in scabbards fit easily if you point one right, the other left. They will rattle unless you stuff clothing around them."

"They can bloody well rattle!" In seconds, our gallants had blades and scabbards stowed. As Cap'n Zebbie resumed sword belt and started on his seat belt he called out, "Fasten belts, prepare to lift! Sharpie, have I told you today that in addition to loving you, I admire you?"

"I think not, Captain."

"I do. Enormously. Report! Science Officer?"

"Seat belt fastened. Thank you, Zebbie."

"Seat belt fastened," reported Deety. "Bulkhead door dogged."

"Seat belt fastened, starboard door seal checked, copilot ready, sir!"

"Port door seal checked, pilot strapped down; we're ready-and none too soon! One has grounded and somebody is getting out. Hey! They're human!"

"Or disguised aliens," said my darling.

"Well... yes, there's that. I may lift any second. Deety-that new program:

Just G, A, Y, B, 0, U, N, C, E? No 'do-it' word?"

"Check."

"Good. I won't use it unless forced to. This may be that 'first contact' the world has been expecting."

"Cap'n Zebbie, why would aliens disguise themselves when they outnumber us? I think they are human."

"I hope you're right. Copilot, should I open the door? Advice, please."

"Captain, you can open the door anytime. But if it is open, it takes a few seconds to close it and the ship won't lift with a door open."

"Too right. Gay Deceiver."

"Hi, Boss. Where did you pick up the tarts?"

"Gay, check and report."

"All circuits checked, all systems go, juice point seven-eight-and I'm in the mood."

"Cast loose L-gun. Prepare to burn."

"Done!"

"Captain," my husband said worriedly, "are you planning to blast them?"

"I hope not. I'd rather run than fight. I'd rather stay and get help than either. But they grounded where I can burn them-using offset."

"Captain, don't do it!"

"Copilot, I don't plan to. Now drop it!"

The grounded flappy bird was about two hundred meters and a few degrees left of dead ahead. Two men-they looked like men-had disembarked and headed toward us. They were dressed alike-uniforms? They seemed vaguely familiar-but all uniforms seem vaguely familiar, do they not?

They were less than a hundred meters from us. Cap'n Zebbie did something at his instrument board and suddenly their voices were inside, blastingly loud. He adjusted the setting and we could hear clearly. Zebbie said, "That's Russian! Isn't it, Jake?"

"Captain, I think so. A Slavic language, in any case." Jacob added, "Do you understand it?"

'Me? Jake, I said that I can swear in Russian; I didn't say I could speak it. I can say 'thank you' and 'please' and 'da' and 'nyet'-maybe six more. How about you?"

"I can puzzle out a paper about mathematics with the aid of a dictionary. But speak it? Understand it? No."

I tried to remember whether or not I had ever told Zebbie that I know Russian. My husband and Deety I had not told. Well, if Zebbie knew, he would call on me. It is not something I mention as it does not fit my persona. I started it out of curiosity; I wanted to read those great Russian novelists-Dostoievsky, Tolstoy, and so forth-in the original in order to find out why they were so celebrated. Why I had never been able to read one of those classic novels all the way through? (They had cured me of sleeping pills.)

So I set out to learn Russian. Soon I was wearing earphones to bed, listening to Russian in my sleep, working with a tutor in the daytime. I never mastered a good accent; those six-consonants-in-a-row words tie knots in my tongue. But one cannot read a language easily unless one can "hear" the words. So I learned the spoken language along with the written.

(Oh, yes, those "classic novels": Having invested so much effort I carried out my purpose: War and Peace, The Idiot, The Brothers Karamazov, Anna Karenina, and so forth. Would you believe it? Something is gained in translation; the originals are even more depressing and soporific than translations. I'm not sure what purpose Russian fiction has, but it can't be entertainment.)

I decided to wait. I was not eager to be interpreter and it would not be necessary if it turned out that Zebbie or Jacob had a language in common with our visitors-and I rationalized my decision by telling myself that it might turn out to be an advantage if the strangers thought that no one of us understood Russian.

(At that point I realized that I had been thinking in Russian. It's a wonderful language for paranoid thoughts.)

When Zebbie switched on the outside mikes, the older was telling the Younger: "-not let Fyodor Ivanovitch get wind of such thoughts, Yevgeny. He

does not believe that (no good? stupid?) Britishers can excel us in anything. So don't refer to that curious craft as 'advanced engineering.' A 'weird assemblage of poorly organized experiments' would be better."

"I will remember. Shall I loosen my holster and take off the safety? To guard you, sir?"

The older man laughed. "You haven't dealt with the damned British as long as I have. Never let them suspect that you are even mildly nervous. And always be sure to insult him first. Bear in mind that the lowliest serf in Ykraina is better than their so-called King-Emperor. That serf-"

-when Zebbie interrupted: T4rrêtez-là!"

The younger hesitated but the older never broke stride. Instead he answered in French: "You are telling me to halt, you British swine? An officer of the Tsar on Russian soil! I spit on your mother. And your father if your mother can remember who he was. Why are you speaking French, you soiled British spy? You fool no one. Speak Russian-or, if you are uncultured, speak English."

Zebbie thumbed a button. "What about it, Jake? Switch to English when he's so hipped on the subject of Englishmen? Or bull it through in French? My accent is better than his."

"Maybe you can get away with it, Captain. I can't."

Zebbie nodded and opened the mike, spoke in English: "We are not British, not spies. We are American tourists and-"