Robert Heinlein - The Number of the Beast

Bertie said testily, "Moresby, have you never worked with a French ordnance map?"

I'm not as tolerant as Deety. "Multiply by one-point-six-oh-nine."

"Thanks but we will assume that the Astrogator is correct. Moresby, reconnaissance will cover two areas. Captain, how many spot checks can be made per hour?"

"Just a moment!" Captain Sharpie interrupted. "Has this discussion been directed at the ride I promised Brigadier Hird-Jones?"

"I'm sorry, Ma'am. Wasn't that clear?"

"No, I thought you were telling General Moresby what you saw today. Isn't the Brigadier available? I want to settle the time with him."

Moresby answered, "Madam, that has been changed. I'm taking his place."

Sharpie looked at Moresby as if he were a side of beef she was about to condemn. "Governor, I do not recall offering this person a ride. Nor has the Brigadier told me that he is not going."

"Moresby, didn't you speak to Hird-Jones?"

"Certainly I did, sir. I dislike to tell you but he was not cooperative. I had to remind him that there was rank involved."

I looked around for somewhere to hide. But Sharpie did not explode. She said sweetly, "Certainly there is, Major General Bores-me. My rank. I am commanding; you are not." She turned to Bertie. "Governor, I may offer other rides after I keep my promise to the Brigadier. But not to this person. He's too fat."

"What! I weigh only seventeen stone-trim for a man with my height and big bones." Moresby added, "Homeside weight, of course. Only ninety pounds here. Light on my feet. Madam, I resent that."

"Too fat," Sharpie repeated. "Bertie, you remember how tightly we were packed yesterday. But even if Bores-me did not have buttocks like sofa cushions, he's much too fat between the ears. He can't enter my yacht."

"Very well, Captain. Moresby, please have Hird-Jones report to me at once."

"But-"

"Dismissed."

As the door closed, the Governor said, "Hilda, my humblest apologies. Moresby told me that it was all arranged... which meant to me that he had seen you and Squeaky and arranged the exchange. Moresby hasn't been here long; I'm still learning his quirks. No excuse, Captain. But I offer it in extenuation."

"Let's forget it, Bertie. You used 'reconnaissance' where I would have said 'joy ride.' 'Reconnaissance' is a military term. Did you use it as such?"

"I did."

"Gay Deceiver is a private yacht and I am a civilian master." She looked at me. "Chief Pilot, will you advise me?"

"Captain, if we overfly territory for the purpose of reconnaissance, the act is espionage."

"Governor, is this room secure?"

"Hilda-Captain, in what way?"

"Is it soundproof and are there microphone pickups?"

"It is soundproof when I close that second door. There is one microphone. I control it with a switch under the rug-right here."

"Will you not only switch it off but disconnect it? So that it cannot be switched on by accident."

"If that is your wish. I could be lying. Other microphones."

"It's accidental recording I want to.avoid. Bertie, I wouldn't trust Moresby as far as I could throw him. I have learned to trust you. Tell me why you need to reconnoitre?"

"I'm not certain."

"Reconnaissance is to learn something you are not certain about. Something that can be seen from Gay Deceiver-but what?"

"Uh....ill you all swear to secrecy?"

"Hilda-"

"Not now, Jacob. Governor, if you don't want to trust us, tell us to leave!"

Smythe-Carstairs had been standing since turning the rug to remove the switch. He looked down at Hilda and smiled. "Captain, you are an unusually small woman... and the toughest man I've dealt with in many a year. The situation is this: The Russians have sent another ultimatum. We have never worried about Russians as we settled halfway around the planet from them and logistics here are almost impossible. No oceans. No navigable streams. Some canals if one enjoys suicide. Both sides have attempted to raise horses. They don't live long, they don't reproduce.

"Both sides have ornithopters. But they can't carry enough or fly far enough. I was startled when you said that they had given you trouble where you had first touched down-and proved it by showing me wreckage of a 'thopter.

"Any logistics problem can be solved if you use enough men, enough time. Those Russian craft must have, behind them, stockpiles about every fifty miles. If they have the same continuing this way, when they get here, they will wipe us out."

"Is it that bad?" I inquired. Sharpie said, "Governor, our Chief Pilot is the only one of us with combat experience."

"Yes," agreed Jake with a wry smile, "I was awarded rank in lieu of combat. I signed papers."

Bertie gave the same mirthless smile. "Welcome to the lodge. Twenty years since I last heard a bullet say 'wheat!' Now I may be about to lose my last battle. Friends, my rank states that I am qualified to command an army corps... but I have possibly one platoon who will stand and die."

Jake said, "Governor, this city must be two hundred thousand people."

"More than that, Jake. Over ninety-nine percent are convicts or discharged convicts or their wives and children. Do you imagine that they are loyal to me? Even if they were, they are neither trained nor armed.

"I have a nominal regiment, a battalion in numbers-and a platoon in strength. Friends, my troops, officers and men, and my civil servants, are, with few exceptions, transportees quite as much as the convicts. Example: An officer with a court staring him in the face can often get the charges dropped by volunteering for Mars. I don't get murderers. What I do get is worse... for

me. The mess treasurer who dips into mess funds because he has a 'sure thing' at a racing meet. The- Oh, the devil take it! I don't get villains; I get weaklings. There are a few good ones. Hird-Jones. Young fellow named Bean. Two old sergeants whose only shortcomings are that one had two wives and, while the other had only one, she wasn't his. If the Russians get here, they'll kill our wogs-they don't domesticate them; they hunt and eat them-they'll kill anyone in uniform....nd transportees will learn that being a serf is worse than being a free man not on the planet of his choice. Squeaky! Where have you been?"

"In the card room, sir. First table to the right."

"So? How long ago did you get my message?"

"About twenty seconds ago, sir."

"Hm! How long have you been in the card room?" "A bit over an hour."

"I see. Bolt the outer door, close the inner door, sit down."

Twenty minutes later Sharpie was asking, "Deety, what time is sunrise here ?" She indicated a point 300 east of the western boundary of the westernmost of the two loci Bertie wanted investigated.

"In about twenty minutes. Shall I have Gay check it?"

"No. Sunset over here?"

"More leeway there. One hour fifty-seven minutes."

"Very well. Zeb, those zeroed packs?"

"Being charged, they told me. Ready in the morning."

"Good. Squeaky, if I get you to bed by oh-two-hundred hours could you take us to the fields about eleven-hundred hours?"

"Oh-eight-hundred, if you wish, Captain Hilda."

"I don't wish. This job requires sunlight, so we will work whatever it takes. I intend to sleep late. Bertie, would your kitchen service extend to breakfast in bed about ten ack emma?"

"Tell the night maid. The sideboard in your dining room will be loaded and steaming whenever you say and the day maid will be delighted to bring you a tray in bed."

"Heavenly! All hands and Brigadier Hird-Jones: Lift in thirty-nine minutes. Car doors open five minutes before that. Questions?"

"Just a comment. I'll fetch sandwiches."

"Thank you, Squeaky! Bertie."

"Eh? Ma'am!"

"Deety and I expect to be kissed good-bye....n case something goes wrong."