Robert Heinlein - The Number of the Beast

"Captain Hilda, I've done some soul-searching. I daresay that, in the main, we and the Russians are much the same, prison colonies with military governors. Perhaps, in a hundred years, it won't matter. Although I see us as morally superior."

"How, Bertie?"

"A Russian might see this differently. Our transportees are malefactors under our laws-but once here, they are as free as other Englishmen. Oh, they must wear the Broad Arrow until discharged-but at home they would wear it in a grim prison. The Russian prisoners are, if our intelligence is correct, the people they used to send to the Siberian salt mines. Political prisoners. They are serfs but I am told that most of them were not serfs in Russia. Whether they are treated better or worse than serfs in Russia I do not know. But one thing I do know. They work their fields with men; we work ours with wogs."

"And whip them!" Suddenly I was angry.

We had an argument, Bertie maintaining that the whips were not used unnecessarily, I asserting that I had seen it with my own eyes.

I guess he won, as he told us that they had to muzzle the beasts in weed fields, or they would stuff themselves on it, pass out, wake somewhat, do it again, and starve-but the muzzles were designed to allow them to chew a blade at a time all day long, to keep them happy. "The raw weed is addictive, to wog and man. We won't allow a man to work in the fields more than three months at a time... and pull him out if he can't pass the weekly medical tests. As for wogs, Deety-yes, we exploit them. Human beings exploit horses, cattle, sheep, poultry, and other breeds. Are you vegetarian?"

I admitted I was not. "But I don't want to eat wogs!"

"Nor do we. In Windsor colony wog meat goes only to wogs, and wogs don't care. In the wild they eat their own dead, kill and eat their aged. Captain Hilda, that's all the defense I can offer. I admit that it doesn't sound as strong as I had always believed."

"Captain, I'd like to put one to Bertie."

"Jacob, I treasure your thoughts."

"Bertie, would you polish off the Russians if you could?"

Bertie snorted. "That's academic, Doctor. I don't command the force it would take. I can't set up a string of stockpiles-and wouldn't know what to do with them if I could; I don't have the troops or 'thopters. But I must add: If my King tells me to fight, I will fight."

Aunt Hilda told Bertie to wash dishes with Pop sent along as guard. As soon as they started down, Aunt Hilda said, "We are going to do it, to a maximum cost of one power pack. Deety, start working on a program stringing together the dumps we located last night."

"Already have," I told her. "In my head. Last night. To put me to sleep. You want it preprogrammed? I would rather tell Gay each bounce, I would."

"Do it your way, hon. The purpose in sending Bertie to wash dishes and Jacob to guard him was to get them out of the way while I rig a frameup. At the end of the coming run, we drop Bertie and bounce... and at that instant I cease to be captain. I want to hold the election now-a one-ballot railroad. I will ask for nominations. Zebbie, you nominate Jacob. Deety, you don't need to say anything but speak if you wish. If Jacob nominates either of you, don't argue. I'll rig it so that Bertie declares the ballots. If you two are with me, the only surprise will be that fourth vote. Three for Jacob, and let's all write 'Jacob,' not 'Pop' or 'Jake,' and one for the dark horse. Are you with me?"

"Wait a half, Sharpie. Why not give Deety a crack at it?"

"Not me!"

"Deety should have the experience, but, please, Zebbie, not this time. Jacob has given me a dreadful time. Endless insubordination. I want to pass him on to Deety well tenderized. Deety ought not to have to put up with her father second-guessing her decisions-and, if you two help, she won't have to. I want to give my beloved the goddamndest 'white mutiny' ever, one that he will remember with shudders and never again give a skipper any lip."

"Sounds good," I agreed, "but I don't know what a 'white mutiny' is."

"Sweetheart," my husband told me, "it's killing him with kindness. He says 'Frog,' we hop. Utter and literal obedience."

"This he won't like? Pop will love it!"

"So? Would you like to command zombies who never make suggestions and carry out orders literally without a grain of common sense?"

Fifteen minutes later Bertie read off: "Jacob' and this reads 'Jacob' and so does this one, that seems to settle it. But here is one, folded: 'A bunch of smarties, you three. Think I didn't guess why you sent me down to ride shot-

gun? Very well, I vote for myself!' It is signed 'Jake.' Madame Speaker, is that valid?"

"Quite. Jacob, my last order will be liftoff after we drop Bertie."

Bertie said, "Jake, I think congratulations are in order."

"Pipe down! All hands, prepare for space."

"A piece of cake," Bertie called it. We started at the easternmost dump, worked west. Pop out at four klicks and dive, a dry run to size up the target; where wood alcohol was stored, ornithopters on the ground and how arranged... while Gay ululated from intensity six to eight. Frightfulness. I did not let it go up to ten because it wasn't intended to damage but to send anyone on target scattering.

Zebadiah's idea: "Captain, I've got nothing against Russians. My only purpose is to burn their fuel and their flaphappies to make it difficult to attack our friends-and I don't mean you big brass, Bertie. I mean the transportee maid who brought us tea this morning, and Brian Bean, and Mr. Wheatstone who was a top surgeon before some fool judge slammed him and is now doing his best for wogs, and the chef at the officers' club, and five cons who drove that sillywagon, and dozens more who smiled when they could have scowled. I don't want them killed or enslaved; I want them to have their chance. Governor, England is slapping the Broad Arrow on some of your best potential- you English will live to regret it."

"You could be right, Zeb,"

"I don't want to kill Russians, either. Could be most of them are decent blokes. Each strike will be a double run-one pass to scatter 'em, a second to destroy the dump. Captain, if that doesn't suit you, find another gunner."

Aunt Hilda said, "Astrogator."

"Captain."

"Strike as described by Chief Pilot. Take the conn. Attack."

At the first target we lingered after the strike bounce. The dry pass did show them running away-they could hear us clear in their bones. Those subsonics are so horrid I keyed Gay to kill the noise at code-word "Bounce"- and did not use it on the strike pass.

Zebadiah made strikes from bearings planned to take out as many 'thopters as possible while setting fire to fuel.

From four klicks the first strike looked good. The dump was burning, 'thopters he had hit showed smoke, and one that he had not hit was burning. Splashed by flaming methanol, I suppose.

If that first target was indication, in thirty-four minutes the Russians lost all fuel and about 70% of the deployed flaphappies. I took us up high after the last. "Next stop, Windsor City."

"l'm taking the conn, Astrogator. Bertie, don't forget my little ring for Betty."

"I'll give it to her in the morning."

"Good," Captain Hilda said. "Unbelt, crowd past Jacob, place yourself against the door-feet on deck, chest against door. Jacob, push against the small of his back. Bertie, when the door opens, dive and roll clear."

They positioned themselves. "Gay Parade Ground Gay Deceiver open starboard door... Gay Deceiver close doors, GayBounce, GayBounce! Jacob, do you relieve me?"

"Beloved, I relieve you. Ten minima H axis transit-and executed. All hands, unbelt."

I unbuckled with extreme speed~ and clumsiness, getting Pop in the chin with my foot.

"Deety! Watch where you're going!"