Robert Heinlein - The Number of the Beast

On it was: "Gay-Zoom!"

"It's the shortest program with an unusual monosyllable that I can think of."

"Its shortness may save our necks. Swap seats with me, Sharpie, it's my turn to be pioneer mother. Everybody, hold your breath; I'm going to sniff the air."

"Zebbie, this planet is Earthlike to nine decimal places."

"Which gives me a cheap chance to play hero." I opened her door a crack, sniffed.

Shortly I said, "I feel okay. Anybody woozy?"

"Open the door wide, Zebbie; this place is safe."

I did so and stepped out into a field of daisies; the others followed me. It certainly seemed safe-quiet, warm, peaceful, a meadow bounded by a hedge row and a stream.

Suddenly a white rabbit came running past, headed for the hedge. He barely paused, pulled a watch from his waistcoat pocket, glanced at it, then moaned, "Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late!" and ran even faster. Deety started after him.

"Deety!" I yelled.

She stopped short. "I want to find the rabbit hole."

"Then keep your eye on her. You're not going down the hole."

"On whom?" Deety turned back toward the hedge row. A little girl in a pinafore was hurrying toward the spot where the rabbit had disappeared. "Oh. But it didn't hurt her to go down the hole."

"No, but Alice had lots of difficulties before she got out. We haven't time; this is not a place we can stay."

"Why not?"

"Nineteenth-century England did not have advanced medicine."

"Zebbie," put in Hilda, "this isn't England. Read that slip."

I unfolded the scrap of paper, read: Wonderland. "Just so," I agreed, and handed it to my wife. "But it is modeled on England in the eighteen-sixties. It either has no medicine, like Oz, or pre-Pasteur medicine. Possibly pre-Semmelweiss. Deety, do you want to die from childbed fever?"

"No, I want to go to the Mad Tea Party."

"We can have a mad tea party; I went mad several universes back-and it's time for lunch. Sharpie, you win the Order of Nostradamus with diamond cluster. May I ask two questions?"

"One may always ask."

"Is H. P. Lovecraft on that list?"

"He got only one vote, Zebbie. Yours."

"Chthulhu be thanked! Sharpie, his stories fascinate me the way snakes are said to fascinate birds. But I would rather be trapped with the King in Yellow than be caught up in the worlds of the Necronomicon. Uh... did any horrids get four votes?"

"No, dear, the rest of us prefer happy endings."

"So do I! Especially when I'm in it. Did Heinlein get his name in the hat?"

"Four votes, split. Two for his 'Future History,' two for 'Stranger in a Strange Land.' So I left him out."

TI didn't vote for 'Stranger' and I'll refrain from embarrassing anyone by asking who did. My God, the things some writers will do for money!"

"Samuel Johnson said that anyone who wrote for any other reason was a fool."

"Johnson was a fat, pompous, gluttonous, dirty old fool who would have faded into the obscurity he so richly deserved had he not been followed around by a spit-licking sycophant. Spell that 'Psycho-', as in 'Bloch." I added, "Did Poul Anderson get in? Or Niven?"

"Zebbie, that's far more than two questions."

"I haven't even reached the second question... which is: What do we have for a mad tea party?"

"Surprise! Glinda had a picnic basket placed in our dressing room."

"I missed it," I admitted.

"You didn't look in the wardrobe." Sharpie grinned. "Can sandwiches from Oz be eaten in Wonderland? Or will they 'softly and silently vanish away'?"

"'Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs!'"

Several hundred calories later I noticed a young man hovering nearby. He seemed to want to speak but was too diffident to do so. Deety jumped up, trotted toward him. "The Reverend Mister Dodgson, is it not? I'm Mrs. Zebadiah Carter."

He quickly removed his straw boater. "Mr. Dodgson,' yes, uh, Mrs. Carter. Have we met?"

"Long ago, before I was married. You are looking for Alice, are you not?"

"Dear me! Why, yes, I am. But how-"

"She went Down the Rabbit-Hole."

Dodgson looked relieved. "Then she will be back soon enough. I promised to return her and her sisters to Christ Church before dark."

"You did. I mean, 'you will.' Same thing, depending on the coordinates. Come meet my family. Have you had luncheon?"

"Oh, I say, I don't mean to intrude."

"You aren't intruding." Deety took him by the hand, firmly. Since my treasure is stronger than most men, he came along... and let go her hand hastily as soon as she loosened her grip. We men got to our feet; Hilda remained in lotus.

"Aunt Hilda, this is Mr. Dodgson, Lecturer in Mathematics at Christ Church College, Oxford. My stepmother, Mrs. Burroughs."

"How do you do, Mrs. Burroughs. Oh dear, I am intruding!"

"Not at all, Mr. Dodgson. Do sit down."

"And this is my father, Dr. Burroughs, Professor of Mathematics. And my

husband Captain Carter. Aunt Hilda, will you find a clean plate for Mr. Dodgson?"

The young don relaxed once introductions had been made but he was still far more formal than Deety intended to permit. He sat down on the turf, placed his hat carefully beside him, and said, "Truly, Mrs. Burroughs, I've just finished tea with three little girls."

Deety ignored his protests while she piled his plate with little sandwiches and cakes. Sharpie poured tea from a Thermos jug. They nailed him down with cup and plate. Jake advised, "Don't fight it, son, unless you really must leave. Are Alice's sisters safe?"

"Why, yes, Professor; they are napping in the shade of a hayrick nearby. But-"

"Then relax. In any case, you must wait for Alice. What branch of mathematics do you pursue?"

"Algebraic logic, usually, sir, with some attention to its applications to geometry." The Reverend Mr. Dodgson was seated so that he faced Gay Deceiver and sat in the shadow of her port wing but nothing in his manner showed that he noticed the anachronism.

"Have your studies led you into multidimensional non-Euclidean geometries?" Jake asked.

Dodgson blinked. "I fear that I tend to be conservative in geometry, rathuh."

"Father, Mr. Dodgson doesn't work in your field; he works in mine."

Dodgson raised his eyebrows slightly. Jake said, "My daughter did not introduce herself fully. She is Mrs. Carter but her maiden name is Doctor D. T. Burroughs. Her field is mathematical logic."

"That is why I am so pleased that you are here, Mr. Dodgson. Your book 'Symbolic Logic' is a milestone in our field."

"But, my dear lady, I have not written a work titled 'Symbolic Logic."

"I've confused things. Again it is matter of selection of coordinates. At the end of the reign of Queen Victoria you will have published it five years earlier. Is that clear?"

He answered very solemnly, "Quite clear. All I need do is to ask Her Majesty how much longer she is going to reign and subtract five years."

"That should do it. Do you like to play with sorites?" For the first time, he smiled. "Oh, very much!"

"Shall we make up some? Then trade and solve them?" "Well... not too lengthy. I really must get back to my young charges." "We can't stay long, either. Anyone else want to play?" No one else elected to play. I stretched out on the grass with a handkerchief over my face; Jake and Sharpie went for a walk. "Shall we hold the statements down to groups of six?" Dodgson suggested.

"All right. But the conclusion must be true. Not nonsense. Agreed?" (Deety had taught me this game; she's good at it. I decided to be a silent witness.)

They kept quiet while I snored convincingly, Deety was a "lady" for a while, then sprawled on her belly and chewed her pencil. I watched with one eye from under my handkerchief.

First she covered several pages with scratch work in developing statements incomplete in themselves but intended to arrive at only one possible conclusion. Having done so, she tested them by symbolic logic, then wrote out her list of statements, mixing them randomly-looked up.