The Pursuit of the Pankera: A Parallel Novel About Parallel Universes

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “Can’t you find those tourists? You’ve been gone long enough.”

  “I found them. In the Bay of Blood, southwest of the Greater Helium.”

  “The Observatory told you that. You haven’t found them.”

  “But I have. Their sky chariot is three haads west of the Promontory of Tears. Businessman—listen carefully! They are here. In earshot.”

  “Why didn’t you say so? Have you signed them up?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? Don’t tell me that Thomas Cook beat you to it again. If so, don’t bother to come back—and your lazy nephew. Let me talk to Kach Kachkan.”

  “You don’t understand!” Tommy’s lisp was giving him fits. I felt sorry for him.

  “I understand you’ve muffed an easy sale.”

  Tommy broke into Barsoomian. All I caught was “John Carter,” “Dejah Thoris,” and “Zebadiah John Carter.”

  “Talk English, you overgrown derrick. You know I can’t understand Barsoomian over the wireless.”

  Tommy sighed. “Bolless, lillisellen tulu meelee. Thellese nollet Mallarallakalless. Rollayallal Pallarrallattee. Kullussillynn ulloff Wallarallallawllarralladd.”

  Deety whispered to me, “Dig it, doll baby?”

  “Not a bit. English. Not even substitution. Nonsense syllables stuck between letters. The Jolly Green Giant told him who we are. Warning his boss to ‘Handle with care.’ ”

  “Have you gone crazy?” the wireless sputtered.

  “Businessman! Official. Urgent! I am not crazy. If I am, you can feed me to banths. If you are silly enough to muff this one, I’ll wager seven to one that the Empress will have you fed to banths. By the sacred dugs of Issus, I swear it.”

  (A tense, waiting silence—) “Businessman to Laughing Boy, put Kach Kachkan on the wireless.”

  The two giants shifted places. Tommy’s thoat rocked and squealed, but let Kach Kachkan stand by him. “Catcher’s Mitt to Businessman. Over.”

  “Kach, what the devil is going on? Has Tawm lost his mind?”

  “Boss, you had better believe him. It’s true.”

  I heard a sigh right through the horrible static of that Barsoomian walkie-talkie. “Kach, tell me who’s in this party. Who and how many? Exactly.”

  “Four. Two chieftains, two princesses. The sky chariot is a private yacht, belongs to the head chieftain, the distinguished Doctor Burroughs, greatest scientist in all the starry voids. Commanding his yacht is Captain Zedubiyuh John Carter—of Virginia. His princess—”

  “ ‘Captain Zebadiah John Carter?’ ”

  “That’s what I said. Captain Zebah Diyuh John Carter—Cousin of the Warlord … and Jeddak of Virginia. His consort is the Princess Dee Dee, daughter of the great Doctor Burroughs. And his consort is the Princess Hilda … who almost killed Laughing Boy when she thought he was mistreating Captain Zebber Dyer John Carter.”

  “What did that idiot do? Oh, I’ll feed him to banths myself!”

  I’m a sweet even-tempered person, mostly—but I won’t see my friends pushed around. I rushed up to Tommy’s thoat, swarmed up its leather girth, got astride its withers to reach that wireless. The thoat tossed its head, tried to throw me, but I hung on. Tommy moved fast, put his hand on it and quieted it.

  The wireless said, “Kach, answer me!”

  “Businessman, SHUT UP! This is the Princess Hilda! It was a natural mistake … and Tawm Takus was a perfect gentleman—which you are not! One more silly word out of you and I’ll tell Dejah Thoris all about your misbehavior! Is this the way you treat guests? Tawm Takus is under my personal protection! Do you understand that, Businessman? Or would you rather be out of business and on the streets, begging for a crust of bread?”

  “My princess, I …”

  “I am not ‘your princess’—have you no manners at all? I am Her Highness, the Princess Hilda, consort of Doctor Burroughs.”

  “I most humbly crave your pardon, Your Highness. I simply …”

  “You simply made another loutish mistake. We will overlook it. But I am warning you—once, and only once—that if I hear that you have tried to blame any of this silly foofooraw on Tawm Takus, it will be not your license that you lose, but your life! The Princess Thuvia’s pet banths are always hungry, I hear.”

  “Your Highness, what can I do to make amends?”

  “You can listen to Tawm Takus!—and take his advice! I have spoken.”

  Tommy lifted me down with both hands, and I went straight into my husband’s arms, shaking uncontrollably. Jacob petted me. “There, there, my darling; it’s all right.” He smiled at me, tilting my face up with a finger under my chin. “Zeb tells me that you intimidate IRS agents. I believe it.”

  “Why can’t I be a lady, like Deety? I don’t like fights, they scare me.”

  “You are a lady like Deety, my only love. She doesn’t like to fight, either. She’s bigger than you are, that’s all and uses different methods. I recall once in Chicago … professional meeting and Deety was coming back to our hotel, alone. Two men. The cops had to send stretchers for them. But you do all right, your way.”

  Dear Jacob is such a comfort. I’ve always felt like a midget in a world of giants. But Jacob makes me feel as big as anyone.

  Zebbie and Deety patted me and congratulated me on what Zebbie called “a star performance—even for Sharpie.” Then he looked at the sun and added, “Deety, if we don’t start at once, we may have to get Hilda to persuade our friends to give us a hitchhike home. I don’t fancy being out in this wasteland after dark.”

  Tommy stopped talking with his boss and turned to us, rubbing all four hands together and grinning. “All arranged. No protocol. No inspections—courtesy of the port and keys to the city. Your apartments will be waiting. In the palace, probably—certainly tomorrow. If that, then tonight the finest suite in Hilton Interplanetary, compliments of American Express. I was asked if you each preferred separate quarters. I said that I was sure you would prefer to stay together, one large apartment. Did I do right?”

  “Yes,” agreed my husband, “except that tonight we return to our sky chariot. The captain was wondering whether or not your thoats could carry extra passengers. If so, you could favor us with a ride to our chariot? Our ladies are weary.”

  Poor Tommy was upset again. “But you are expected in the city! Sir. Distinguished doctor.”

  “Impossible, I’m afraid. We have nothing with us for overnight. No fresh clothing, no toilet articles, no …”

  “Believe me, Doctor Burroughs, all has been anticipated, all will be provided.”

  “But our chariot …”

  “Can it be hurt by night weather? Or by animals?”

  “Captain?” my husband asked.

  “No, not by weather, not by animals. But, Tawm Takus, how long will it take to reach the city?”

  This caused a huddle between my husband, Tommy, and Deety; they had trouble matching units—Tommy did not know what a kilometer was, we didn’t know what a haad was, and Deety was still uncertain about Barsoom’s rotation, the local day.

  But Deety had Zebbie stand by Tommy, then (using Zebbie’s height, one hundred ninety-four centimeters) she was able to mark two meters (using her shotgun to point the height; Deety has trouble stretching that high). Half that gave a meter, then defining a kilometer was no problem; Tommy knew the decimal system. It turned out that the gates of Greater Helium were about a hundred kilometers away. The thoats could reach there long before local midnight.

  Zebbie shook his head. “Even if the princesses could endure the ride, it will be cold once the sun sets. Far too cold for ladies, I’m certain. They don’t have their furs with them.”

  My Tommy was undaunted. All was provided—all. Furs in saddlebags (never mind that there were no saddles), even an emergency tent. But soon a flier would be leaving from a city platform; the pilot would know our route and find us—before sundown—and whisk us to Helium. So Zebbie gave in.

  Doctor Burroughs, how many doors does your sky
chariot have?”

  “Two,” Zebbie answered. “Why?”

  “We will protect it.” Tawm Takus opened a belt pouch, took out a package, broke the seal. “The Warlord’s personal sigil. American Express is, by special appointment, permitted to use it in emergencies to protect the peace of the realm. I deem this to be such an emergency. With this seal on your doors, no Barsoomian, red, green, yellow, white, black, or piebald, will enter or even touch your chariot. Kad!”

  (Zebbie didn’t tell him that Gay Deceiver could protect herself against any ordinary intruder; he gravely thanked Tommy.)

  The “Stripling” hurried to us. “Yes, Uncle?”

  “Tear out there and stick the Warlord’s sign on each door. Then mind you catch up before dark. We’re leaving now.”

  I suspect that Tawm Takus, as senior and straw boss, expected to carry Captain Zebadiah John Carter and his princess. But I expressed my wishes at once, knowing that Deety would not care—and I did care. Tommy’s my pet; I wanted to ride with him, partly to let him know that I wanted to ride with him, but also because I really did. Less than an hour before, he could have broken me in two with one hand, and no one could have blamed him as I had been doing my best to blind him.

  But the dear, sweet thing had handled me as gently as possible, while patiently avoiding my attempts to poke out his eyes. Sharpie does not forget such knightly gallantry (and doesn’t forget injuries done her, either).

  “Jacob, I would feel safest if I rode between you and Tawm Takus.”

  “Certainly, my dear one … if our host permits. Tawm Takus?”

  “I am deeply honored, Doctor Burroughs.”

  Tommy put his rifle into a big scabbard on the nigh hind quarter of his thoat, racked his lance on the other side—outrigger gadgets that snapped out of the way if he grabbed for them—mounted his steed, scooted back a little, reached down with four hands and seated me gently in front of him, held me with his lower hands, reached past me with his upper hands and helped Jacob.

  Once up, he held me with his lower hands, held Jacob under his armpits with his upper hands, and Jacob grabbed the leather girth, making all three of us practically married to the beast. I felt safe.

  Tommy’s solid, muscly tummy made a fine backrest; his hands were better than a seat belt, stronger, but gentler. From a man I might have felt that his hands were a touch too intimate. But to a Green Barsoomian giant I would be just sort of a talking doll, or cat; he wouldn’t take any interest in me that way.

  Or would he? There was that horrid story about Tal Hajus.

  But my Tommy wasn’t like that. We wheeled and then we walked and then we trotted and then we fairly flew, the thoat’s pads making no sound on the turf.

  “Feels swell, doesn’t it?” Jacob yelled back over his shoulder.

  “Surely does, dearest!”

  XX

  Zebadiah

  Deety and I rode with Kach Kachkan while Jake and Hilda were mounted with “Laughing Boy,” Tawm Takus, our worried host. Hilda was sandwiched between Jake and Tawm, unable to fall off. I suggested the arrangement to Deety, who vetoed it. “Zebadiah, only if you insist. I’d like to sit in front so that I can see the sights. I couldn’t see around your shoulders but you can see over my head … can’t you?”

  “Well enough—and I’m not driving. Kach Kachkan can certainly see over mine. You won’t fall off? No stirrups.”

  “My captain, I promise to hang on to this belly band with at least one hand every second. But if you’re afraid I’ll fall off, you can hold me around the waist.”

  “Any excuse to hold my princess around the waist is a good one. And hanging on to your waist will keep me from falling off; I can’t reach the girth strap.”

  “Oh. I wasn’t being considerate. I can’t fall off if I hang on to your belt. Let’s swap places.”

  Deety has never learned how to be inconsiderate; she automatically gives the other fellow the biggest piece of pie. “Nosiree, ma’am! You picked it; I won’t swap.”

  Turned out I was in no danger of falling; Kach Kachkan held me gently but firmly with his lower hands. I feel certain that he felt responsible for “valuable” cargo—if we had taken a tumble, he would have joined the Foreign Legion or its Barsoomian opposite number.

  I had examined all three giants to be sure that I could call them by name later—might want to run for alderman someday. Not easy with green men—like peas in a pod or sheep in a mob. But forget species resemblance, concentrate on details, and each is as distinctly individual as you or I. Kad was no problem; just call any “youngster” with his left tusk broken off three centimeters above the lip “Kad!”—then see if he answers.

  Tawm Takus was already a distinct personality; I wouldn’t forget him. Kach Kachkan had had little to say—no time to get acquainted. I could feel his washboard belly against my back, could not see him. I concentrated on visualizing him. Five meters tall, I thought—a head taller than Tawm Takus. Broad-shouldered, heavily muscled, moved like a cat—and “Heidelberg face” all over his body. I doubt that I could have placed the flat of my hand on him anywhere without touching scar tissue. Tawm Takus had half a dozen scars; Kach Kachkan had ten times as many.

  That and a world-weary aura made me guess that he was much older than Tawm Takus—yet Tawm Takus had been in charge. Why? Let’s find out … indirectly.

  Thoats have a smooth gait. They are so massive that they are slow to get underway; for the same reason, they can’t turn quickly. But once they reach cruising speed (thirty knots, I would say) they are almost billiard-table steady and can keep it up for hours. I think their many legs smooth out chuckholes; all a rider feels is a pleasant surge, more a vibration than a tiring motion.

  Their gait is noiseless on turf; almost so (I learned later) on pavement. A thirty-knot wind does not prevent conversation—or residents of Wyoming would have been forced into sign language generations ago. Deety wanted to “see the scenery”—but when you’ve seen one dead sea bottom, you’ve seen ’em all: endless stretches of yellow-orange turf—not even a jackrabbit. Once we rounded that promontory, the bay opened out. In twenty minutes the hills—or “shoreline”—were almost too distant to see.

  “Kach Kachkan, may I ask a question about yourself?”

  “Captain Zed-Zeb-uh-die-uh John Carter may ask whatever he pleases.”

  Kach Kachkan spoke English slowly and with care, with occasional errors in syntax and usage; it seemed to me that he was still translating, other than with phrases he used often. So I spoke slowly and tried to avoid unusual idiom. “Kach Kachkan, I heard Tawm Takus say that you are ‘survivor of fifteen games in arena at Warhoons.’ I thought that my cousin, John, the Warlord, had put a stop to arena games?”

  “Captain Zed-Zeb—”

  “ ‘Captain’ is enough,” I cut in. “My name is too long to repeat with each remark.”

  “Thank you, Captain. My answer to your question be both ‘yes’ and ‘no.’ The Red men never followed arena custom. Or not for many cycles of cycles. Yellow men I know little about. Green men—our customs vary from horde to horde. general-in-chief Tars Tarkus abolished games among Tharks. The Warlord’s order, given from the throne and sealed with his hand, forbade everywhere in use of the games of prisoners captured in battle; he did not abolish the games.

  “Men convicted of crimes and sentenced to die could choose the arena or choose to have their cases placed on the Pedestal of Truth before the Throne of Righteousness in the Temple of Reward in Greater Helium. Some prisoners choose arena for quick death fighting or the small hope of eventually winning freedom. Some choose to wait in the dungeons until the Warlord’s Judges of Truth review their cases … then die dishonorably or live on in the dungeons for a number of cycles set by the judges … or—seldom!—be set free with honor restored.

  “But, by your cousin’s decree, no woman, green, red, or other color, could be sent to the arena. The ignoble practice of staining the sand with blood of women to amuse the crowd has ended thro
ughout Barsoom. Or so I believe.”

  Kach Kachkan’s slow speech stopped. I thought the subject was ended and was wondering what horrendous crime the big fellow could have committed that had forced him to fight fifteen times in the arena rather than trust this case to the Appellate Court.

  No, he was gathering his thoughts and arranging them in English. “Convicted criminals willing to roll dice with Issus in the arena were few. The crowds grew bored and royal revenues decreased. But we have a saying, ‘Where there is a market willing to buy, there are sellers willing to sell.’ Do Earthlings have that saying … may I ask?”

  “Some say that. Or something very like it.” (I thought about endless governmental attempts to deny this truism … and the black markets that always resulted. But I had no wish to advertise, in Barsoom, the follies of my native planet.)

  “I became a seller. I was hatched …” The big fellow stopped. “I regret. I am not making hospitality to bore the captain and his princess. My life has been a dullness.”

  “Go on!” said Deety. “You aren’t boring us. We are strangers in a strange land. What is dull to you is new and exciting to us.”

  “The princess speaks truth, Kach Kachkan.”

  “I do, Kach Kachkan. If you don’t tell us how you got from your hatching to the arena—and from there to American Express—I’m going to get off this thoat and walk! By the way, what’s his name? Or her name? Is this thoat a mare or a stallion?”

  Deety had gone outside Kach Kachkan’s English vocabulary; he fumbled and tried to apologize. I explained that Deety wanted to know the sex of the beast, male or female—and had to find ways to force our limited mutual vocabulary to fit even this simple question.

  “She is she,” answered Kach Kachkan.

  “What is her name?” I continued.

  “Thoats cannot have names. They have no speech. I send thoughts to her. She is—(blank).”