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

by Robert A. Heinlein

  Tira caught it and said, “Captain and Prince, I have seen, I think, pictures of bicycles. Two-wheeled chariots, are they not? It is probable that our artisans can build bicycles from pictures … but not tonight, not that quickly. I can send for a small chariot which you could ride and Wogi and Ajal could pull.”

  “Zebadiah,” said my daughter, “if you accept that offer, I am going to take a picture, even though I’ll have to run all the way back to Gay Deceiver to pick up the camera.”

  “Sweetheart, you’ll have time to run all the way to Snug Harbor. I refused to try a rickshaw even though the rickshaw man was huskier than I am. I outweigh Ajal and Wogi combined. Tira, my remark about bicycles was a figure of speech, an inverted compliment.”

  “ ‘An inverted compliment?’ I am forced to say that this appears to be an idiom I have yet to learn.”

  “Well … what would you say if I told my wife that she was an ugly, little monkey?”

  Tira looked startled. “But the princess is taller than I and beautiful. I have never seen a monkey, but pictures of them look not at all like the princess.”

  “He called me that just a couple of days ago, Tira. It pleased me. Meant that, in his opinion, I was the exact opposite. An inverted compliment.”

  “Oh, I must think about this.”

  When we arrived at the bathing room, the eight wood nymphs were there ahead of us, with supper set up by the pool. I was forced to assume that either a) there was a shortcut passageway and that I had incorrectly visualized the complex layout of that huge apartment, or b) Barsoomians had solved the problem of instantaneous transitions by my method or some other. Then I thought of conveyor belts and forgot the matter; Kissa started undressing me while Teeka starting popping goodies into my mouth.

  Kissa hesitated with her hands on the buckle of my Sam Brown, looked at Tira. She said, “Doctor Burroughs, she cannot remove your sword without specific permission. Just place your hand on her head, Doctor. That grants a slave permission to do anything she’s unsure about.”

  I did so, Kissa studied the buckle, then opened it. I remembered to take out my automatic, remove the clip, and jack the cartridge out of the chamber—couldn’t have the child shooting her foot off by accident. While I did this, she removed my shorts—and I made an involuntary start of surprise.

  From behind me Zeb drawled, “Jake, were you ever in a bathhouse in Japan?”

  “No.”

  “But you mentioned taking Finnish sauna. Relax and enjoy it. Or think about Gödel’s proof or Fermat’s last theorem.”

  I did all of those things—especially when they combined forces to lather me all over. Yes, I relaxed and enjoyed it.

  Deety gets her own way. She asked when the girls ate, was told that slaves ate after their masters, whatever was left. So Deety started shoving bites into Larlo and Fig, who squealed and tried to avoid it—and gave in when Deety got Tira to order them to permit it.

  The same thing happened after we were rinsed and got into the pool (just under body temperature, just deep enough that Hilda’s head was above water—luxurious!); our servants lay by the pool and continued to feed us. Deety insisted that they come in, too. Tira looked startled; Deety made it a flat order.

  I have never seen nine women lather and rinse each other so fast—in fact, I have never seen nine women do it slowly either.

  Sharing that pool with eleven beautiful women is something out of Muslim Paradise. I relaxed and enjoyed it.

  Our apartment was two wings with that “living room” great hall at its center, two sleeping rooms in each wing. Tira took it for granted that we would each select a sleeping room. I kept quiet, knowing that Hilda and I would wind up in the same room, Zeb and Deety in another—goodness, you could have bedded down a platoon in one of them.

  Deety is not one to let matters be. “Where do you and the girls sleep?”

  “Wherever we are told to sleep, Princess. Unless you tell them to do otherwise, Larlo and Fig will sleep outside your door—with one ear open should you call. Or, if you wish them nearer, they will sleep at your feet so that a whisper will suffice should you wake and wish to be massaged back to sleep—at which they are skillful. Or to fetch you food or drink. They are here to carry out your wishes, whatever they may be. If they do not understand, I will appear at once to translate. I will be in the foyer, close to all four rooms.”

  Deety looked thoughtful. My wife said, “Let me get this straight. Two each. Laba and Kona with me, outside my door or at my feet. And the same for our chieftains—to carry out their wishes, whatever they may be. Just how far does that go? Spell it out, Tira.”

  Tira looked perplexed. “I do not understand, Princess Hilda. Each slave will do whatever her lord or lady requires. If she does not understand, she will call me; I will explain—or do it myself if it is beyond her skills. If it is a wish unanticipated that I cannot solve, I will send a swift message by a watchman-of-the-night and Navok will solve it. Does the princess have some special wish in mind?”

  “No, just asking.” Hilda looked at me, looked at Kissa and Teeka, looked back at me. “Jacob, is your insurance paid up?”

  I said, “Why, Hilda my love! Tira meant nothing of the sort, I’m certain.”

  “Zebbie? Are you going to risk your life, too?”

  “Sharpie, knock it off! I’m sleeping with Deety.”

  Tira looked puzzled and distressed. “I do not understand. Have I, in my ignorance, offended my masters and mistresses?”

  Deety put an arm around Tira’s waist. “Not a bit, Tira; you’ve been grand. My Aunt Hilda loves to tease.”

  It wound up as I knew it would: Hilda and me in one room, Zeb and my daughter in the other sleeping room in that wing, and our Girl Scout Troop bedded down in a sleeping room beyond the big parlor, along with their Troop Mistress. We had trouble getting Tira to accept this arrangement. It took I-tell-you-three-times to make it stick.

  Once the eight giggleheimers were chased off to bed and out of earshot, we all gathered in Hilda’s-and-my room for a nightcap: five—we included Tira.

  Each sleeping room held a low, round chow bench loaded with wines and midnight snacks—and I’m blessed if I know when the girls found time to place this, as these benches had been bare when we took the grand tour. Sent in from outside, certainly, and I admit I did not muster them every ten minutes. Tira, maybe—she seemed to be triplets in her ability to handle many things at once.

  Hilda at once exercised her prime talent. “Tira, knock off this slave nonsense; the girls are out of earshot. You can pick it up again whenever someone else is around; we don’t want to put any strain on you. But you’re our substitute hostess and we are your guests and friends—‘friends’ if you will let us be.”

  “Yes, Princess. Thank you.”

  “Try that again. Just say, ‘Sure, Hilda. Why. Not?’ ”

  “Sure … Hilda … why … not.”

  “Better, but your heart isn’t it in yet. My husband, Doctor Burroughs, is called ‘Jake’ by his friends. Not ‘Jacob,’ that’s my name for him. Say ‘Howdy, Jake!’ ”

  “Howdy, Jake.”

  “Just fine, Tira—if you’ll smile and show those dimples,” I answered.

  Tira can blush too … but I got those dimples.

  “And I’m Deety, Tira darling, and I want you to love me.”

  “No one could fail to love the Princess Dee …. Sorry! Deety, you’re awfully easy to love. You’re friendly and warm. All the girls felt it. They told me so. Larlo and Fig were disappointed not to be allowed to sleep at your feet.”

  “Well … I’ll try to soothe their feelings tomorrow.”

  XXII

  Zebadiah

  When I woke, Deety was missing—the last I remember she was clinging like a koala bear and sound asleep.

  The room was dark, but as I yawned and stretched, tall drapes were silently swept aside and I was looking out into bright sunshine. The door opposite the tall windows opened; Ajal and Wogi entered silently, be
aring trays. They curtsied in unison. I said, “Kaor, kids. Wogi, Ajal.”

  “Kaor Kap Tan Zeb Uh Die Uh John Carter,” they sang in chorus.

  “Good girls! Thank you.” Someone has been training them. Tira? They smiled happily, rushed toward me, dropped to their knees, started assaulting me with hot, perfumed towels.

  I relaxed to the inevitable; they gave me a bed bath with gentle efficiency and dried me. Wogi then poured a few cc. of amber liquid into a tumbler, raised it to her lips, and waited, eyes on mine.

  I placed a hand on her head. She smiled, poured it into her mouth, gargled gently, closed her lips and worked her mouth and jaw around, forcing the liquid through her teeth. She spat it daintily into a small basin. Then she poured a larger amount and offered it to me.

  I did everything she had done. Fresh, spicy, nonalcoholic—and beat the hell out of Listerine, Lavoris, or Cepacol—finished swishing it through my teeth and spat it into the basin.

  It not only freshened my mouth, but also those slimy little sweaters were gone from my teeth. This planet didn’t need toothbrushes.

  I had to restrain them to keep them from following me into the jakes. When I came out, Ajal was holding my sword and belt; Wogi had my police special in one hand, cartridges in the other (I had ejected them before letting them bathe me the night before) and my walkie-talkie hanging from the crook of that elbow.

  I took the walkie-talkie, flipped it on, said “Deety? Come in, Deety.”

  No answer—I put the button in my ear, stepped it up to full gain, held the mic to my throat. “Come in, Deety. Come in anybody.”

  “DEETY ISN’T HERE”—I hastily turned down the gain. “Both the gals are gone. I’m on the balcony outside the ballroom, Zeb. How do you like your eggs?”

  “Kaor, Jake. Up and easy.”

  “You aren’t going to get any; eggs are taboo on this planet. But you won’t starve. Come on out.”

  “Okay. Over and out.”

  I placed the walkie-talkie, gun, and ammo on the chow bench. It had been cleared off—pixies again. Ajal was holding my sword belt open and looking expectant. I touched the top of her head. She smiled and buckled it around me, hooked up my sword wrong way. I rehooked it, but assured her that she was a “Good girl!”—told Wogi the same. Looked around for my shorts ….

  No pants—well, the girls were wearing none; I was getting used to it. I went out, my “staff” in formation with me.

  No, I wasn’t going to starve. Jake had finished eating; what was left would make a Thanksgiving dinner for a dozen. My girls started feeding me—hot bites, cold bites, a hot drink that wasn’t coffee but was bracing, a cold one that looked like milk but had a vanilla flavor. Every time I started to speak, something wound up in my mouth.

  I caught Wogi by the wrist. “Jake, how do you avoid too much service?”

  He spoke one word; my girls poised for flight, waited. I patted each on the head. “Good girls!” They left—went outside, sat down on the floor tailor fashion—or was it “lotus?”—where they could see me. Clearly they had understood Jake’s order, but their “master” had to confirm it.

  “I see you’re learning the lingo, Doc.”

  “Six words. I had Tira’s help. When you are through eating, call your kids and let them take it away. Tira and her Campfire Girls won’t eat until you are through.”

  “I thought we had settled that nonsense?”

  “Only in private. I’m not sure Deety and Hilda should have crowded it, even in private. People always prefer their own time-tried customs. Were you ever an enlisted man?”

  “No.”

  “I was. Only weeks—but long enough to get the flavor. Enlisted men don’t like officers who insist on getting chummy. Tira is a slave, but an important slave, one who takes pride in her status and her perfect service. Didn’t you notice last night that she got upset in trying to play the role of ‘member of the family’?”

  Yes, I had—but I had confidence in Deety’s ability to make it work. Give it a day or two. “Jake, you worry too much.”

  “I do worry. I’m worried now, three ways. No, four.”

  “Pop, you’ll burn out your bearings. Here you are, looking down at the most beautiful garden this side of Vancouver Island, belching over a Sybaritic breakfast, living in luxury with nine beautiful servants waiting breathlessly for your least whim—and you worry. Man, even if they are planning to hang you at sunset, you should enjoy this day.”

  “They might. Hang us at sunset.”

  “All the more reason to enjoy your last day.”

  “Maybe you’re right, Zeb.”

  “I am right. But what’s this about ‘hanging at sunset’?”

  “Zeb, how long will our lies stand up?”

  “My lies, you mean. They’ve stood us in good stead so far. Would you rather be out in the middle of … ‘The Bay of Blood,’ I think Tawm Takus called it, eating peanut butter sandwiches and trying to make up your mind between sleeping sitting up with your ankles swelling … or risking frostbite and hungry banths outside? Look, Doctor, with your get-there-zip gadget we can leave this planet later today, if you like. I think I can fast-talk our friends out of some fast thoats. Or Joe and his flier.”

  “Might be smart.”

  “Why this attack of nerves? They’ve got power here. Whether it’s AC, DC, or Simon-says-wiggle-waggle, I can figure a way to juice Gay Deceiver. And, while the evidence indicates that women’s dress shops are scarce, they have cloth from which Deety and Hilda can whip up clothes for Hilda. You can’t expect her to explore umpteen universes with one cotton dress and a borrowed pair of panties. Count your blessings, man! This is that fitting-out base we were too rushed to use, back home. Give me time to look over the facilities. They have technicians—it’s just not our technology.”

  Damn it, I get annoyed at cold feet—and never expected Jake to fall ill with them. “Where did the girls go?”

  “I don’t know … Princess Thuvia …”

  “ ‘Princess Thuvia!’ ”

  “Oh, shut up and listen, son. I slept late; they were gone. Tira told me that the Princess Thuvia, consort of the Regent, had come and taken them away. That’s all she seemed to know. But Tira seemed to think everything was jolly, so I tried not to show any misgivings. But we can’t tell what danger they might run into. Zeb, was that string of lies necessary?”

  “What lies? Think it over, Doc.”

  “You aren’t related to the Warlord.”

  “Who says I’m not? Jake, I gave my correct name, rank, and serial number. They can check it in my flight log. My passport shows—in Gay Deceiver, now!—where I was born. Virginia. I never said that we were close relatives—I distinctly said distant. What relations are you to Edgar Rice Burroughs?”

  “Why, none, that I know of.”

  “Do you know that you are not? If he were alive and claimed to be your fifth cousin, twice removed, could you disprove it?”

  “No, but …”

  “A simple ‘no’ will do. It is statistically probable that you are more closely related than that. However, most American family records are neither complete nor assembled. But I am certain of one thing: my name isn’t phony and I have proof. If the Warlord is using a phony name, he won’t be anxious to throw doubt on my credentials. He’ll accept me as his distant cousin, treat me as such, and never open his peeper. Contrari-wise, if John Carter is his right name—I have no reason to doubt it—the odds that we are cousins of some sort are so high that he’ll accept it. He has no reason to make an issue of it—not after we’ve been accepted as guests in his palace.”

  “Zeb, in those books the Warlord says time and again that he doesn’t remember when or where he was born.”

  “Jake, we’re not in a book. We’re in a balcony, overlooking a beautiful garden, in a palace on the fourth planet from the Sun in Universe-Ten. The palace belongs to a bloke with my surname and we were born in the same state. Fact. Any discrepancies result from an excited green man who doesn�
�t speak English too well making a garbled report to his boss who is a blithering idiot—and who then relayed that report, with more garbling you can be certain, to the palace. The essentials got through—my name, rank, and place of birth. All else is irrelevant.”

  “What about that garbage you told about me?”

  “What garbage? You are a veteran of the Pentagon.”

  “Well … you don’t have to rub it in. ‘Emperor of Ruritanis!’ My god.”

  “Jake, you’ve got the twitches over nothing. None of that got on the air—think back. Three green men heard it, no one else—and not one of them knows Ruritania from rural Pennsylvania. Not that it would matter; Deety has Kach Kachkan eating out of her hand; he would kill anyone who said a word against her, Sharpie seems to have done as good a job on Tawm Takus ….”

  “She did. I don’t know how she does it.”

  “There are no flies on Hilda; we won’t slip up through her. Wherever she is, right now she’s taking someone into camp. Jake, your lovable little wife can fast-talk a touchy situation better than I can. You hear her yesterday. You got yourself a prize, Jake.”

  “I know it.”

  “And so did I—and I know it. Our wives are our major assets. But before you moan about a little fast talk, mine or Hilda’s, you might try thinking about why we were fast-talking it. You did some shooting. Why?”

  “Because …” Jake shut up.

  “Because Hilda appeared to be in danger. But an old-style automatic is no good at that range; just luck you didn’t kill your wife. I’m not blaming you, we were all doing our best in a sticky situation. I wasn’t effective either—until it penetrated my panic that it was time to talk, not fight. Then I talked. Some was garbage, I admit. Let me rehearse it next time and I won’t mention the Pentagon—hadn’t realized you feel touchy about it. But I was extemporizing—trying to save our necks. I wasn’t calm. Nervous isn’t too strong a word.”

  “Captain … I apologize.”

  “Oh, dreck! We’re too close for apologies; we’ve shared too many dangers. Blood brothers. Jake, what are you really worried about?”