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

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “Tira,” I said, “Have them show a curtsy.”

  “At once, Doctor.” Perhaps she used a hand signal—they bobbled down and up perfectly in step.

  Carthoris cheered. “Again, Tira!” Tira had them do it six times, like clockwork. My daughter could have made a chorus line of those beauties in a fortnight. Carthoris called a halt. “Yes,” he said, “I see that Tira provided ‘raw recruits.’ Teeka there has been my grandfather’s favorite masseuse for many cycles. Kissa and Wogi belong to Tardos Mors, and Ajal is at least nominally mine. Larlo and Laba serve my grandmother; Kona and Fig belong to my wife. Tira, have they behaved themselves?”

  I interrupted. “They’ve all been good girls, Cart. Very.”

  They caught the phrase “good girls” and looked pleased. Teeka held my eye and dimpled. I said to Zeb, “I think we can let them go back to whatever they do when they aren’t being super-helpful.” Zeb agreed; Tira sent them away. Some of them looked disappointed. But I wanted to get acquainted with this young prince and I think Zeb did, too—Carthoris was the key to whatever we needed. What did we need? Power … food that would keep … a carbon dioxide scavenger and air bottles if their technology went that way … clothes for Hilda. Shoes for her? I wasn’t certain women here ever wore shoes. Could their leather workers measure Hilda’s dainty feet and get her properly shod? What else?

  We went out onto the balcony where we had breakfasted; Tira remained in the foyer. The table where we had eaten, clear, except for two mugs of uncoffee minutes before, now held several sorts of wine and bowls of munching food. That balcony could not be reached from other balconies, yet those girls had not gone past us through the great hall. I became certain that the apartment held concealed passageways. Occam’s Razor. Then I changed it from “certainty” to “working hypothesis”—Occam’s Razor was not always sharp.

  The prince wanted to discuss politics and economics. His father, he told us, had instituted many reforms. But each reform seemed to create a new problem knottier than the one it corrected. “Cousin Zeb, Doctor, don’t think I’m criticizing my father; I am not. He is many, many cycles wiser than I. But the truth is, and he is the first to admit it, that the Warlord is bored by administrative detail. And my beloved mother refuses to rule; she simply reigns. So I must mind the shop. I’m not complaining—but both of you have experience with a larger planet with a far larger population. You must know things I do not.”

  The problems of Barsoom and the Helium hegemony (less than half the planet, but the richest and most civilized part) were painfully easy to state. No coal. No petroleum. Almost no remaining ore. No water power whatever. Some radium (uranium and rhodium, I suspect, but Carthoris called it “radium” in translating a Barsoomian jawbreaker) but most “radium” resources were hoarded to keep the planet alive: pumping its precious water and running an air plant that renewed the planet’s thin atmosphere—whether this involved transmutation, or breaking down of oxides, wasn’t discussed; the air plant was the sole thing on the planet held sacred by civilized nations and barbarians alike.

  In the meantime, John Carter’s humane reforms had resulted in more and more people. Helium was on the edge of starvation.

  I thought about the food that had been lavished on us—and then thought again. That food had not been thrown away—“slaves ate after their masters.” Now I knew why a small royal family had over two thousand slaves—plus Issus knew (I didn’t) how many employees, guards, et cetera. The palace was one huge make-work “welfare” project.

  “Gentlemen, our old ways, rough as they were, kept the population down to what we could feed. Now we no longer have even the River Iss as a partial solution; my father exposed it for what it was: a slaughterhouse chute of a fake religion. So now we are trying from the other end—“birth control,” the English phrase is, I believe—but we call it “egg breaking.” We’ve tried to make it popular. My dear mother is Patroness of the Greater Helium Egg Breaking Festivals, and my wife Thuvia and I lead off every celebration by publicly breaking one of her eggs. We don’t cheat; it is indeed one that she has laid—not one from a slave woman. I tell you in confidence that we have several fertile eggs in stasis, hidden in diverse places inside and outside the city—a royal family has a duty to continue its line, not leave the realm open to a power struggle.

  “But despite the thousands of eggs destroyed every quarter cycle, our population grows—and more and more peasants swarm into the city. I wish you could see—no, I hope you never see—this city at night. Homeless people huddled in every hole or alcove that offers any shelter, like wild thoats at night, and covered with any fur or silk they can lay hands on. Yet every morning the black chariots remove bodies frozen at the outside of each huddle or suffocated at its core. Yet still the city grows. How do you handle such problems in Virginia?”

  Zeb was blunt. “We don’t.”

  “Eh?”

  Zeb explained that Earth faced similar problems on a larger scale … and had tried and was still trying analogous “solutions”—none of which worked.

  “Cart, so far as I know, all you can be sure of is that an ecology always balances. Always. But the way it balances may be a disaster. Earth rebalances blindly. Every few cycles we have a senseless war … and its only good effect—if one can call it “good” without vomiting—is that it thins the herd. But our wars have reached a point where many people feel that the next one may sterilize the planet. Balance its ecology at zero. I don’t know, I’m not that wise. But for the past century and a half our wars have grown steadily more deadly. The only advice I can offer—stupid advice, as I don’t know your planet—is to step up the egg breaking. But how, I don’t know.”

  “Nor do I,” I agreed. “Zeb has painted a time picture. We aren’t solving our own problems.” (I considered telling him about a new one—invading aliens with green blood. Ask him if they had ever been seen on Barsoom. It would be hard for them to hide on a planet where naked bodies were as common as naked faces. The disguise Zeb had penetrated with a sword would not work on Barsoom. But probably those aliens wouldn’t bother with an almost worn-out planet. I decided to wait.)

  Carthoris looked glum. “Well … I thought I must ask. But each must ride his own thoat. Please don’t mention this talk to my father; it might displease him, my dumping our problems in the laps of honored guests instead of entertaining them.” Suddenly he grinned. “Let’s forget that I opened my big mouth. We still live! And while we live, let’s enjoy it! Will you take a walk with me?”

  “Certainly,” I agreed. “But are we dressed for it?”

  The prince looked puzzled. “You are dressed as I am—leather and sword. What more does a man need? Are there other weapons you wish to carry? You won’t need them, I promise. Ornaments? If you wish. I don’t bother with them at home. But you may have different tastes.”

  Zeb said, “No. I’m ready.”

  “Me, too,” I agreed.

  “Then let’s go. It isn’t far.”

  We went farther down the corridor, perhaps a hundred and fifty meters, while Carthoris returned salutes and answered with a word that seemed to mean “at ease!” I found myself saluting US style, then trying to imitate Barsoomian salute—then gave up. Carthoris paid no attention and the guards couldn’t seem to see Zeb and me at all. We turned into a side door, through an empty apartment, out onto a balcony overlooking another enclosed garden.

  “My mother’s apartments are directly across from us,” Carthoris said.

  I’m certain Carthoris did not intend us to look across—I looked down. Zeb let out a grunt of surprise.

  Occupying the middle of the garden was Gay Deceiver.

  We both stared. Then Zeb asked, “How?”

  Carthoris grinned and looked very pleased. “Not difficult, with enough help. You assured American Express that your sky chariot would be safe. But I knew, being a pilot myself, that if it were my flier, I would not wish to leave it unguarded in the Bay of Blood. So our fastest class of destroyer left fr
om Lesser Helium at the same time my wife’s little yacht left here to pick you up. Your craft was under guard long before the sun went down.”

  “Thanks,” Zeb answered. “I didn’t want to leave her out there, unguarded. But by ‘How?’ I meant ‘How did you put her here?’ I’m reasonably certain that even a skilled technician would have trouble opening her doors.”

  “Issus! Zeb, no one—no one—touched her doors. I would bust an officer down to recruit for that, and have him flogged to boot. We simply picked her up and deposited her gently. Quite gently; I supervised it.”

  “I still don’t see how. There doesn’t seem to be a mark on her.”

  “I’m certain there isn’t; I inspected before and after. First, gardeners spent part of the night removing plants to make room once her overall size was wirelessed back. Then she was carefully measured in all dimensions, a scale model constructed on the spot by a master sculptor, correctness checked optically, and model and all measurements flown back to the city. From these the sling was constructed—triple silk; a swarm of tailors worked the last half of the night. Fortunately many grommets were sewed into the sling; she turned out to be far heavier than we expected—we haven’t figured out yet how she gets off the ground. Then thirty-two fliers, piloted as one from a thirty-third—by me”—he grinned again, boyishly pleased with himself—“took strains on lines of various lengths—to keep the fliers clear of each other, you know—and we lifted. My best pilots were in the lifting craft; we kept the strains balanced, and lifts and turns were made as precisely as in battle.

  “By mid-morning we were over the palace—and Tira sent word to me that you two were still asleep … which pleased me, as you could have seen her being lowered had you been on a balcony. I do love a surprise. She was lowered below roof level—you could still have seen my fliers but she was out of your sight—then we placed her most cautiously on the ground, detached the lines, removed the sling … and saved it, as we will lift her out and place her on an open, level field whenever you say.”

  “Thanks,” said Zeb, “but it won’t be necessary.”

  “But …. Aren’t those wings?”

  “Yes.”

  “You must be a master pilot, Cousin!”

  “Adequate. My captaincy is in aerospace.”

  Our host looked momentarily glum. “I wish I could say the same. But we haven’t the metal to build even one spaceship. If I am ever to visit Earth—a prime ambition if I ever have time—it must be as a passenger, buying a ticket through Thomas Cook of American Express.” Suddenly he brightened. “But I was thinking of the Earthling liners. Perhaps we could build—one—the size of yours. Or could we?”

  “Jake?”

  My brain raced. Give continua-craft secrets to another planet? When I had not turned them over to my own government—as yet? But what about two pregnant women and our need for the favor of this prince?

  Call me turncoat. Or take it up with one “Colonel Duggins.” Or wrap it in Form 1040! When we left Earth, we had done so under duress, unprotected from booby traps and atomic bombs and other deadly hazards, thrown solely on our own resources. I opted to protect our wives.

  “I can supply plans, Highness. By rigging a projector for microfilm. Up to you how the projections could be copied; we don’t have equipment here for that. It’s also up to you to work from those plans; I haven’t the slightest idea whether or not your technicians can duplicate my apparatus.” (Cart, old man, I can give you specs on those gyros—but can your people do as well as Sperry Division? I can’t.) “Zeb, how about the car manual? It’s not microfilmed. Or is it?”

  “No, but it’s not a problem. Project the pages. Camera Obscure, in reverse. The sort of picture-postcard projector that was once popular. I could jury-rig one. With any sort of magnifying glass.”

  I turned back to Carthoris. “Cart, I won’t kid you. We will turn over to you full plans, with full explanations. But if you don’t have the technology to use them—and at present I can’t guess—you might spend a cycle of cycles on it and still be disappointed. That little ship represents the combined talent of hundreds of thousands—I don’t know how many—specialized experts in many, many fields. There are items in it, many of them, that neither Zeb nor I could build. We bought them. We can explain them, give you pictures and plans for them. But we did not make them. Only the overall design is mine. I built on the shoulders of other men.”

  Prince Carthoris smiled and for a moment looked the way I feel that royalty—true royalty, not exiles in Estoril—should look. “I couldn’t ask for more, Doctor. If we fail, it’s our failure. But Helium understands teamwork, too.”

  XXIV

  Zebadiah

  Ididn’t say much as Jake and Cart and I walked back to our apartment. We had told Cart the truth—but he didn’t grasp it. We tried to tell him that duplicating Gay Deceiver on Barsoom was a nearly zero possibility. Like asking the Wright brothers to build the first Moonship. I knew they had high technology; some of it looked like magic to me. But it wasn’t our technology.

  Take a simple pocket pen, so cheap that they are given away as advertising. Back of it lie several sorts of chemists, metallurgists, synthetic polymer experts, mechanical engineers, extrusion presses, computer programmers, computers, computer technicians, toolmakers, electrical engineers, a planet-wide petroleum industry, five or more sorts of mines with mining engineers, geologists, miners, railroads, steamships, production engineers, management specialists, merchandizing psychologists—et cetera to a splitting headache. It is impossible even to list the myriad special skills that underlie even the most trivial trade item of our enormously complex and interdependent industrial web. Hell, I didn’t even mention power grids.

  Or accountants, banking systems, financiers—I left those out on purpose. I assumed that the prince could handle the money end. If not, we could not help him.

  Could we help him at all? Well, we could try all-out and suppress our misgivings. Mmm, maybe the approach was not a monkey-copy Gay Deceiver, but to find out whether or not even one Barsoomian mathematician could understand Jake’s math—and go from there. They might wind up with an inter-universes space-time craft shaped like an egg and a third the size of the Gay Deceiver—mostly life-support and gyros. Must talk to Jake—as twinning Gay Deceiver could not be done off her home planet. Nor was it necessary. Continua craft didn’t need wings. With accurate radar, or even precise optical range finders, I could have grounded Gay Deceiver without unfolding her wings. She had never been intended to be a spaceship; she was a bastard (forgive me, Smart Girl!), outfitted for space-time travel because she was what we had.

  But Carthoris could start from scratch and stick to essentials. Maybe it would work. It might even solve his population problem. Or fill those dead sea bottoms with water. Or fetch metal to Barsoom. Cheap transportation is the key to almost any economic problem—and what could be cheaper than a freighter that goes any distance in no time (or even switches universes) at less than the price of paper clip?—once you get it operating.

  I reached our digs feeling better; maybe we could help our friend yet.

  Tira met us, curtsied. “Highness, Captain, Doctor, the princesses have returned.”

  “Out here, Cart!”

  “Coming, Thuv! Thanks, Tira.”

  Standing in the archway at the far end of the big room was a figure silhouetted by bright sunlight. I called out, “Deety, honey, I missed you!”

  “I am flattered, Senior Cousin,” the silhouetted figure answered, “but I am not your princess. I am Thuvia.” And durn if she didn’t curtsy to me!

  I hurried toward Princess Thuvia while Deety called out, “I’m out here, Tarzan. And I’m flattered, too.”

  “Coming.” Thuvia had her hand stuck out to shake mine. I took it, bowed deeply over it while turning it ninety degrees and kissing it, giving it a semi-Polish treatment—i.e., not the all-out Warsaw invitation to better things, but not a stage actor’s fake, nuther. Just strong enough so that she was c
ertain her hand had been kissed.

  Thuvia giggled. “Cart, Mother Dejah is right. He not only looks like the Warlord—he acts like him, too.”

  When did Dejah Thoris get a look at me? Was this joint bugged like a Moscow hotel? Spy eyes? Spy cameras—if they had photography; I had seen no photographs. Wait a half! I had been on a balcony where Cart had said, “My mother’s apartments are directly across from here.” But “across” was at least a hundred meters—binoculars? No, the timing wasn’t right; our wives and Thuvia must have left there by then, as the jeddara’s quarters were three times as far from our apartment as that balcony we had been on—and they beat us home. I dropped it—no data. But that palace had the privacy of a zoo.

  I straightened up and took a better look at the princess … and saw why the silhouette had fooled me. Aside from pigmentation, Cart’s wife and mine could have passed for twin sisters. Use body makeup on Deety and spray her pretty hair black and anyone would believe it. I had plenty of chance to make certain, as Princess Thuvia’s costume was a jeweled belt around her wasp-waist and a dagger in a matching sheath.

  I said, “Cart, come on. Want you to meet our owners.”

  “Wives,” Jake corrected.

  “Is there a difference?” I asked.

  Cart answered, “Well … now that you put it that way ….”

  “Careful what you say, dear,” Thuvia cautioned. “I’ll tell Mother Dejah. Be a gentleman, Cart; I want you to meet some ladies.”

  Neither Deety nor Sharpie stood up to meet the prince regent—I was proud of them. The drooling eagerness of most of my female compatriots on being exposed to royalty, I do not like. We fought to get rid of kings; we insist that our presidents kiss babies and mingle with the peepul … then slobber over the worn-out royalty of Europe.

  The royal house of Helium (and other Barsoomian royalty, at least in those classic romances that appear to be more history than fiction) are the sort of royalty of our Middle Ages; they fought their way up and hold tenure by ruling wisely (or they lose, both tenure and life). Jungle Law—but the Law of the Jungle has outlasted all written law.