“Mother, I thought that must be the case ….”
“Place more faith in your elders, my dear.”
“Yes, Mother. I did not know that you had attended those conferences—all of them, I mean. I did not wish to trouble you with it … I was troubled enough myself!”
Dej’ reached out, took Cart’s hand, pulled his face down to hers and kissed him. “You have always treated ladies with gallant thoughtfulness, my son; your father and I are proud of you. But this need trouble you no more. This one bit of statecraft I shall enjoy—I’ll sweat him ’til his collar wilts! Carthoris, see to it that the chamber in which he waits my pleasure is much too warm for clothing; I intend to keep him waiting at least half a zode.”
Cart grinned. “Jeddara, your wish is my pleasure!”
I suddenly blurted out, “Dej’, does this creature always wear full Earthling dress? Long trousers? Long sleeves?”
“Hilda that’s twice you’ve asked about his mode of dressing. Why, dear?”
I had already completed my assigned duties … but Cap’n Zebbie hadn’t placed me under “lifeboat rules” about this—and who was the “expert” on aliens? The “science officer” (me—what a giggle!)—but I had taken one apart to see what made it tick … and I felt certain that no amount of plastic surgery could make one look human if its arms and legs were bare. Besides, while I’m not the brain Jacob is, or Deety, or even Zebbie, I don’t need a map to tell me it’s raining. If the ambassador from Earth-Ten knew things that had happened on Earth-Zero that only those weird aliens knew—with the facts mixed up in a fashion they might mix them up to confuse things—then Earth-Ten was at least as infested as our own Earth. If it was even worse infested, that ambassador himself might be an alien. At the very least he was carrying out their dirty work.
I found myself telling what I knew about strangely articulated hermaphrodites with hemocyanin (or something like it) instead of hemoglobin.
Dej’ and Thuv listened quietly—no ohs or ahs or “I can’t believe it!” Once Dej’ glanced up at Cart; he said quietly, “Cousin Zebadiah confirms this.” I didn’t try to explain higher geometry, I didn’t mention it. “That’s why we can’t go home—and also why our husbands haven’t any time to waste in finding us a safe planet.” “A safe planet with obstetricians,” Dej’ corrected. (No flies on that gal!—maybe there’s something to this “royalty” notion … at least on Barsoom.)
“Yes. Our space chariot can go anywhere … but it may take some time to find one. I’m worried about Deety.”
“I’m worried about both of you, dear Hilda. Carthoris, has anyone ever seen the ambassador dressed as gentlemen dress? Or does he always wear those strange ugly garments?”
“I’ve never seen him in anything else. Bundled up as if he planned to hunt apts on ice.”
“Dej’, the tourists—or most of them at least—are human. I know.”
“How, dear?”
“Two tourist ships have grounded while we’ve been here. The first day a tourist is here he or she is usually covered up pretty thoroughly. Then they see how comfortable we are. They gradually wear less and less—both men and women in shorts, men in short-sleeved shirts or no shirts at all. Even some of the women, especially the younger ones, start being bare to the waist. An alien can’t possibly get away with that; it couldn’t disguise its weirdness.”
“Prince Regent.”
“Jeddara?”
“Require their ambassador to present himself before me in formal court harness. Send leather and sword to him and be certain that it is ornate to befit his rank. Be very sure that he understands that he cannot enter the throne room improperly attired. Be sure that he realizes that any other costume is a deadly insult to Helium.”
“Jeddara, again your wish is my great pleasure!”
“Dej’, if he’s a—Pankera, that thing in the Palace of Memories—if he’s the sort of alien he won’t wear it. He’ll be taken suddenly ill and have to send a substitute. Or something.”
Dej’ patted my shoulder. “I realize that, dear Hilda. Carthoris, send enough court harnesses for a party of proper protocol. Hilda, we know how many are in their embassy and the ranks of each. If he does send a substitute, we will know by how junior he is the number of aliens there are here. If the ambassador dare not appear himself, we shall see what we shall see.”
“Dej’ … you might be in danger. They may have weapons that don’t look like weapons.”
“My son will protect me.”
“Princess Hilda, the Guard will be alert. And the jeddara will not enter the throne room until I personally, as deputy to the Warlord, have made sure that each harness carries nothing more deadly than a sword. Not altered, nothing added. And the swordsman who can fight his way to the throne past my Guard has yet to be hatched.”
We grounded soon after, almost on the spot by the Promontory of Tears where Tommy Tucker and I had had our unfortunate misunderstanding. Or “fortunate” since it had gained us our first friends. Where I had tried to poke out his pretty pop-eyes. As we grounded they charged again—just two of them this time—full speed and yelling bloodcurdling war cries, and came to a skidding stop just short of the flagship, with their lances swept up in perfect salute.
I almost didn’t recognize our friends. Tommy was looking fierce and military behind his finery and Kach was so covered with decorations that his scars hardly showed. They were utterly immobile, waiting (I suppose) for some sign from the jeddara—even their mounts were frozen “at attention,” which thoats seldom are. But Deety doesn’t bother with protocol; she called out, “Hi, Kanakook dear!”—and Kanakook tossed her head and answered with her three-note canary call that she uses only with Deety and Kach and (sometimes) me. But she loves Deety and tolerates me simply because I’m Deety’s friend.
I suppose Dej’ acknowledged the salute, for our friends wheeled about, trotted away maybe fifty meters, wheeled again and waited, lances couchant. Warriors (sailors? airmen?) started rigging out the gangway. I heard Zebbie say, “Just a moment, Cart; this isn’t where we will picnic. This is just the rendezvous to meet our giant friends.”
“Very well, Cousin; where shall I tell the skipper to place the ship?”
Cap’n Zebbie had to be a smarty-pants about it. He pointed and said, “If you look off that way, I’ll be able to show you, in a moment, the exact spot where I hid what I told you about.”
When I heard Zebbie say that, I stuffed my ear button into place. I had been wearing my walkie-talkie all along and it didn’t go very well with the load of jewelry I was wearing. But jewels and my ornate harness covered the shoulder strap and my dagger belt held the little radio against my hip. A diamond-and-ruby choker covered my throat mic; all I had to do was reach up, pull the button out from under the choker, and stuff it into my ear. Zebbie had told us that, if we were asked, to tell the truth: a portable wireless to talk to each other if we were far enough apart to need them. But no one asked me.
Deety had slipped away to the fantail; everyone else in our party was forward, looking where Zebbie was pointing. Cart said, “I don’t see anything out there, Zeb.”
“You’ll spot it in a moment. Your air cover may see it first. What is it—the whole Helium Navy? One could almost walk across the sky, stepping from ship to ship.”
“Considerably less than half of it, Zeb. I still don’t see anything.”
“You’ll spot it … just … about—now!”
I glanced back at Deety; she had her face turned away from everyone. “Hello, Gay.”
“Hi, Deety!”
“Gay Deceiver—Bug Out!”
I turned my head quickly, just as everyone (but us) gasped. There, over a kilometer away, beautiful and sleek and shiny, was the fifth member of our family, Gay Deceiver, in person.
I was back of the crowd, where I could see Deety, and thus not too close to Jacob and Captain Zebbie and the royal family and Mobyas Toras and the captain-admiral. But the range was so short that I could pick up e
very word, almost too loud, via Jacob’s and Zebbie’s throat mics.
Cart said very slowly, “Interesting. Very interesting. How, Zeb?”
“I told you I could pilot it out of that hole without help. You’ll find it still more interesting when you have built your own. It is necessary to warn your air cover not to attack?”
“No. But I’ll do so, to set your mind at rest.” Cart called out something in Barsoomian, much too loudly; it hurt my ear. Someone answered with two words that meant: “At once, Highness!” I could see why Zebbie had asked; fliers were diving on Gay. They always straightened out without touching her but some came mighty close.
Cart said something to Mobyas Toras—all I caught was his name. The old man answered in a high, excited voice. Cart said, “Mobyas Toras says that he must refrain from comment until he has had time to study this.”
“Mobyas Toras is a wise man, Cart. It took Jake time to teach me the little I know about it. Wouldn’t it be well to send word back to the palace? I suspect that your officer of the guard is having fits.”
“Should have thought of that myself.” Cart gave another order. “Zeb, how about trading jobs with me?”
Zeb laughed at him. “And take on your headaches? Go lay an egg!” Said in Barsoomian (I know the phrase, but Zebbie said it in English), this is a very rude remark for one man to make to another. Of course most of the ones there knew no English—but Thuv guffawed, then suppressed it. Dej’ pretended not to notice.
Cart said sadly, “I knew you would say that, you ape’s offspring.”
“Cousin Zebadiah, may we go closer?”
“Certainly, Cousin Dejah Thoris, if you will tell your captain. As close as you wish. Would you like to take a ride in our sky chariot?”
“What a tempting offer! Carthoris?”
“Your Imperial Majesty, as deputy for my father the Warlord, I am forced to advise against it.”
“I suppose you must. Oh, dear!”
“But, Mother, if I were you, I would tell my son to go ride a banth and do exactly as I pleased!”
“You’re as naughty as your father. Now I’ll have to decide for myself. Oh, dear! Men!”
XXX
Zebadiah
Not since the year with the Aussies have I had so much fun; that picnic was a luau!
The “Bug Out” pre-program worked like magic—and made me Head Magician. I had not been sure it would work until it did. An earlier test, same range but in another direction, showed that it was extreme range for Gay to receive orders by walkie-talkie—borderline of failure. If it did fail (so many things can go wrong), the only backup I had was to whop up some lie to get one of us into the air as a passenger on one of their fliers, then go halfway to Helium if necessary until signal was strong enough. Fishy.
But variables that affect radio reception hit the jackpot for me. When Gay’s signal read loud and clear: “Hi, Deety!” I re-swallowed my stomach; a second later at “Bug Out!” I resumed breathing—there she lay, instantaneously, shining bright.
I couldn’t have done it so spectacularly without the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, my gal Deety. While everyone else was forward and I kept up a running chatter while pointing the general direction, Deety went aft. I hadn’t dared get any closer than this promontory—Gay knew exactly where she had been parked but I didn’t, not within two hundred meters. Make that three hundred. I had never dreamed that twenty-odd ships would pick her up and move her, like Lilliputians move Gulliver.
The best I could do was to make rendezvous at my only landmark, well back from where we had once been parked, search that field to make sure there was nothing in it, not even a wild animal, while pointing at nothing and urging everybody to spot what I was (not!) pointing at.
When Deety’s voice in my ear button said quietly, “Okay,” I tacked her “Execute” signal onto the end of a sentence: “… now!”
How many gals (or males) could have refrained from claiming some of the applause? I didn’t caution Deety not boast about her role, warn her not to kill the “magic” by explaining it. That was not in her “Lifeboat” instructions; she was free to boast if she wished.
Not Deety! She mingled with the crowd while everyone was still staring. When I glanced at her, the button was no longer in her ear. I noticed later that Hilda had tucked hers away, too. A walkie-talkie can fail; Hilda was first backup if Deety’s picked that moment to quit. Jake was nominal second backup (he can be absent-minded), and I was last—if utterly necessary.
But I wanted simply to point—and have it happen—and, while Gay will accept any program from any of us four, if worded correctly and clearly enunciated, I wanted Deety to give this order because her voice had been used to pre-program; this might help if signal were faint and noise level high.
It turned out that all my worrying and fallback positions weren’t needed—but, damn it, if you don’t worry ahead of time, you’ll regret it later.
So, it stayed “magic.”
Except to Mobyas Toras.
That old boy fooled me by doing a full flip-flop. Opsimathic ability, the capacity to grasp new ideas in old age, varies from individual to individual. Some minds freeze solid at eighteen, never have a new thought. Some geniuses remain creative almost ’til death—e.g., Paul Dirac, Leonardo da Vinci. But most scientists do their best work before thirty-five and Earth humans capable of grasping a completely new concept after fifty are exceptional.
Mobyas Toras was almost a thousand years old and reputed to be their greatest mathematician. Jake had found him decidedly set in his opinions (apparently with good reason) and I had warned Jake against offering engineering demonstrations to Mobyas Toras, as I believed the old man would brush it off as trickery.
But Mobyas Toras was an even greater genius than I had thought. He had seen a “miracle”—and at once made the difficult jump from his firm opinion of “abstract mathematics with no relation to the real world” to “this is engineering based on that mathematics; no other explanation covers the facts—I was wrong”—made this intellectual jump almost as quickly as Gay Deceiver had made her instantaneous jump from Palace to Bay of Blood.
Most surprising of all, he bore no resentment; he was delighted and wanted to know how?—the nuts—and—bolts of it please; how is this mathematics applied in practice?
He was already discussing it with Jake in that mishmash of English, Barsoomian, and mathematics that they used as pidgin talk while others were still staring. They went on jabbering while the fleet admiral (near enough; their ranks don’t match ours) had the ship lifted and moved to a grounding a few meters from Gay Deceiver. They still talked while our picnic was set up; we almost had to drag them to lunch.
There were two picnics, our family party under the spread starboard wing of Gay and a larger party of warriors and officers about fifty meters away. Hilda and Deety, as hostesses, played hob with Helium protocol. Our “table” (a long silk placed on the ground and surrounded by cushions) had our own four, the royal family, Mobyas Toras, Fleet Admiral Hal Halsa (Hilda invited him, with Dejah Thoris translating), Call-Me-Joe (Deety simply took him by the hand, led him over), Tawm Takus, Kach Kachkan—and Tira.
Tira did her utmost to refuse without flatly disobeying … until a word from Dejah Thoris caused her to curtsy, then sit down and behave as if eating with royalty in public were something she had done all her life. Larlo took over as straw boss.
Call-Me-Joe Jovial was possibly more embarrassed, even after Cart said something which I guessed at as being “Lieutenant, do as your hostess wishes.” He sat down, but was still stiff until the fleet admiral spoke to him. Again, I did not ask for translation; I didn’t need to—it was something equivalent to “Relax, son, and smile—you’re putting a damper on the party.”
Tawm Takus seemed ill at ease only at first; Kach Kachkan did not—if the lords of creation wanted him to eat with them, the old sergeant accepted it.
How do you arrange two green giants and eleven others when three don’t speak En
glish and four don’t speak the local language—and two giants, reclining, would use up all of one side of your “table”? Hilda’s solution: ignore protocol, both that of Helium and of Earth. Cluster those who want to talk about mathematics/Gay Deceiver/military and economic potentials thereto (Jake, Cart, Mobyas, the admiral) together. Put the giants diagonally off the corners. Place those who would rather talk babies together. Make sure that the three who lacked English were placed with at least one who spoke both languages.
This worked out so that Tira had Call-Me-Joe on her right and the admiral on her left—and neither man seemed displeased—and I suddenly realized Tira looked better dressed in her graceful self than did any of our “ladies” in their excessively lavish jewelry … even the incomparable Dejah Thoris. I noticed because Call-Me-Joe was getting cross-eyed through trying to give all attention to his jeddara on his right while staring at jeddara’s slave on his left.
Then I saw that the admiral was all ears to the discussion of mathematics and engineering (with Cart translating for him), but managing to look at Tira by cupping one ear to the technical talk and thereby half-turning his head to his right—at Tira.
I deduced a minor truth: gems make fine accents for female beauty—but only as accents; beauty is fundamental. Better no jewelry than to deck a lovely woman like a Christmas tree.
The party milled around some. Thuvia was called by Cart to help explain some point to the admiral that both Jake and Mobyas took as obvious but the admiral wanted clarified (I knew how he felt; applied relativistic ballistics is about my limit … and now Jake comes along and kicks the tar out of relativism while retaining curved space). Wogi and Ajal were dead set on getting me drunk; I hollered for help to Tira, asking whether or not we had fetched anything nonalcoholic? Even water.
Tira looked as surprised as she ever does (not very), whereupon she called Larlo to her and from then on the pixies let me have fruit juices. I drank juice and got food into me, then got up and took care of a couple of errands. I went inside my car, got at my gold, took eight 1929 Half Eagles and one 1926 Eagle—worth quite a lot as collector’s items on Earth-Zero … but nothing but bullion to me since I planned never to go back there. Figured by mass as tanpi they were suitable tips—but I thought our girls would rather have pretty coins than the same mass as plain bullion. I put them into my belt pouch.
The Pursuit of the Pankera: A Parallel Novel About Parallel Universes Page 35
