“We are all pioneers.
“Pioneer women go where their men go. Men by themselves are not pioneers; they can’t be. Pioneer mothers share exactly the same dangers that pioneer fathers do … and go on having babies while they do it. Babies were born on the Mayflower, lots of babies were born in covered wagons, and a lot of them died, too—men, women, and children. But those women didn’t stay home where it was safe; they went along.
“Zebadiah, I am not asking to be taken to those next ten universes ….”
“You’re not? It certainly sounds like it.”
“Then you didn’t listen to me, sir. Yes, certainly, I would like to finish sampling those rotation universes … and I’m not scared off by the possible dangers. But I never asked for that and I don’t ask now. It’s my preference but not a demand. What I do demand I have already stated. Where you go, I go. Today … and to the end of our lives. Unless you tell me to get out, you don’t want me anymore. I have spoken.”
“You certainly have, dear. Hilda?”
Fish or cut bait. Sharpie—what do you want to do? I didn’t really care which way it fell; any universe was going to be strange. Deety had laid down the party line; I didn’t want to fuzz things up by trying to amend it—so I answered instantly, “Deety speaks for me in every word she said. I have spoken.”
“Jake? Back to my original question: ‘Are we justified in exposing our wives to conditions we can’t even imagine?’ I’m asking my copilot for advice.”
“Captain, you were the one who convinced me that it would be prudent to sample the universes accessible through rotation before searching for a satisfactory analog of Earth by translation.”
“True. But that was before we sampled five of them.”
“But Captain, I don’t see how the situation has changed. We are going to be exposing our wives—and ourselves and our unborn children—to strange conditions no matter what we do. But an imaginable danger is not necessarily better than unimaginable one; it may be much worse. The planet we were forced to flee from has grave shortcomings and known dangers even before we accidentally tangled with Panki. No need to list them because we all know that the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were ready to ride again. But I can think of a very close analog of our home planet that would be far worse than Earth—one even if it didn’t have a single Pankera on it.”
“Go on.”
“The analog in which Hitler got atomic weapons but we did not. It seems probable to me that there are several such analogs because I can think of several very small changes any one of which would have produced that result. Despite an aversion to their inhuman shape and odd color of blood, I can’t see that Panki are more to be feared than Hitler’s SS Corps. In fact, the cold sadism of some human beings—not just stormtroopers; you can find it in any nation including the United States—is more frightening to me than Panki.”
“Not to me!” (Deety and I blurted it out together.)
“But, my dears, we have no data whatever that the Panki are cruel. We got in their way; they tried to kill us. They did not try to torture us. There is a world of difference.”
“Maybe there is, Pop, but I don’t see it. Those things give me the creeps. I’ll bet they’d torture us if they could.”
“My very dear daughter, that’s muddy thinking. How old are you?”
“Huh? Pop, you should know if anybody does.”
“I do know. I was reminding you that you said that you have the fewest years of experience of any of us—and I have the most. I was years older than you are before I was cured of that sort of muddy thinking—and not by myself. By Jane, your mother. Hilda?”
“Jacob is telling you not to judge a book by its cover,” I said crisply. “I learned it from Jane, too—as Jacob knows. A Pankera’s external appearance tells us nothing about its capacity for the human vice of sadism. Jacob, I am not going to try to bring up your daughter; please don’t ask me to again. It’s Zebbie’s job. If she needs it. Which she doesn’t.”
“Sorry, dear.”
Captain Zebbie said, “I’m not bringing Deety up; she’s playing Wendy to my Peter Pan—and I like it that way. Does anyone have anything new to add to the discussion? Speak up … very well; I’ve reached a decision. We will finish the scheduled rotations before exploring the axis. However … is anyone tired or hungry? Jake and I can put Gay Deceiver into a stable orbit around Mars with one small transition vector; we can call it a day anytime.”
“Cap’n Zebbie, I’m still full of picnic.”
“Me, too.”
“Captain, I suggest that we continue. We may find a place to spend the night safely on the ground. If not, we can return here in nothing flat! (I silently applauded my husband. Zebbie had done a marvelous job of refitting Gay Deceiver, but lack of space made her freefall powder room barely “adequate” rather than satisfactory. With a Bonine pill in, I now enjoyed freefall. But gravity has its advantages.)
“Copilot, by your schedule, set to rotate.”
“Set, sir!”
“All hands, stand by to rotate. Execute!”
We were no longer in a starry sky with a dead planet nearby: we were in sunlight and upside down. Then for a few seconds we were thrown around a bit, then we leveled off and my rump settled into the seat cushion, full weight. I heard Zebbie say, “Hello, Gay.”
“Howdy, Zeb.”
“Hold course, speed, and height-above-ground.”
“Got it, Zeb.”
“You’re a Smart Girl, Gay.”
“But we can’t go on meeting like this. Over.”
“Over and out, Gay. Whew! Time out while your skipper has a small nervous breakdown. Jake, what does that altimeter say? My eyes won’t focus.”
“Eleven klicks H-above-G. Pressure eight oh three millibars.”
“Deety, what’s the statistical probability of winding up this close to a planet without getting killed?”
“Impossible to calculate, Captain. Vanishingly small, I think. No data.”
“Maybe you’re dead and don’t know it. Copilot, deadman switch routine; I’m going to check the air.”
“Right away, Captain.” Jacob got at the switch, unclamped it, held it high. “Ready, sir.”
“Oh. Just a moment.” Jacob still held up the deadman switch while he reset his dials. “One hundred thousand klicks straight up—set!”
“All hands but the captain will hold their breaths during air check. Jake, if I pass out, do the double scram at once. Then you’ll have to go on holding your breath while you flush out the cabin. Damn it all, I should have rigged at least one oxygen mask—too many details, too little time.”
I asked, “Captain?”
“What is it, Hilda? I’m busy.”
“May I suggest, Cap’n Zebbie, that I be the canary? Not you.”
“No.”
“But it’s part of my duties, sir! I am science officer—and most expendable. You are least expendable—and you know it.”
There was a long, long silence—felt like hours but was probably not over a minute—while we cruised slowly over a beautiful countryside. Truly, I didn’t feel particularly heroic about it; it looked far more like Earth than Barsoom had looked. I could see woods and a lake, and in the distance, what surely must be a village. But if it wasn’t safe—truly, I would rather pass out with Zebbie and Jacob alert and at the controls than not pass out while Zebbie slumped in his seat. Certainly my husband would try to do it all … but we needed both pilot and copilot if there were danger … and we didn’t need me.
Zebbie gave sort of a groan. “Copilot, I am not consulting you in this. Very well, you midget-sized pioneer mother, you are the guinea pig. Jake, Deety—and me—deep breaths, hyperventilate. Deety, you keep your eyes on Hilda. I’ll count to three and open the air scoop. One … two … three!”
I felt my ears pop, so I took another breath. Smelled sweet—“I feel fine, Cap’n Zebbie. But I’ll go on talking and breathing. The fresh air smells good. I don’t feel the least
bit woozy. Deety is beginning to turn red in the face; I don’t know how much longer she can hold her breath. If this air has anything in it we aren’t used to breathing, it must not be anything poisonous. I’m running out of things to chatter about; am I still making sense? I feel fine but Deety is about to pop. I think that—”
“Test completed. Copilot, clamp and stow deadman switch.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Jacob carefully replaced the clamp and tightened it, put it back into its hidey-hole. He sounded grumpy.
“Jake,” said Zebbie, “if you feel like chewing me out, get on with it. We’re on autopilot and you may consider yourself off duty. Get it off your chest.”
“Captain, I have no criticism.” That was what Jacob said but that wasn’t what his tone or voice said—it was icy.
I decided that it was better for Jacob to be sore at me than at Zebbie. Deety and I are passengers, mostly; the true safety of all of us lay in Zebbie and Jacob getting along like ham and eggs. “Jacob!”
“Yes, Hilda?”
“Don’t you dare get shirty with Zebbie! He made exactly the right decision … and it cost him a lot, I know! Zebbie would always rather take on all the dangers himself. That’s his one weakness … because it could get all of us killed. I’m the littlest but that does not make me a child. I’m just as much a pioneer as any of us. When a job comes along that I can do best, I must be permitted to do it.”
“I said I had no criticism.”
“It was the way you said it. If you were captain, you would not have permitted me to do it. But I have to pull my weight in the boat, too—or I shouldn’t be along. Zebbie realizes this—when he has his nose rubbed in it. But you don’t. Not yet. Deety and I have to protect both of you as much as we can … or you two won’t be able to protect us when we need it. Now tell him you’re sorry.”
“Keep all seat belts fastened,” Zebbie ordered. “I’m going to override on manual a bit so that we can see better. Jake, I won’t use Hilda as our canary again; it upsets you too much.”
“Now wait a minute, Captain! You made the correct decision. Hilda is right and I’m aware of it. It’s just that my judgment isn’t much good where Hilda is concerned. But she’s right. It’s all for one, and one for all—or it isn’t anything.”
“Pop, I’ll be canary next time.”
“No, daughter. You can come closer to replacing either Zeb or me than Hilda can—she knows it, I know it. And since she has the least body mass she’s probably the most sensitive to bad atmosphere. Shorter reaction time.”
“Let’s all pipe down about it,” growled Cap’n Zebbie, “and look this place over. We might want to stay here; it looks good from the air. But we won’t be coming back if we leave … unless Deety can debug a perfect program to get us back here safely. Jake, I must be losing my touch; I didn’t get that split-second warning of danger.”
I said, “Then maybe we weren’t really in danger. Cap’n Zebbie, could we transit about thirty klicks straight up?”
“I suppose so. Any special reason, Science Officer?”
“I’m not sure, Cap’n Zebbie. But I want us to see more of this country as a whole. Which way is north? I can’t see Gay’s compass.”
“North is off to our left.”
“Is that sun rising or setting?”
“It’s setting,” said Deety. “I know.”
Zebbie thought about it. “Then this planet has a retrograde motion. That can’t hurt us.”
“No, it can’t. But it fits. Can we have that better look?”
“Copilot.”
“Captain.”
“Set thirty klicks straight up.”
“Uh … set, Captain.”
“Execute.”
Zebbie turned Gay’s nose down; we all had a beautiful view out the front. Zebbie said, “Be durned. A big rectangular oasis completely surrounded by desert. Populated, too. That’s a fair-sized town or small city right in the middle.”
“Doesn’t anyone recognize it? I do. From a map.”
My Jacob said, “But Hilda dearest, this is an unexplored universe.”
“Pop! It’s the Land of Oz!”
“It certainly is,” I agreed, and passed the binoculars to Deety. “The Yellow Brick Road, dear—running into Emerald City from the left.”
“But, Hilda, that’s ….”
“Don’t say it’s impossible, Jacob. Unless you want to say that Barsoom is impossible—and Cart and Thuv and Tommy Tucker. My own theory is that we’ve all been dead quite a piece now—killed in the parking lot back of my home. If so, I’m not dissatisfied. But Deety and I may be the first female ghosts in search of an obstetrician. Deety, how would you like to raise kids in the Land of Oz?”
“I’d love it!”
“Are you certain, hon? As I recall it, nobody ever dies in the Land of Oz … yet the population doesn’t get any bigger. I don’t recall any babies being born in any of the Oz stories—I don’t recall any babies. Or MDs—or hospitals. Jacob, you said that the inside-out universe had different physical laws. If Zebbie grounds Gay Deceiver, will we ever be able to leave? Oz works by magic. Not engineering.”
“Deety, can Jake and I have a crack at those binox?”
“Right away, Zebadiah. Look at the Emerald City first; it really is loaded with emeralds. Or lots of green glass.”
“Keep an eye on the altimeter, Jake.”
Zebbie stared through the glasses until Jacob said, “Approaching fifteen klicks, Captain, and dropping fast.”
“Your turn at the glasses, Jake. But let me put her into level flight, then you take her back up again.”
Again we whooshed up high and Jacob studied the land below while we fell. Presently Zebbie leveled us out again and passed control back to Gay with instructions to cruise in a wide circle, one that carried us to the Great Sandy Waste in the south and the Impassable Desert in the north and cut across the Yellow Brick Road in the east and over the Castle of the Tin Woodman in the west.
“Copilot. Your opinions, please?”
“Captain, Hilda’s theory about us all being killed in the parking lot is probably least hypothesis by Occam’s Razor. However, I don’t feel dead and I decline to assume that I am dead. That leaves me forced to believe that this is the Land of Oz … just as I was forced to believe in Barsoom. Everything fits. Even to the predominantly yellow vegetation on the east—I mean ‘west,’ as the compass rose is reversed, as Hilda noted. We now appear to be passing over the palace of Glinda the Good.”
“Why are we passing over it?” asked Deety. “Why not ground Gay and pay a call on her? If we grounded at the Emerald City we might upset a lot of people. But I’m certain we can’t upset Glinda.”
“Copilot. Advice, please.”
“I have no objection to grounding. Since Gay functions at this altitude, I assume that she will function on the ground. We can rotate from the ground as easily as from here. However, if I meet a living scarecrow I may go stark, raving mad. Besides … that palace must have a bathroom in it.”
“A good point. Although I would settle for a bush. Deety, dig out our flying suits. Or something. In Oz we must be fully dressed. No weapons. Shoes are optional.”
XXXIII
Deety
Zebadiah didn’t put us down right by the palace of Glinda the Good. He circled around and found a meadow clearing in woods around it, maybe a hundred kilometers from the palace and screened from it by tall elms and walnut trees.
I unstrapped, opened the bulkhead door, and crawled through to get our flying suits—and thought better of it. Aunt Hilda had followed me and headed straight for her own locker. I rolled into lotus (can’t quite stand up back in there) and asked, “Aunt Hilda, what are you going to wear?”
“My best. The dress I got married in and the wedding ring Jacob had made for me in Helium.”
“Jewelry?”
“Nothing from Barsoom. Probably what I wore that night but not as much.”
Mama told me years ago that Aunt Hilda�
�s instinct for clothes was unbeatable. I got the long dress I wore to hook Zebadiah, a pendant Pop had given me, my own wedding ring, my dancing slippers. Put my darling in mess jacket? No, but in formal tights topped off with a white silk bolero-shirt thing Tira and I had made for him when we were getting Aunt Hilda outfitted. Red sash, dancing pumps, socks to match, jockey shorts—yes, that was all he needed.
I slipped my dress over my head and wiggle-wormed forward, clutching the plunder to me. Our men were still in their seats, Gay’s doors still closed. I asked, “Why the closed doors? It’s warm and getting stuffy.”
“Look out to the left and you’ll see why. Hand me my flying suit.”
I looked out to the left. A pretty little storybook cottage with a sign over the door: “WELCOME.” It had not been there when we grounded. “I see,” I agreed. “So pull on your shorts and your tights. Pop, Hilda has your trousers. Then we can open up.”
“Deety, is that all you have to say?”
“Should I say more, sir? You have taken me to some very strange places. But in Oz I am not a stranger in a strange land; I’ve been thoroughly at home in Oz since I was a baby. I know what to expect.”
“But damn it all ….”
“Shush, Zebadiah. One does not say ‘damn’ in Oz. Not all sort of profanity or vulgarity. Vocabulary limited to that of the Mauve Decade. Mildest euphemisms or, better yet, no mention.”
“Deety, I’m durned if I’ll be anything but myself.”
“You can be yourself, sir; you can never be anything else. But I am speaking professionally. One does not use FORTRAN to a computer that knows only Loglan. Can we open up now? Pop has his trousers on.”
It was a pretty little cottage with a broad stoop and a pink climbing rose over the door—but it wasn’t a house to live in, just one small room with a table and no other furniture. The table held a bowl of fruit, a pitcher of milk, and four tumblers. There was a door to the right and a door to the left; the one on the left had painted on it, quite small, a little girl in a poke bonnet, the other had a boy in a Buster Brown suit.
The Pursuit of the Pankera: A Parallel Novel About Parallel Universes Page 40
