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

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “Tru-ly, Cap-tain, I meant no im-propri-e-ty.”

  “Just kidding, folks. Thanks for keeping Gay company, Tik-Tok.”

  “It was a plea-sure and a pri-vi-lege. I ar-ranged with the night watch-man to wind me up each hour on the hour in or-der that our con-ver-sa-tion be not a-brupt-ly ter-mi-na-ted.”

  “Smart of you. Thanks again and we’ll see you again. We’ll be back for a visit, first chance. Gay, open up.”

  “You didn’t say ‘Please,’ ” my autopilot answered, but she opened her doors.

  “I am de-ligh-ted to hear that you are re-tur-ning. Miss Gay De-cei-ver and I have much in com-mon.”

  “So I see. All hands, man the car and prepare for space. Jake, I think we had better wear flight suits this time; we don’t know where we’ll pop out next.”

  “Captain, I agree.”

  Sharpie said goodbye to Tik-Tok, went inside. Deety not only said goodbye but kissed his copper cheek—I’m sure Deety would kiss a pig if the pig would hold still for it (and if he didn’t, I would turn him into sausage; kissing Deety is a treat not to be scorned).

  Hilda reappeared, still in evening gown. “Deety, come in here. Hurry!”

  I shook hands with Tik-Tok (odd!) and suggested that he back off a little. Then I went inside. No sign of our wives—I called to them, “Shake it up in there. I want my jumpsuit.”

  Deety called out, “Zebadiah, wiggle your way through the bulkhead.”

  “I can’t change my clothes back there.”

  “Please, dear. I need you.”

  When Deety says she needs me, I go. But I got out of that fancy white shirt and scarlet sash first—cramped back there. So I wiggled through, and the space didn’t seem as cramped as it had been when I was working on it in the jeddara’s garden. I could almost stand up. “Where are you?”

  “In here. Port side,” came Deety’s somewhat muffled voice. I turned around, banging my head on the overhead, and found a door where a door shouldn’t be. I had to stoop quite a lot to get through it, but once through it I could stand up. A small room, slightly bigger than a telephone booth—a door aft, a door forward, Sunbonnet Sue to the left, Buster Brown to the right. Deety opened the door on the left. “Come look!”

  A luxurious dressing room and bathroom for ladies—“It’s the same one as in the ‘Welcome’ cottage,” said Deety, “except that the window is closed and frosted. It doesn’t open. But the air is fresh.”

  I said, “Hmmm ….” Then I added, “Well, well!” I was just filled with witty comments. But I didn’t have anything for an encore, so I checked out Buster Brown. Yes, the same bathroom that Jake and I had used the day before. Not as fancy as the ladies’ room and a shower instead of a tub. Well, maybe the gals would let me use their tub occasionally; when you’re tired, a hot soak beats a shower.

  Jake stuck his head in. I said, “Well, Perfesser, give me the benefit of your wisdom.”

  “Zeb, I’m fresh out.”

  “Copilot—your advice, please. Is this craft ready for space?”

  “Captain, I don’t know.”

  “Let’s check the outside. Carefully.”

  We did. We went over the monoque shell with eyes on figures, both port and starboard. That car was absolutely unblemished—outside. But from the opened doors I heard the sound, somewhat muffled, of a toilet flushing.

  Nevertheless, ten minutes later, we were settling into our seats. I asked, “Did anyone leave anything in our new annex?”

  “Both Hilda and I hung up our dresses. There’s plenty of hanging space.”

  “Deety, do you realize that that confounded magical space warp will probably go back wherever it came from the instant we leave here?”

  “Want to bet? Glinda the Good wouldn’t pull that sort of a trick on us.”

  “It’s your dress, dear. But don’t anyone leave anything essential in there during maneuvers. Standing order, now and forever. Gay, are you going to go on being talkative on your own?”

  “Zeb, once I’m back on watch, I’ll be strictly business. But a girl is entitled to a night out once in a while.”

  “You’re a Smart Girl, Gay.”

  “So Tik-Tok told me, Zeb. Over.”

  “Over and out, Gay. All hands, report readiness for space.”

  “I took a pill, Cap’n. Seat belt tight.”

  “Seat belt fastened, Zebadiah. And I fastened all three bathroom doors.”

  “Belt fastened, starboard door seal checked.”

  “Port door seal checked. Copilot, set transition, h-axis, One hundred thousand klicks upward.”

  “A hundred thousand kilometers straight up, minimum-range scale vernier setting four. Set.”

  “Execute!”

  I tilted her nose down right after transit. Out the screen was a very Earth-like planet but I couldn’t recognize any continental shapes—sort of murky all over. “Science Officer, hand the copilot the binox, then unstrap and find out whether or not our new wing is still attached.”

  “Aye aye, Cap’n Zebbie.”

  Jake inspected carefully by binoculars. “Captain, I can make out Oz very easily. But it’s hazy everywhere else.” He handed me the glasses.

  “Jake, as soon as your eyes adjust, take a look at the stars.” I inspected the planet myself. I thought I could make out polar caps but there was haze everywhere but Oz. By focusing carefully I could see Emerald City.

  Jake said, “Captain, it’s our own universe.”

  “It is, eh? On which side of Orion is the Bull?”

  “Why, on … Jesus, Allah, and Zoroaster! It’s turned inside out!”

  “Yeah, but not the way that other inside-out place was. Like Oz itself. East for west. Deety, is there anything odd about duration here?”

  “Doesn’t feel odd. But I’m going to have to reset my head sometime. Or someplace. I realize we are on a different time axis. But it’s been over a century since those three little girls moved to Oz. I don’t know what it feels like to them, and I carefully didn’t ask. Did anybody else notice that there were no clocks and no calendars?”

  “Cap’n Zebbie!”

  “Yes, Hilda.”

  “Our new plumbing works just dandy, though I can’t see how. But be careful going in there during freefall … because it’s not freefall beyond the first door; the floor is down. One-gravity, it feels like. I did a spectacular somersault.”

  “Hilda my love, are you hurt?”

  “Not a bit, Jacob. But next time I’ll hang on to something and pull myself down even with the deck, and slither in.”

  “Science Officer, secure those doors, return to your seat, and strap down. Copilot, once Hilda reports, set your next rotation by your schedule.”

  “I fastened the doors as I came out. Or back in, maybe. And now I’m dogging the bulkhead door. Okay, I’m strapping down. But where are the binoculars?”

  “Deety stowed them. All hands, stand by to rotate.”

  “Rotation set, Captain.”

  “Execute.”

  Another totally black one … I said, “Deety, I’m going to tumble first. Then it’s your turn to check the new plumbing.”

  “It is not Deety’s turn! I’m science officer and that includes hygiene, plumbing, and space warps.”

  “Jake, do you have any influence over her?”

  “Not much, Captain.”

  I switched out the instrument lights. We went through one full tumbling pigeon—null report from everyone. So I switched back on the instrument lights and added the cabin lights. “Science Officer, check our time-space warp. But do be careful, Sharpie. Set up the next rotation, Jake. It’s universe number eight coming up, isn’t it? Third of the second group.”

  “Correct, Skipper. One more after that and we return to home base. Near Mars, I mean. Rotation set. Ready to go once Hilda is in her seat and strapped down.”

  Sharpie was back fairly promptly. “I stopped to brush my teeth. Didn’t have a chance to after breakfast. Cap’n Zebbie, it’s awful dark ou
tside but there is sunlight coming in through both bathroom windows. Riddle me that.” She added, “Seat belt fastened, all three doors fastened.”

  “You riddle it; you’re the science officer. Stand by to rotate. Execute.”

  I got her leveled out rather hastily. “Copilot, H-above-G and pressure!”

  “Thirteen hundred klicks, nine hundred nineteen millibars.”

  “Too close! Jake, any more of those hair-breadth misses and I’m going to retire and take up tatting. Where are we? I can’t see a damn thing. I’m on instruments.”

  “We’re over water, Captain, with a light fog. Not very thick, I can see a shoreline to starboard.”

  I turned Gay to the right, picked out the shoreline myself, was able to shift to visual. I’ve held IFR rating for years but I’m always easier with a horizon I can see. Gay’s wings were already spread; I held her on an easy hundred knots and placed her on automatic. “We leave this kite sealed for now; I won’t check the air without going up pretty high.”

  “Sail ho!”

  “Where away, Sharpie?”

  “On the starboard bow and down on the water, of course. A real sail—a sailing ship.”

  Durn if it wasn’t. A square rigger right out of the eighteenth century, with a high forecastle and sterncastle. I dipped down for a better look. I wasn’t afraid of it; people who sailed ships like that didn’t use guided missiles—or so I kept telling myself.

  It was a pretty sight. I dropped the starboard wing so that we could have a good look. But we must have been a “pretty sight” to them, for there were sailors rushing around and the helmsman apparently lost his senses completely. He let her get away from him and she fell into irons, with her canvas flapping foolishly. Not wanting to get the poor fellow keelhauled, I leveled off and got out of there, headed for land.

  Jake said, “Good god, Captain, you scared me silly.”

  “Why, Jake? They were scared, sure—but surely you aren’t scared of black powder cannon?”

  “No, I’m not. But you almost put the wing on this side into the water.”

  “Don’t be silly, Jake; I was above two hundred meters. Well, maybe a hundred and fifty when I did that steep turn to let us see better. But plenty of room.”

  “Take a look at your altimeter. And pressure.”

  I looked. The radar altimeter stated that we were nineteen meters above the water; I had to change scales to read it closely. Pressure showed slightly over a thousand millibars—a sea-level high. So I promptly took us up to a thousand meters.

  “Copilot, how did I make that error? I sure don’t want to make it again.”

  “I don’t know, Captain. I can see that wing tip; you can’t from your seat. When it looked to me as if you might cut the water, I looked at the instruments. I was about to yell when you straightened out.”

  “Jake, I was flying seat of my pants by the ship’s masts. I would swear I never got within three hundred meters of that ship, on the slant. That would put me plenty high up for a calm day. That water barely had whitecaps.”

  Sharpie asked, “Don’t you recognize the place, Cap’n Zebbie?”

  “Sharpie, don’t tell me you’ve been here before?”

  “Only in books, Zebbie. But several times in books. A child’s version in about third grade. Then a more detailed version in junior high. Then I finally laid hands on the complete unexpurgated eighteenth century version, which was pretty racy for the age I was then. I still find it pleasantly bawdy.”

  “Sharpie, whatever are you talking about?”

  Jake answered me. “Captain, what sort of ship could cause you to think you were high in the air when in fact you were about to pole-vault into the sea on your starboard wing?”

  “I give up.”

  “One manned by sailors fifteen centimeters high.”

  I thought about it. We were approaching land now; I carefully climbed to a thousand klicks by instrument and told Gay to hold us there—although it seemed much higher. “If any of you run across Dean Swift, will you please give him a swift kick in the rump for me?”

  Deety asked, “Zebadiah, do you suppose the land of the giants—Brobdingnag—is on this same continent?”

  “I hope not.”

  “Why not, dear? It should be fun.”

  “Because we don’t have time to waste on either Lilliputians or giants. Neither would have obstetricians able to take care of you two … and the level of medical art would be eighteenth-century. Jake, get ready to take us up a hundred thousand klicks. Get set to rotate immediately thereafter. Does anyone have any rational theory about what has been happening to us? Or am I simply struggling with my straitjacket in our friendly neighborhood shrink factory?”

  “I have a theory of sorts, Zebbie.”

  “Give, Sharpie.”

  “Don’t laugh—because, as I recall, you yourself told me that you and Jacob had discussed the heart of it, the idea that human thought existed as quanta. I don’t know quanta from Qantas Air Lines, but I’ve been told that a quantum is an indivisible unit. You told me that you and Jacob discussed the possibility that imagination had its own sort of indivisible units or quanta—you called them ‘fictions’—or was it ficta? Either way, the notion was that every story ever told—or to be told, if there is a difference—existed in reality somewhere in the Number of the Beast.”

  “But Hilda my love, that was merely abstract mathematics!”

  “Jacob, Mobyas Toras regarded this car as abstract mathematics … until he rode in it. And didn’t you tell me that the human body itself is merely complex equations of wave forms? That was when I bit you—I don’t mind being a wave format; waves are pretty; I bit you for using the adverb ‘merely.’ ”

  “Zebadiah, there is a city over on the left, not very far. Can’t we look at it before we leave here?”

  “Deety, I’m going to make you decide that yourself. You saw what a panic we caused in that toy-sized ship. Imagine yourself to be not more than fourteen centimeters tall and living in that city. Along comes a great sky monster and dives on your city. Would you like it? How many will faint? How many will die of heart failure? How many of those little people are you willing to kill to satisfy your curiosity?” I added, “To those little people we are monsters worse than Panki.”

  “Oh, dear! You’re right, Zebadiah—dismally right. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Copilot, set to transit straight up one hundred thousand klicks.”

  “Transition h-axis, positive, vernier four-set.”

  “Execute.” I continued, “We can sit here for a while; we’re too far away to frighten them or even be seen. Sharpie, you have the floor. We aren’t going anywhere until we’ve heard your theory and discussed it. Jake, I’m not sure I’m willing to risk another rotation anyhow. I’ve been scared silly four times by narrow escapes in rotations. I know how to translate safely from one Earth-analog to the next; just use plenty of elbow room. But these rotations are making me white-haired—I can’t plan for elbow room and I’m not getting it. The laws of chance are going to catch up with me … when I thought the odds were stacked strongly in our favor.”

  “Zebbie, I don’t think the laws of chance have anything to do with it. I don’t think we have been in any danger in any rotation.”

  “So? Sharpie, you know how to drive a duo. I’m about to swap seats with you … as quickly as I can move this seat forward its maximum so that you can reach all its controls.”

  “No, no! I—”

  “Chicken!”

  “Zebbie, I don’t have your ESP for danger. I’ll take a watch at the controls if you tell me to … although I certainly don’t have your skill at flying. But I’ll just be the pilot on watch; you must be captain—because your hunches are part of why I say that I don’t think the so-called laws of chance are relevant.”

  “Sharpie, statistical laws are the most firmly established of all natural laws.”

  “Do they apply in the Land of Oz?”

  “Uh …. Damned if
I know! Touché!”

  “Captain, Hilda has not expressed it as a mathematician would; nevertheless, I agree with her. To call the equations used in statistics in our home universe ‘laws of nature’ is a grave misnomer. Those equations measure the degree of our ignorance. When I flip a coin and say that the chance of heads or tails is fifty-fifty, I am simply declaring total ignorance as to the outcome. But if I knew all the conditions—I don’t—the outcome could be precalculated by macromechanics. But we have already experienced at least two universes having physical laws quite unlike those of our home universe.”

  “Three, Jacob. Lilliput makes three.”

  “I don’t quite follow you, my dear.”

  “The cube-square law that runs all through biology does not apply here; it has its own. I can state flatly that a human brain can’t be placed in a space the size of a thimble by our laws. But we’re getting away from the theory Zebbie told me to expound. Shall I go on?”

  “Yes,” I ruled. “Everybody shut up but Sharpie. I’ve been the worst offender; I’m zipping my lip. Sharpie—proceed.”

  “All right. It’s not chance that we have been in three universes—Barsoom, the Land of Oz, and Lilliput—in … less than twenty-four hours, isn’t it, Deety?”

  “Less than sixteen, Aunt Hilda, from leaving the Bay of Blood to arriving here.”

  “Thanks, hon. And that those three all are ‘fictional’ universes—I have to call them that for lack of a better word—well-known to each of us. By chance—and again I don’t have a good word but it’s not ‘chance’—all four of us are addicted to fanciful stories: fantasy. Science fiction. Call it what you wish. But we all like the same sort of stories. How many of us like detective stories?”

  “Some of ’em—not all of ’em,” said Deety.

  “My sole loyalty is to Sherlock Holmes,” said Hilda’s husband.

  “Waste of time. The puzzles are too simple, the writing is usually atrocious. I prefer mathematics.”

  “I’d like to try an experiment,” Hilda went on. “All of us write down the twenty stories you have enjoyed the most, as nearly as you can think of them. Or groups of related stories—the Oz books would count as one, so would the Edgar Rice Burroughs Mars series, and so would the four voyages of Gulliver’s Travels. But don’t list those three; we’ve been there. And don’t discuss it or compare notes. Make them stories you’ve read and re-read ’til you wore out the books. And if anybody puts down War and Peace, I’ll know he’s cheated; some people read that one once, hardly anyone reads it twice—and most people bog down unless it’s a much-cut version. Put down things you re-read for pleasure when you are too tired to tackle a new book.” She added, “Anybody need pencil and paper?”