My only regret was that I could not borrow that enormous brain myself. But Worsel and his race are psychologists rather than mathematicians. They were able enough in any mathematics they needed, but their driving interest was in the mind. Hilda would be enriched by Worsel—and I suspected, with private amusement, that Worsel was in for surprises, too. I didn’t pretend to understand Hilda; I simply basked in her love.
I was busy as a mother cat with nine kittens. I could spend twenty-four hours a day learning from Cardynge; he was almost in a class with Mobyas Toras—with no language barrier. Once he realized that I did indeed have something new to him, he tackled it with the tenacity of a pit bull … simplifying my formulations, deriving corollaries unsuspected by me, inventing notation easier to handle, making the treatment more elegant.
He built such a grand edifice on my foundation that I started referring to it as the “Burroughs-Cardynge transformations.” He protested: “Oh, no, dear chap! Can’t have that. All I’ve done is donkey work.” Nevertheless, he was pleased. When our final draft for the Base’s Library of Science was complete, without consulting him I titled it: Burroughs-Cardynge Transformations: Quantum Mechanics of n-Space Continua.
He protested feebly and let me overrule him—and almost purred. It suited me. I wasn’t beset by publish-perish; reputation meant nothing to me here. As soon as Zeb and LaVerne finished the mods on Gay Deceiver, I expected to leave. Adding a second author to that paper tied down superb mathematical staffing and let me turn my attention to engineering.
Zeb and Thorndyke did not need my help but I needed to understand what they were doing—and Deety and Hilda, too. We didn’t expect them to take the front seats; we were too pushed by their biological calendars for them to practice. But they did need to know all controls so that they could replace one or both of us in emergency. Both could handle a duo in the air or on the ground, although neither was used to a car as hot as Gay Deceiver. (Nor am I!) Deety already knew the vernier controls; I taught them to Hilda … and taught them both the new mods as I learned them.
Deus volent, they would use none of this until their bellies were flat again, in some peaceful land having advanced obstetrics.
We considered remaining at Prime Base a year—Dr. Lacy urged us to; Admiral Haynes notified us that, on advice of Gray Lensman Smith, Master Technologist Thorndyke, Sir Austin Cardynge, and Second Stage Lensman Worsel, he had assigned us lifetime class-ten drawing accounts and quarters—i.e., we were rich as long as we remained on Tellus or anywhere in that galaxy, or whenever we returned. Sir Austin was class ten, so was LaVerne; the Patrol was paying handsomely for the continua device.
We four discussed it late one night. It was tempting—wealth greater than that we had abandoned when we became refugees, not only advanced obstetrics but medical science so high that it included controlled regeneration, a culture more advanced than our own, which seemed to be derived from ours. (We knew it was not).
We discussed pros and cons for hours, then took a vote, after agreeing that only a unanimous vote would be decisive. We used secret ballot so that no one would have to declare first.
Four to nothing to leave as soon as mods were complete.
“That settles it,” said Zeb. “We leave and explore teh-axis. Anybody want to say why? Why leave paradise and hit the road again? If anyone wants to hear, I’ll state my reasons.”
“Zebadiah, tell us.”
“Deety hon, there is war here. We know—although they don’t and we can’t tell them—that it will be going on a long, long time. About another generation if those romances we’ve all read are correct—I assume they must be, or this universe would not match so closely Dr. Smith’s stories. Possibly the device we’ve been able to give them may shorten that period … or it may have no effect. They don’t lack weapons, their ships have plenty of legs—this war is supposed to depend on detective work more than weapons and we can’t help with that. And on deeds to be done by children not yet born—shucks, their parents aren’t married yet: Clarissa MacDougall is on duty at Base Hospital.
“It’s not our war. If we stayed, it would be our war. I couldn’t stay out of it. God knows I’m not the hero type … but I’d get itchy and join up—probably as a boot spaceman; that’s all I’m good for here. Deety, I’d be enlisting almost at once and I’d still be on active duty when that baby in you is old enough to vote—if I wasn’t killed first. So I want to scram before it starts feeling like my war.”
Deety said, “Zebadiah, just before we leave, we could tell them about Eddorians and Eddore.”
“Deety, you never want anybody hurt—and I love you. But one thing those stories made emphatically clear: civilization must go through this ordeal to become strong enough for whatever comes next. No easy way, no shortcuts. If we tried to tell them, we either would not be believed … or Mentor would stop us. His way of stopping us might be rough … but stop us he would.”
I said, “Zeb, your mention of Mentor reminds me of something. Hilda my love, when Nighthawk first spotted us, you mentioned Mentor in talking with Ted. Remember?”
“Of course I do, Jacob. I told him not to try to go deeper into my mind than necessary for talking—that Mentor would not like it.”
“What did he answer?”
“He said that he was surprised at my mention of—he didn’t say ‘Mentor,’ he said ‘a certain entity’—from one who is not a Lensman. I told him I didn’t need a Lens and he could check that with Arisia.”
“Zeb, that accounts for those ambassadorial honors. Not because we had something they wanted.”
“Do you mean that Ted did check with Arisia? I don’t think he can.”
“No, no! Ted reported it to Haynes, every word, a complete report. Haynes passed it to Kinnison, Kinnison to Worsel. I doubt that a single word was left out. Possibly Kinnison checked with Arisia; it doesn’t matter either way. That report causes us to be treated like ambassadors from another universe.”
“Jacob, Admiral Haynes didn’t treat us that way at first. I had to spank him.”
“So you did. And you mentioned Mentor again. Family, has anyone mentioned ‘Mentor’ or ‘Arisia’ to anyone not a Lensman? I haven’t.”
“Of course not, Pop. We all know that those are Lensmen secrets.”
Zeb said, “Wait a half, Deety. Jake, how about first contact? The whole control room.”
“Zeb, better run that through again, you punched the wrong key.”
“Uh …. Goofed again. Contact by Lens. So only Ted heard it … and repeated it to no one but Haynes. Hilda my dearest, the admiral invited that spanking.”
“I know he did, Jacob. Darn him, I like him! Why did he do it?”
“On purpose.”
“But why?”
Zeb looked at me; I answered, “Probably because Kinnison asked him to. Not through forgetting one word of Ted’s report, you can bet on that. The admiral intentionally set out to get us sore.”
“I wasn’t angry, Jacob; you know I don’t get angry. I butted in because I had to. Before someone did get angry.”
“But why would Admiral Haynes do it, Pop? Poor Ted! I felt so sorry for him.”
Zeb said, “Deety—you too, Sharpie. It’s penetrated my skull what Jake is driving at. The old whipsaw, Jake? The Hard Man, Haynes … then the Soft Man, Dr. Lacy.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “I’m not sure Ted was in on the frame-up; I don’t think he’s much of an actor. But Worsel was.”
“Pop! Worsel is nice.”
“Deety hon,” my daughter’s husband said gravely, “Worsel is nice. And he would blast us right out of space if it served his purpose. So would Haynes. They wouldn’t enjoy it but they would do it. Worsel’s arrival was too pat. He starts from half a galaxy away, maybe, and arrives at the exact instant that Sir Austin blows his top … and saves the bacon. Act two, huh, Jake?”
“Act three. Act one was receiving us with top honors.”
“Got it, Jake. Has anyone noticed that, despite the fact t
hat we know far too much about this universe for freshly arrived visitors—and have shown it more than once—Ted is the only one who has shown any surprise? And he, only at first?”
“I’ve noticed,” I agreed.
“I guess I didn’t,” said my daughter. “People treat me nice, I treat them nice. If they don’t, I walk away. I don’t worry much.”
“That’s my Deety. Jake, in Barsoom we had a cover story and managed to make it stick. Just barely. Here we have none. When does the other shoe drop?”
“Zebbie,” said my wife, “I don’t think it does. You remember the theory you called ‘multiperson solipsism’?”
“I wish I could forget it, Sharpie. Spooky.”
“Spooky, yes. Because the essence of it requires all fictional characters to be as real as we are—somewhere. Conversely, since we are in it, too, we are fictional characters when we are out of our own universe.”
“That’s the part I’d like to forget.”
“It doesn’t mean that we are unreal, Zebbie; it simply means that they too are real. Thuvia. Jack Pumpkinhead. Ted Smith, Worsel. They’re comfortable with it; why shouldn’t we be? I’ve been talking with Worsel; he takes it more seriously than you and Jacob ever have. Worsel says that it’s a tenable hypothesis and offers to check it for us.”
“Check it how, Sharpie?”
“Find the story we are in. Search not only here but on every planet of civilization that has the literary form, fiction. He says that some don’t.”
“Klono be thanked for that! I was afraid that was what you meant by ‘check it for us.’ Sharpie, tell him not to bother! If we’re characters in a story, I don’t want to read it—I might be tempted to peek at the ending.”
“But Zebadiah, it might tell us where our Snug Harbor is. We could go straight there!”
“Yes, Deety, but it might tell us that we never find it. No, honey, if we’re in a book, I want to live it chapter by chapter and not know the end ’til I reach it.”
“Zebbie, I thought you would say that. But I don’t think Worsel could ever find our book … or perhaps we could never read it. Because when Worsel and I discussed quantizing of thought and, by corollary, of all fiction, I found that I didn’t remember anything about the Boskone War beyond today. Yet I know I’ve read Children of the Lens; it was in Grandfather Rodgers’ library. I remember it now; civilization finally wins and the Arisians depart, their work finished. But if Worsel and I discuss it again, I feel sure I’ll pull another blank. Zebbie, I don’t think it’s possible to tell a character in a story how it ends; I think that’s implicit in the theory.”
“I hope so!”
“Worsel won’t order a search unless I ask for it … and I won’t. But I did learn one thing today. Worsel and I were discussing the fact that Tellus is as much like Earth as we knew it … yet so different in details. Zebbie, how well do you know history?”
“Just middlin’. Why?”
“Who was president after Truman?”
“Eisenhower. Why?”
“Who comes next?”
“The first Kennedy. He died in office and his vice president finished his term, then ran on his own. Nineteen sixty-four, I think that would be. He didn’t finish his term, either; Humphrey moved up late in sixty-five. The ….”
“Not on Tellus. Not by the histories here at the Base.”
“What happened in this universe?”
“History was just as I remember it up to nineteen sixty-five; the split seems to be that year. Humphrey never was president. Johnson finished that term and was followed by somebody I’ve never heard of. Goldwater.”
“Another general.”
“No, Zeb,” I interrupted. “Senator. I remember because he was from Arizona; the name is well-known there. But he was never president.”
“Not in our world, Jacob, of course. But here he was elected for the same full term that we associate with President Humphrey. I won’t try to list them any further; I didn’t recognize the presidents after ’sixty-five. Johnson was not killed in a car crash that year, so Humphrey didn’t move up. From there on, all is confusion. This Goldwater—senator or general or whatever. What party did he belong to?”
“Union.”
“I don’t think so, Zeb.”
“Does it matter, Jake? He was never president in our world; Humphrey served that term. And in this world he is about three centuries in the past. Let’s forget it. Wherever we end up, we’re going to have to learn new history.”
“Just a moment, sirs. While I didn’t recognize the presidents after the split in ’sixty-five, I did note the name of the president at the date—here—that we left home. A former college professor.”
“Jake Burroughs?”
“No, Zebbie. Jacob would never do a thing like that. J. Worthington Jones.”
“Huh? Infested! Let’s get out of here!”
“Formerly infested. Worsel says that Tellus is not infested now. There was an interregnum after Jones, then a period of disorders. Worsel knows what Panki are, doesn’t know where they came from. Says they aren’t important, because such minor vermin never last against any advanced culture. But he’s working on ways for us to spot them if we run across them again. But he says that mimics—his category term for vermin that simulate true men such as Velantians or humans—aren’t really dangerous unless they are hallucigenerators. He seems certain that we four are immune to that sort, because of our built-in mind blocks. I wish I was as certain as he is: the Overlords of Delgon would be even worse than Panki.”
XLIV
Zebadiah
“All hands, prepare for space. Astrogator.”
“Range-and-direction ready. Washrooms and bulkhead doors secured. Belt fastened.”
“Science Officer.”
“Perceptron manned, belt fastened. I took my pill, Cap’n Zebbie.”
“Copilot.”
“Verniers manned, auxiliaries green. Pill taken. Starboard door seal checked, Captain. Belt fastened.”
“Pilot’s belt is fastened, port door seal is checked. Six seconds to say goodbye, then we maneuver. Goodbye, friends! Thanks for everything! Keep slugging!”
Admiral Haynes’ voice reached us by speaker: “Clear ether, Captain!”
“Goodbye, Cardynge.”—“Cheerio, Burroughs.”—“Bye, Ted! LaVerne! Carlos!”
Worsel’s sweet voice sang in our heads: “Clear ether, dear friends! Lovely and lovable No-Mustard, call and I will come with speed.”
“My dragon, I must not weep. Aloha ’til then. Goodbye, Worsel, Teddy, Admiral, Carlos, Surgeon—and tell Dr. Phillips thanks!”
“Goodbye, everybody! Oh, I love you all!”
“And everybody loves Deety! Tell her, old snake.”
“I shall, Carlos. Sweet daughter Deety, you remain in the hearts of all of us.”
“Stand by to maneuver. Hello, Gay.”
“Howdy Zeb. You look hung-over.”
“I am. Gay Deceiver … take us home!”
Arizona was almost cloudless. “Crater verified, Cap’n Zebbie.”
“L-axis, plus-one by schedule—set, Captain!”
“Execute!”
“No crater, Cap’n. No house, either. Just mountains.”
“The two plus—set, Captain.”
“Roger, Jake. Routine check first? Advice?”
“No data either way, Captain. Voice routine, short schedule, maybe?”
“Suits. Gay Deceiver … sightseeing trip. Ten klicks, H-over-G.”
“Ogle the yokels at ten thousand meters. Let’s go!”
“Jake, keep your thumb on the button. Gay—Miami Beach.”
Below lay a fantastic but familiar strip city. “Sharpie, what do you see?”
“What I don’t see. Flip on your repeater, Cap’n.”
“Switch it on, Jake. Well, Hilda?”
“Zebbie, the streets are crowded. Sunny day. Beaches empty. Why?”
“Bogie six o’clock low, Captain!”
“Gay Boun
ce!”
Earth-Teh-One-Plus swam warm and huge below us. Almost directly under, a hurricane approached Texas. I asked, “Anyone want to see any more of that one?”
“Zebadiah, how can I see more when I haven’t seen any yet?”
“But Sharpie has, Deety, and Jake. Folks, I find myself unenthusiastic about a world where they shoot at me without challenging first. Jake, your bogie was a missile, wasn’t it?”
“I think so, Captain. Collision course with a Doppler signature over a thousand knots and increasing.”
“That’s a missile—out of Homestead—analog, probably. Folks, the blokes are too quick on the trigger and I’m chicken. Comment?”
“Cap’n Zebbie, I don’t disagree but I find those empty beaches more disturbing. I can think of several reasons why the beach at Miami would be empty on a nice day—all of them unpleasant.”
“Want to check San Diego or Long Beach? I can get more scram time by increasing height above ground to your extreme preceptor range.”
“Captain, I don’t advise that. One down check was supposed to be enough … and we have over twenty thousand analogs on this axis.”
“Deety?”
“Pop said it, Zebadiah.”
“Very well, folks. Just wanted to be sure how you all felt. We’ll stick fast to the doctrine. Shop each world just long enough to find something wrong with it. Can be anything—Panki, war, low technology, no human population, bad climate, overpopulated, or factor X. If we don’t find our Snug Harbor in the next two weeks, we’ll consider returning to Prime Base and Dr. Lacy’s baby-cotchin-experts.”
“Zebadiah, if we wait at Prime Base to have our babies, then wait again until they are big enough to travel, I don’t think we’ll ever find Snug Harbor. It was hard enough to leave just now.”
“I said ‘consider.’ We may find an attractive way station where we can shack up for five months or so, then slam back to Base Hospital for the Grand Openings. Might be an empty world—no people, I mean, but pleasant otherwise. Food is no problem now and we get our water from Oz. All we’ll lack is television ….”
The Pursuit of the Pankera: A Parallel Novel About Parallel Universes Page 52
