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

by Robert A. Heinlein

  In this I disagreed, as did Hal Halsa, Haynes, and Kinnison speaking through Worsel. The purpose of this multiple strike was extermination. If we left untouched the worst-infested planet, while waiting for it to cleanse itself by suicide, we could expect the other fifteen to be reinfested before that happened—as useless as excising a skin cancer while ignoring a deeper malignancy.

  Instead of letting it be, we assigned our heaviest task force to that planet—and now we have over twice that number of strangers asking to join that task force.

  Gray Lensman Ted Smith sees in it a possible “Trojan Horse.”

  I’m sure that it is not, but I am not going to explain and I have not invited him to read me by Lens. Instead I have given orders that Worsel, Hilda, and all Posenian Lensmen attached to the total Strike Force Number of the Beast are to search for Panki at safe distance in all these new volunteer ships. If a ship has Panki in it, blast it out of the sky at once—no quarter, no prisoners. If a ship has a dead space in it that our perceivers can’t reach, bring major force to bear on it, and give it an ultimatum to open that space at once or be blasted.

  Along with this I have requested Prime Base (LaVerne, via Haynes) to be prepared to attach Burroughs-Thorndyke capsules to any cleared ships, set and sealed to be triggered by the zero signal to flip to Tau-3+, then to countermarch to Prime Base on signal from the flagship of Tau-3+, then self-destruct—not a bomb, just internal self-destruction of the space-time twister. Plus the same internal self-destruction if anyone attempts to open the capsule.

  Now I think I know why I’m here: to give this one order, plus orders pursuant to the same end. This will take time, so we are holding the countdown. This will not affect the timing of the strike because we are not yet in duration on t-axis. I’ve told Ted to advise all planetary unit commanders that they may, at their discretion, stand down from alert until notified that count is about to resume … and asked him also to keep me and unit commanders advised as to Worsel’s and LaVerne’s progress, with time projections estimated in real time.

  While we waited ….

  Worsel tutored Jake, Deety, and me in a limited sense of perception for Panki—and I flunked. Not totally—with Sharpie and Worsel both working on me, I reached about the level Sharpie had reached when we first started hunting, i.e., I can spot a Pankera via perceptron from about twenty klicks, even in the dark. With my bare eyes I can spot one up to two kilometers by its gait or other movements; my brain unconsciously does analysis of its unhuman movements. But I can’t strip a crowd of all clothing and pick out Panki by appearance. Which Hilda can do, and which Deety and Jake have learned to do.

  But, hell’s bells, I have always known that I was the only non-genius of us four. I’m smart, and also clever with my hands—but even my children are brainier than I am—of course; they’re half Deety.

  Worsel quit trying to coach me into something beyond me and shifted to sharpening my one wild talent: “hunches” that warn me of danger. I relaxed and let him fiddle with my mind. I can’t be hypnotized, but I can let myself be receptive as easily as I can place a block against pain. So Worsel sniffed around inside my skull, found the area of my oddity and helped me to strengthen it, extend its range in time and space.

  That’s why I know today that these volunteer strangers are not “Trojan Horse” Panki or tools of Panki. But I haven’t hinted this to Ted Smith and they are being inspected as carefully as if I strongly suspected that they were booby traps against us.

  But aside from my minor ESP I have another reason to assume that their wish to ally with us is sincere. As these space legions have reported in, I have recognized almost all the names they call themselves—I have met them before. Where and how is mentioned elsewhere in these multiple memoirs but does not belong here.

  Still holding at minus two hours seven minutes ….

  Worsel offered no encouragement to Sharpie when she had asked to go to Arisia. He had thoughtcast to all four of us: dear little No-Mustard, you have no need for a Lens.

  I neither need or want a Lens. Hilda did not speak aloud but her words echoed back to us from his mind. We needed Mentor’s advice. Was our project hopeless? Were we wasting your time—and ours?

  One never goes to Arisia; one is summoned. Hopelessness in a worthy cause is no excuse for abandoning it. My race fought without hope for many generations … then hope appeared. You and yours may do the same.

  Yes, my Teacher, she answered sincerely, and dropped the matter.

  Four months later, Worsel stopped in the middle of a lesson, looked surprised (How? All his eye stalks stiffened at once—) and thoughtcast, Captain Zebadiah, you, Mr. Burroughs, and Dr. Deety will go at once, capture a Pankera, and fetch it to me. I will take it and Dr. Hilda to Arisia.

  I answered, “Aye aye, sir!”—sensed that Jake was about to object, so I snapped, “Stow it, Jake. Lifeboat rules.”

  In the five minutes it took us three to reach Gay Deceiver’s hangar, Jake said, “Zeb, I was not going to object to Hilda’s going to see Mentor without me; that would be foolish. But they aren’t leaving ’til we come back, and we need her on the hunt. Hilda is the most perceptive of any of us in spotting the beasts.”

  “Correct. Worsel may be sending us on a field test—find out whether or not we can work without her. Deety, you will man the perceptron; Jake and I will make the capture.” (How?) “Once we are back inside with it, you will close doors and bounce about six times, without waiting for seat belts, door seal check, or anything else—just get us out of there fast.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Jake, this may be a field test for us three. But I think it is more likely that Worsel—or Mentor, as Worsel seemed simply to be repeating Mentor’s orders—Mentor considers us three expendable, but not Hilda.”

  Deety looked impassive but she was not annoyed or hurt by my interpretation. Jake just blinked and said, “You may be right, Captain. I think you are … but I’m biased.”

  Despite the shortness of time involved, LaVerne Thorndyke arrived before we could man the car. “Three stun guns,” he said. “They’ll fit your DeLameter holsters. One zap should immobilize any living mass up to three hundred pounds. Zap twice if you must. But a third zap is likely to kill your prisoner—unless they are extraordinarily tough.”

  “They aren’t,” I assured him. “We’ve killed enough of them to be certain of that. But what are these other gadgets? Hand cameras?”

  “Tangle cord projectors. Fired like any handgun, six cords to a magazine. Accurate to fifty yards. But I suggest you get closer, because a cord around the neck will strangle—and Worsel wants it alive. Good hunting!”

  It took us four days to get a prisoner. Deety spotted them again and again, and under conditions in which I would not have hesitated to kill by L-gun with Sharpie coaching—but not under conditions in which we could be sure of grounding, capturing, and getting away again. But at last Deety spotted one, on the ground, with neither human nor another Pankera anywhere close to it—most unusual. Jake transited almost to ground level behind it, I squatted Gay in; we came busting out both doors. By pre-plan Jake zapped it with his stunner while I fired tangle cords—and got two cords around it before it fell. I dragged it upright again; Jake put two more cords around it; we pulled it into the car—and Deety closed doors so fast that I almost caught a foot. Then we were in freefall far beyond the orbit of Luna before Deety quit telling Gay to bounce.

  What we had captured looked like a sweet old lady to me—but Deety and Jake saw it for what it was, a Pankera—and I sensed it even though my eyes told me that it was human.

  The damned thing tried to bite me while we were getting it belted down, on the deck back of the bulkhead; the stun effect hadn’t lasted long. Then it argued indignantly, protesting that kidnapping “her” must be a mistake; “she” didn’t have any money.

  We just made sure the straps were tight while avoiding its teeth, then scrambled into our seats, belted down, and Jake flipped Gay to Prime Base.
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  LaVerne was still standing where we had left him, in the hangar. “Did you get it?” he asked. “Or haven’t you gone yet?” To him, no time had passed.

  I said wearily, “We got one. Strapped down in the after compartment. Somebody else can take it out; we’re too beat. But warn them to be very careful; the pesky varmint bites.”

  The warning was unnecessary; the thing was dead. Worsel accepted the corpse without comment; he and Hilda left for Arisia.

  We made five more captures, two without using stun guns—but always with the same result: dead on arrival. Captured, Panki always suicide once they knew they could not escape—how, we never learned.

  Still holding at minus two hours seven minutes ….

  All the volunteer strangers have been inspected and cleared; LaVerne’s men are installing capsules. Several of their unit commanders maintain that they don’t need them—but from my point of view I need them; I want to put every ship into position simultaneously in sixteen universes. I don’t insist that they countermarch back to Prime Base—but if they don’t want that option, I’ve told LaVerne to set the capsule for “destruct” after flipping them back to Earth-Tau-3+. Happy as I am to have their help, I will not turn over to strangers Burroughs-Thorndyke devices without retaining control of them.

  But I wish I could spread these reinforcements three ways; Earth0, E-Tau-2+, and -3+. But they all want to hit the last one, Earth-Tau-3+. I suspect that I know what that means, but I’m not going to mention it to Deety: the idea upsets her. I shan’t mention it to anyone; I find it spooky myself. That planet is going to get one hell of a shellacking. With these reinforcements we have enough troops to match the Posenian highest estimate of infestation one for one—one hunter for every Pankera.

  What I don’t have is perceivers to spare. We barely have enough Posenians, Velantians, and trained humans for our own ships, spreading them thin. The troops from Barsoom are going in with none, relying solely on their own telepathic talents and on the noses of hunting calots—three of those Panki corpses were chopped up and used to train Barsoomian hounds in the scent of Panki.

  Each of the stranger volunteer commands has messaged me that they do not need perceivers from us; they claim that they can infallibly tell humans from vermin, and that the only human casualties, if any, will be in their own ranks.

  I don’t know and it is too late to test them. They want to hunt Panki; they are welcome. But I am not changing the order of battle. I have ordered the planetary force commander of E-Tau-3+ to assign them to sectors as mop-up forces after he withdraws his regular forces, or, at his option, to use them simultaneously. He is a Gray Lensman I have never met … but I assume that he knows more about unorthodox fighting than I do or he would not be wearing Gray. I’ll hold the countdown until he is satisfied that he has his greatly expanded force in hand.

  He has just advised me that he recommends that the entire force be allowed to eat, sleep, and eat again—a full stand-down while he rearranges his plan of battle and issues operation orders.

  I have signaled all fleets that “hold” will continue a minimum of ten more standard hours, with recommendation that they order eat-sleep-eat.

  Ted and I are about to do the same, leaving junior flag staff on heel-and-toe in Flag Ops. I’m tired—why in hell does Deety insist on grounding? Sure, she’ll be in armor while she bird-dogs, with a squad of Valerian Marines around her—but I think she’s pregnant again and hasn’t told me.

  Why I’m here: because Mentor advised Haynes to assign me as C-in-C, that’s why—and it still doesn’t explain it. But Mentor’s advice is why I have thousands of Galactic Patrolmen volunteers, hundreds of giant transports, and endless cooperation—and all this happened after Sharpie was summoned to Arisia. Up to then, we had received only training and advice for a hopeless venture—we had Port Admiral Haynes’ sympathy and cooperation but no troops, no ships—he had his own war on his hands.

  We aren’t slowing up the war with Boskone; our one battle, even if it lasted for weeks—impossible—will be on t-duration, zero elapsed time at Prime Base. Only this “hold” in countdown uses up Prime Base time—and Haynes has not objected.

  Still holding ….

  I’ve just called Jake on a tight circuit—and feel better. We may continue to make E-Teh-39+ our permanent home … but I’ve never felt happy about being chased off Earth0 and becoming “unpersons.” I have proposed to Jake that, after this battle and campaign is over, we go home to Earth0, claim our rights, recover whatever has been confiscated, and rebuild Snug Harbor on its original site. Fill that crater. Restore the contours. Rebuild. Find the source of that spring and restore the pool. Maybe we’ll use it simply for an occasional vacation—but we shall return!

  Jake greeted the notion enthusiastically; it bucked him up. I know he’s been worrying about Sharpie, because he will ground as a “bird-dog”—but she will ground elsewhere, as ordered by the planetary unit commander; she’ll be a troubleshooter. In armor, certainly, and surrounded by Valerians commanded by our old friend Colonel van Vogt. But that doesn’t keep Jake from worrying.

  Sharpie apparently enjoyed every minute on Arisia.

  Counting resumed; now minus two hours four minutes ….

  If, at the end of this, Deety is dead or missing, I’m going to turn command over to Ted, climb into Gay Deceiver (here in one of Brittannia II’s holds), and hunt Panki. Oh, there’ll be Panki to hunt; this battle won’t kill them all—we know that. The predicted outcome (Mobyas-Jacob-Cardynge-Haynes-Halsa-Kinnison) is a kill score of forty-six percent plus or minus eleven percent. We can’t expect to find them all—too few perceivers, not enough troops. We do expect to break the back of their organization, put them on the run—then extermination will be up to the humans of these sixteen planets. At plus-ten hours, recall will sound in all helmets; thirty minutes later our transports will bounce. Then starts leaflet, radio, and television barrage.

  This portion is complex and is tailored to each language area of each planet. I described one case; historians can look up the rest at Prime Base Library (some details require “need-to-know” clearance at top level). For South America, Earth0, text is in Portuguese and Spanish; pictures are in color pseudostereo, and the message amounts to: “Behold Your Enemy! These parasites are hidden among you, disguised as human—creating dissension, consuming your wealth, eating your flesh and that of your children. Find them, kill them, ROOT THEM OUT!”—and so forth, emphasizing that vermin dare not expose their bare arms or legs. Pictures show why.

  This message will be believed solely because most humans of all sixteen planets will by then have seen one dead Pankera, or more.

  Immediately after the battle (plus-eleven hours) billions of these leaflets will be loosed at ten klicks H-over-G by Burroughs-Thorndyke capsules, then our transports will flip back to Prime Base, and capsules will home automatically. But propaganda barrage will continue—leaflet, audio, stereo—as long as needed, until Posenian perceivers report each planet “clean.”

  If the humans on the planet fail to clean it, if Panki regain control despite this barrage, and their radio, television, and other media show this to be true, and spy ray and Posenians confirm it, then comes the grim decision: sterilize it.

  Reduce it to slag. Remove its atmosphere. Transit it into its sun. Hit it with antimatter. Translate it to an empty universe, there to freeze. The Patrol knows a dozen ways to destroy a planet—if necessary. But it will not be allowed to live, a “Typhoid Mary” able to infect other planets, other universes. The humans of the planet will be given ample opportunity to destroy their tyrants. But they must free themselves. Freedom can never be given; it must be won.

  I will have no part in a decision to sterilize (if there are any). No one has suggested it and it is beyond my competence. It will be made at high level: Haynes, or the Galactic Council, or Kinnison, or possibly (probably?) Mentor.

  In a few hours I can stop being a fake admiral. If Deety is safe, we can go back to Prime Bas
e, and our family (I have a growing hunch that Jake and Hilda will live through it)—all nine of us will go to the Land of Oz for rest and recreation.

  But if Deety does not come back … I can live in Gay Deceiver for weeks, months, hoarding her juice for kills. Deety’s gallant majesty deserves a huge honor guard of slain. Gay is fully juiced; if I’m careful, I should be able to offer her a full regiment.

  But if they get me instead, perhaps I will go wherever Deety will have gone. That is a mystery beyond me—but I can hope.

  If I live through it, I’ll first provide for our kids. No problem there—Janie is already adult, studying math, and has her eye on the Council of Scientists—Cardynge says she’ll make it. Zebulon doesn’t know at this point whether he wants to enter Wentworth Hall or go to Barsoom and become an honorary Red man, a Helium warrior—his “Aunt” Thuvia wants to adopt him. Baby Robert calls Sharpie “Mommy” just as he does Deety, and ignores both Jake and me; he won’t miss me.

  So I’ll enlist—apprentice spaceman. Boskone must be defeated; that’s as important as exterminating Panki. (I once thought I knew how and when the Boskonian War would end, but the memory has faded—probably just a vivid dream I had at some time. I do have such dreams and sometimes have trouble distinguishing a memory of a vivid dream from something that really happened. “We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little lives are rounded with a sleep ….” As may be, I am a warrior, not a playboy, not a phony professor. Nor was I ever intended to “sit under my own vine and fig tree, where none can make me afraid.” Earth-Teh-39+ is a fine place, just right for solid citizens and growing kids—but the quiet life is not for me. The Galactic Patrol can use professional soldiers; if Deety does not come back, that’s where I’m going. After I supply her with an honor guard.)