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

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “I was scared silly,” she whispered.

  “It’s all right now, dear.” I went on to him, “I think explanations are in order. This is the Princess Hilda.”

  “Kaor, Princess Hilda. Tawm Takus, at your service.”

  “Kaor, Tawm Takus. Thank you.”

  “And over there is Princess Deety. Princess Deety,” I emphasized, hoping that Deety would twig that I judged “Dejah Thoris” to be a name she should not use in this neighborhood. “To your right is Doctor Jacob Burroughs. The famous Doctor Burroughs,” I added. “Jeddak of Logan, Master of Time and Space, Explorer of Universes, Master Galactic Engineer, Veteran of the Pentagon, Emperor of Ruritania, Supreme Pontiff of the Nine Mysteries and privy to the Number of the Beast, First Commander of—but why go on? Everyone is familiar with his unparalleled distinctions.”

  “Yes, of course,” the giant agreed slowly. “But I never dreamt that I would have the privilege of actually seeing him.”

  “You see him now and may talk with him—he’s quite democratic. And modest. A word to the wise, old chap—address him simply as ‘Doctor Burroughs.’ He prefers not to be reminded of his many honors. Detests formality.”

  “Is he here incognito?”

  “Let’s say semi-incognito. Prefers to pursue his scientific researches undisturbed by protocol. For example, I am in nominal command of his party … so that the famous doctor need not waste time on trivial details. But I haven’t given you my own name. Captain Zebadiah Carter, of Virginia.”

  Tawm Takus’ eyes widened; he started to say something, checked himself—then said, “The famous doctor dislikes formality, you say … Captain Zebadiah Carter?”

  “As little as possible. He tolerates it when necessary.”

  “Do you suppose …. Is it possible …. In your opinion … would he permit us to offer the ceremony of welcome? Start over, I mean, since it was broken off through a most unfortunate misunderstanding.” He sounded wistful.

  I pretended to consider it, frowning. “How long does it take?” My guess put sundown two hours away—and it was a long walk back.

  Deety’s voice spoke in my right ear: “My captain, must we stand out here? We get your half of the powwow but only snatches of Tommy Tucker’s remarks. But he seems friendly.”

  “Wait a half, Princess. Doctor Burroughs—igpay atinlay, el verde hombre—ci is antsy-pantsy à faire Royal Canadian Mounted Police drill avec vous cast as Hail Caesar. Copacetic? Or Box Cars?”

  “I heard those bald-faced lies. ‘Veteran of the Pentagon!’ You’ll pay for that, son. Now about this Maypole dance— Recommendation?”

  “Authentic Golden Bough stuff, je pense, Herr Doktor-Professor.”

  “Hmm— Da solid, man. Mais schnell. Dig?”

  “Pronto, amigo. Rally ’round the flag, ici. Execute.” I looked up at the Jolly Green Giant. “The learned doctor will grant your request if you can do it quickly. His time is extremely valuable.”

  “At once, Captain Zebadiah Carter!” With no spoken command, the three thoats executed ‘Troopers left about!’ and headed at ground-shaking speed for the shoulder of the hill where they had appeared. Deety and Jake closed in quickly. Deety hugged me, banging me on the back of my noggin with the barrel of her shotgun in doing so.

  “Oh, my captain, I’m so proud of you!”

  I kissed her. “Hilda is the hero, not me.”

  “I’m proud of Hilda, too. Aunt Hilda, are you all right, honey?”

  Hilda stopped nuzzling her man long enough to answer. “That big lunk bruised my ribs. But he couldn’t help it. He’s rather sweet, actually. Handsome, too.”

  “ ‘Handsome’!”

  “Deety baby, you don’t expect a Great Dane to be pretty by the same rules as a butterfly.”

  Deety looked thoughtful. “That’s logical. I must look at him again, with unprejudiced eye.”

  “Postpone the debate, girls, and listen. Jake, can you manage a sword salute?”

  “Eh? Certainly!”

  “Okay, here’s the drill. We line up, Jake on the right, Hilda next, Deety next, me beside Deety—Deety, you can ‘Present arms’ with a gun?”

  “I’ve seen it. I can fake it.”

  “Good. Hilda, all you have to do is a Girl Scout salute. I give ‘Draw—Swords!’ You gals do nothing; Jake and I draw and come to order arms in three counts. Then I give ‘Present—Arms!’ Jake and I do it, two counts, one for each word—but Deety, don’t move until I say ‘Arms!’ ”

  “I’ll be out of step,” Deety objected.

  “They won’t be critical. When I ‘Return … swords!’ you come back to order arms—and I’ll say, “Fall out” and Doctor Burroughs—you’re Doctor Burroughs in public from now on and you two are always ‘Princess’ and I’m always ‘Captain.’ Protocol. Any questions? I hear them coming.”

  We lined up. The thundering herd rounded the shoulder and came straight at us, lances at charge, only this time it was the starboard wing man who was about to skewer me. They didn’t slow and I was ready to beat the Barsoomian record for backward broad jump—but couldn’t because both women remained rock steady.

  When it seemed impossible that they could stop, the thoats slammed on brakes with all twenty-four legs, and stopped dead as three lances swung up vertically into perfect salutes. My boy almost brushed the tip of my nose with his, but upright his lance was four meters away.

  “Draw!—Swords!” (Grab—Draw—Down! Hup! two! three!)—and Sharpie tossed in her own variations. No Girl Scout salute for her—she followed our motions, right on the beat, with her hunting knife.

  “ ‘Present’!”—hilts to three chins—“Harmp!” Blades flashed down while Deety chucked her gun into the air, caught it with both hands. I’ve seen it done more by the book, but never with more snap.

  The three giants let out wild yells, which I chose to interpret as cheers. I waited a long beat, then dismissed my “troops.”

  But the big boys weren’t through. Tawm Takus glanced right and left, and suddenly bunting bloomed from those upright lances, joined together into one big banner (magnets? magic?), spelling:

  WELCOME TO BARSOOM!

  Greater Helium Chamber of Commerce

  XIX

  Hilda

  Istarted to clap, Deety joined me; our men joined in. Tommy Tucker grinned like a happy warthog and so did the other two. They were pleased as puppies, so I suddenly sang out:

  “Hip hip!”

  “Hooray!” my gang answered.

  “Hip hip!”

  “Hooray!”

  “Hip hip!”

  “Hooray! Barsoom! Barsoom! Barsoom!”

  We were ragged on the first “Barsoom” but the third bounced off the horizon. That wrapped up protocol, honor was satisfied; Sohrab and Rustum had no need to fight. At a glance from Tawm Takus, all three dismounted and dropped to one knee, which made them only two heads taller than Zebbie. This (I learned later) is the polite way for a green man to converse with a red man (we were “honorary” red men) in friendly informality.

  If it’s not friendly, a green man doesn’t palaver; he charges—lance, sword, gun—whatever is at hand, and Barsoomians always have weapons at hand. But he doesn’t finish with a salute. He rams it on through until he or his opponent is dead. Their ceremony of welcome is similar to that of the Maori, an item I picked up on campus at a Kreuber Memorial lecture—and confirmed by Zebbie, who had experienced it in New Zealand. Maori use war dances to welcome honored visitors.

  (But there ought to be some way to tell a ceremonial charge from intent to massacre. This time it almost cost Tawm Takus his pretty pop-eyes. I would have managed it if my foot hadn’t slipped on his sweaty thigh. Wouldn’t that have been dreadful?)

  We were introduced. “These are my employees,” said Tawm Takus.

  “Partners,” the one on his right corrected.

  “Assistants,” Tawm Takus conceded. “On my left is Kach Kachkan, mighty warrior, survivor of fifteen games in the arena of the War
hoons, now in the service of Helium, the holder of the Order of Merit of the Warlord, Third Class.”

  Kach Kachkan jumped into the air and yelled, waving his ten-meter toothpick and brandishing his rifle—managed to land precisely as he had been, one knee to the moss, the other up, two hands holding his lance erect, face as impassive as Deety’s ’cept his eyes showed pleasure.

  “The other, the one who rudely interrupted me, is my brood-nephew Kad. He is a stripling of eighty cycles, barely out of the shell, and has not won a second name ….”

  “No wars,” objected Kad.

  “… and has no record to recount. But he is my responsibility, for I pledged to my brood-uncle that I would see to his education when he was allowed to go to the Capital of the Warlord. Perhaps I made a mistake ….”

  “You did.”

  “… in thinking I could train him. But he is going to learn the trade of Greeter and Courier even if I am forced to break off his other tusk—the missing one not being lost in combat, but in stumbling over his own feet.”

  “Slander. It was a private duel. Don’t want to herd tourists! Want to fight!”

  Then Zebbie did a foolish thing. I love our Zebbie and obey him willingly as our captain. But he can be childish. I think the dear boy was still smarting over having stumbled when attempting to save us by killing Tawm Takus (and wouldn’t that have been tragic?). Doesn’t Zebbie know that it is the spirit that counts? He had unhesitatingly tackled a giant twice his height (eight times his size if the biological cube-square law applies to Barsoom’s lower surface gravity—I’m not certain) and armed to the teeth, and mounted on a tremenjus, ill-tempered thoat. I’m sure none of us laughed when he fell—I was simply possessed by terror that we were about to lose our Zebbie, and raced toward him with no plan in mind, just needing to help.

  Not that I did help. Tawm Takus handled me as easily as a kitten, and as gently. Tommy is sweet.

  Zeb half-drew his sword, “Tawm Takus, if your nephew wants to fight, I can accommodate him.”

  Tommy turned a very pale green. “No, no, no! Most noble captain! Know you that all visitors to Barsoom are under the protection of the Warlord. Were I to countenance such an unthinkable, even though you won—as I am certain you would, fighting dismounted and only with blade—nevertheless I would be dishonored and disgraced, made homeless; my goods all be confiscated, my wives’ eggs be broken, and they themselves given to others. Please, sir!”

  The click of Zebbie’s sword being invaginated answered him. Tommy relaxed with a sigh and his skin took on a more healthy color. “My deepest thanks, most noble captain. Thank him, Kad.”

  When the “stripling” (a century and a half old, if I had understood Tawm’s words) failed to obey at once, Tawm Takus hit him with a rapid-fire Barsoomian, every syllable a lash. I understood none of it—and all of it. A chewing-out by an expert is the same in any language; only the sounds differ. Kad flinched, stood up and bowed deeply to Zebbie. “I thank you, most gracious warrior. You are too kind.”

  “De nada, son. No offense meant, none taken.”

  “Although,” Tommy went on, “were the captain dismounted and armed only with blade while my ignoble brood-nephew were mounted and fully armed, I would refrain from wagering on my brood-kin. All Barsoom knows what mighty warriors Earthlings are. Issus! Our Warlord is himself an Earthling—from Virginia.” He waited, then added, “Only treacherous footing leaves me alive this moment. I know.”

  “Possibly,” Zebbie answered. “Tawm Takus, there must be halls for sword-masters in the capital.”

  “Yes, certainly—the finest sword-masters in Barsoom. You wish to practice, noble captain?”

  “No, I need no practice—I made my last kill less than a day ago.” (My Soul, had it been only yesterday? I had lived ten years in a day.) “I was thinking that, if he wishes—when I have the time—I could show your nephew some of the finer points of the art of the sword.”

  This time Kad did not wait to be told. He jumped to his feet, bowed, and blurted out, “This humble student most happily accepts the great swordsman’s generous offer!”

  “Sure thing, son. First morning I have free. Duties, you know. The doctor’s wishes come first.” Zebbie stuck out a hand, shook Kad’s lower right hand. “A good workout, then a glass of something cool together.”

  (Sharpie, I said to myself, Deety and Jacob and I were going to keep you so busy that you won’t ever have a free morning. If those classic romances are true—and they seemed to be, essentially, in this universe—Barsoomians had never heard of foils and plastrons and masks. A “practice workout” meant that the loser needed a surgeon. Or an undertaker. Zebbie, you are like hell going to fight for fun! We need you all in one piece.)

  Kad was so overcome that all he could do was to grin like a gargoyle and nod. His uncle thanked Zebbie for him … then got around to the question he had been quivering to ask—but had to work up his courage.

  “Captain Zebadiah Carter … of Virginia.” Tawm Takus hesitated. “You know, I am sure, the hatching name of our Warlord?”

  “Surely. Captain John Carter of Virginia—now Jeddak of Jeddaks, Warlord of Barsoom.”

  “Yes, yes!” Tommy paused. “Carter is an unusual name.”

  “Not in Virginia. You’re asking are we related? Yes, but distant cousins. Had I the Carter family archives at hand I could show you the concatenation. Let it stand that we both are descended from John Carter the Great, founder of Virginia. But your John Carter is from a cadet line and family legend has it that this was why he left Virginia to seek fame and fortune elsewhere. As may be, he was gone a long time before we heard of him again. How is the old boy these days? Spry and restless as ever?”

  “I am sure he is, most royal captain—but he is away from Helium on one of his many scientific and exploratory expeditions. The prince regent and his consort, Princess Thuvia, attend to state affairs in his absence.”

  “Has something happened Dejah Thoris? Oh, I hope not!”

  “Your imperial cousin is well, sire. But she is pleased to delegate affairs of state to her son. On only formal state occasions does she appear in person. She has dispensed with most protocol until the return of her husband. That is her custom.”

  “Well, I am sorry that Cousin John is away … but that last is pleasing. I dislike stuffy protocol almost as much as the distinguished doctor. Standing for hours watching processions—parties and balls and receptions that bore a fighting man—you know. But I promised my mother that I could bring her any news of Dejah Thoris … and now I can do so without pother and folderol.”

  “I fancy a private audience can be arranged.”

  “Well, I should think so! Or Mother will send Cousin John a message that will make his ears burn! You know how it is with senior dowagers of a great house. They expect their wishes to be met.”

  Tawm Takus nodded ruefully. “I know how it is among Tharks. It’s the same as Helium.”

  “ ‘Tharks?’ You are from the lands of the Tharks?”

  “I was hatched there, sire.”

  “Hmm … ‘Takus’—any connection with Tars Tarkas?”

  Tommy looked like a happy golliwog. “My brood-uncle of whom I spoke. That’s why I must see to the discipline and training of Kad.”

  “I see. I look forward to meeting Tars Tarkas.”

  “Tars Tarkas is general-in-chief of all Imperial Forces, Red, Green, Yellow, and Black, stationed at the capital. But, alas, he is with the Warlord. They are well-nigh inseparable,” he added proudly.

  Zebbie sighed. “That’s the story of my life. Tawm Takus. When the elephants go past, I’m always out for a short beer.”

  “I do not understand … sire.”

  “Just meaning that I am sorry not to be able to meet your uncle and to gossip with my cousin. I’ve rattled on too long; we must return. First, however, I must add to the introductions. Did I say that my full name is Captain Zebadiah John Carter?”

  “Zebadiah John Carter?”

&nbs
p; “Yes, both my cousin and I are named for our illustrious ancestor. I conjecture that my cousin dropped his first name when he left home—many of us do. I did not because that would make too many ‘John Carters’ in Virginia. And one is enough for Barsoom so I’ll continue to be known as ‘Zebadiah’—a word to the wise, friend. But it gives me great pleasure to say that Princess Deety made me her consort … so she is known in Virginia as Milady Zebadiah John Carter. And Princess Hilda is Frau Herr-Doktor-Professor Burroughs, consort of the famous doctor. And Milady Carter, Princess Deety, is daughter of Doctor Burroughs. A family party.”

  Tommy’s eyes were growing so round I thought they would pop out of his sleek head. “A royal family party!”

  “No, no, Tawm Takus, don’t think of us that way. A group of scientists traveling together who happened to be related. No protocol! None.”

  Deety interrupted this horrendous string of lies and half-truths with: “Zebadiah … the sun is dropping. We must leave.”

  “Right away, dear. The Princess Deety keeps track of priorities for her illustrious father. Tell me how to find you in Helium.”

  “Just leave word at American Express.”

  Zebbie didn’t blink. “Fine. See you, Kad, in the sword-masters’ halls. Kaor, Kach Kachkan. Tawm Takus my friend, get word to the Empress that I will send in my card soon and await her conveniences … subject only to the doctor’s researches. Kaor!”

  “But mighty Captain!” Tommy almost wailed.

  We were interrupted by a crackling voice from the pommel—no, not ‘pommel’ as those thoats were ridden bareback. A girth, like those on Brahma bulls ridden at rodeos, but far more ornate and with several items mounted where a pommel should be. “Businessman to Laughing Boy. Come in.”

  Tommy looked torn. “Excuse me, a short moment, gentle sirs and ladies.” He rushed to his thoat, grazing nearby, reached up. “Laughing Boy to Businessman, I read you,”—then muttered, “confound these cheap portable wirelesses! Never work except when you don’t want them.”