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

by Robert A. Heinlein

  He smiled at us, said, “Kaor!”—then spoke to Tawm Takus in rapid-fire Barsoomian.

  Tawm Takus listened, then spoke. “This officer is personal pilot to the Princess Thuvia, consort of the Regent. His name is Jopar Falum ….”

  The pilot grinned. “Call me Joe!”

  “… and he does not speak your language other than that one phrase, one you may take literally. His rank is “padwar” but, he having invited you to use his English nickname, I am sure that he would feel reprimanded if you addressed him by rank. Of course you may if you wish; it is correct protocol, I am not advising you not to do so. He knows who you are and where to take you—to the palace, not to the Hilton, I am happy to learn. Doctor Burroughs, you ordered ‘no protocol.’ May I introduce your pilot to you? Or is that against your wishes?”

  “Eh? Introduce us all. Certainly.” I began to wonder just how far ‘no protocol’ went. A modicum of ritual smooths relations … but one must know the ritual.

  “Thank you, Doctor; you are gracious. The Princess Hilda, allow me to present your servant, Jopar Falum.”

  “Kaor, Joe!” My darling gave him her sunniest smile.

  Joe answered, “Kaor, (Barsoomian title) Hilda!” while bowing deeply. The honorific I did not catch then—but it is one used for a Barsoomian woman royal by birth or marriage, so “Princess” will do. The same word with possessive inflection has a different meaning and must be used with great care. The nuances of the Barsoomian language are so complex that it is safer to speak English. None of the couriers employed by American Express or Thomas Cook is terrestrial human.

  Joe added a sentence as he straightened up. “What did he say?” demanded Hilda.

  “A compliment to you, Princess. It does not translate easily.”

  “You can try, can’t you?”

  “Princess Hilda, a literal translation would distort the true meaning deplorably.” Tawm Takus’ lisp had taken over strongly, a sure sign that he was embarrassed.

  I told Hilda to drop it.

  She seemed about to balk, then shrugged and smiled. “Okay, Tommy Tucker—but remember it for our first language session.”

  He agreed, then Deety got the same routine. She said, “Tommy, if that’s another you don’t want to translate, just save it up and tell Hilda later.” It was.

  For me and for Zeb the routine was simpler. Joe answered us with “Kaor, Doctor Burroughs,” and “Kaor, Captain Zebadiah John Carter,” each with a Barsoomian open-handed salute, which we imitated.

  We boarded then, found that we were expected (by Joe showing us) to lie down and each hang on to a looped strap, two of us forward (Deety and Zeb) and my wife and I aft. The deck was padded; we were comfortable.

  Joe went forward, lay down on his belly; we took off with a surge. Twenty minutes later we landed on the roof of the palace.

  The canopy swung up; Joe jumped out and offered his forearm to our ladies. We were boxed by a hollow square of swordsmen, each with sword at point and their commander with his held high. Their leather was crusted with sparkling ornaments. No protocol?

  No protocol—a man not of the guard and armed only with a sword was standing where we debarked. “Doctor Burroughs?”

  “I am he. Kaor.”

  “Kaor, learned doctor. I am Navok, (Barsoomian word), Mayor of the Palace, Majordomo to the Regent. The Regent sends greetings to you and to his senior cousin Captain Zebadiah John Carter and his respects to your consorts, the Princess Hilda and the Princess Deety. It is his understanding that you prefer no formality—but if such be not the case, he directs me to call out the Guard and to inform him post haste so that the Regent and his consort may hurry here to greet you.”

  (So this was not “the guard”!)

  Zeb moved in quickly, spoke for me. “Please tell my young cousin that our message reached him correctly. The doctor wishes no fuss to be made over his visit. He is here to pursue his researches, not to have his time taken up with ceremonies. Tonight we are weary; tomorrow will be soon enough for informal greetings … or so it seems to me.”

  “Certainly, Captain Zebadiah John Carter of Virginia.” Navok spoke more slowly now—I think his opening speech had been memorized. His grammar remained perfect and his accent precise, with a flavor of the Old Dominion. “The doctor’s wishes will be met and your suggestion will be conveyed to the Regent.”

  “Good. It seems to me these watchmen could return to their posts. We appreciate the salute but there is no need to continue it.”

  “Yes, Captain.” The palace boss tossed a word over his shoulder; the (officer of the watch? sergeant of the guard?) brought his blade down smartly, the hollow square broke and they trotted away in all directions—it was a very big roof. But a squad remained and stationed themselves around us. No protocol? Navok continued, “I bring greetings also from Tardos Mors, Jeddak of Helium, Mors Kajak, Jed of Lesser Helium—but by wireless; they are not in residence. Dejah Thoris, granddaughter of Tardos Mors, daughter of Mors Kajak, Princess of Helium, consort of the Warlord, Mother of the Regent, Empress, sends her warmest greetings to Hilda, Princess of Logan, and to Deety, Princess of Virginia, and looks forward to greeting them in person. Meanwhile, she has sent a surrogate to ensure that your slightest wish be met. I am under the same orders. Tell any servant, any watchman, and I will come at once, night or day. I have spoken. Tira!”

  From out of the shadows a woman appeared, almost running, and prostrated herself in front of Hilda and Deety, forehead and hands to the landing platform, knees tucked under her. She moved so quickly that I did not get a good look at her, just a glimpse that told me that she was shapely and bare as an egg. No ornaments. Not even a dagger at belt or a ring on her fingers.

  Hilda squatted down, touched her arm. “Dear, don’t do that. Stand up!”

  Tira flowed to her feet (yes, she was shapely—but in Helium, as in Charleston, South Carolina, an unsightly female is hard to find … with the difference that the Red women of Barsoom look as young as coeds for so very long that some violent death usually catches up with them before entropy does. A blessing? Or a curse?).

  Tira said softly, “The princess is most gracious.” She stopped, then added, “May I guide you to your apartments?” Her English had a lilt to it, as if she had come from middle Sweden, near Uppsala.

  “The sooner the better, dear. ‘Tira,’ is it? Chilly up here at night.”

  (Chilly indeed, but not as cold as I had expected. The landing platform felt warm to my bare feet. Radiant heating?)

  “Come this way, please.”

  The remaining squad formed around us. I turned to say goodnight to Joe and to Navok; both had vanished. We moved off, halted at a spot that seemed not to be marked—it dropped under us.

  Zeb steadied my elbow. Just a lift, and one that immediately acquired high guard sides. The palace, and all of Barsoom that we saw, was not difficult to cope with … if you were used to it. (Imagine a Barsoomian in Manhattan’s subways and you’ll have the idea.)

  A “sophisticate” is a person who knows where the light switch is. In Helium we rarely knew “where the light switch is”—or anything else.

  So Tira realized (or had been told). That palace contained hundreds of people, five of them fluent in English. Three of the five were royal. One was the boss’ flunky, Navok. One was a slave, Tira.

  Okay, “indentured”—but I insist that an indenture of almost forty Earth years is slavery. Tira, who spoke English so well that she could think in it and knew quite a bit of slang, referred to herself as a slave. Anyone in the palace who wore no ornaments and no weapons was a slave.

  I might as well spend the ten minutes it took us to reach our apartments in trying to explain Tira, as the trip was monotonous—but we could not have made it alone; every archway, every door, had armed guards. We were challenged throughout our passage—but never slowed down as the petty officer in charge of our escort sang out to each challenge, whereupon the guards we passed shifted instantly to sword salute, Barsoomian
style.

  Tira called herself a slave as cheerfully as my daughter might answer, “I’m a computer software specialist.” Tira did not feel oppressed; she was a success and proud of it. Her parents were minor shopkeepers in Lesser Helium. She was still learning to read and write Barsoomian, although she had spoken it almost from hatching.

  But she spoke fluent, grammatical English, read it as easily, and wrote it in penmanship far better than mine. How? A planned and successful strategy.

  Her prospects had been negligible—no education and she worked without pay for her parents. But she saved her coins … and don’t ask me how she got them; I refrained from asking. She used her savings to learn English at Berlitz night school in Lesser Helium, studying under an expatriate couple from Minneapolis—and studied hard. Learning a language does not mean passing examinations (although most students and instructors seem to think so); learning a language means being possessed by a drive to master that language until one uses it as easily as one’s native tongue. I’ve never had that drive, although I read the languages useful to mathematicians (five) and can get by orally in three (macerating accent and syntax).

  Tira had the drive; she mastered English. She could then have picked from many good jobs—travel bureau, Hilton Interplanetary, export-import firms—but she had set her sights higher. She got word (bribery, probably) to the palace that a Red woman who spoke excellent English offered herself for sale—but not on the auction block. Private sale. Then she waited.

  Navok interviewed her, offered her a good price. She thanked him and turned it down. A ten-day later a palace guard was sent to fetch her; the Princess Thuvia wanted to inspect this oddity. Thuvia bought her as a present for her mother-in-law, Dejah Thoris.

  We came to large doors flanked by guards. They saluted; we went through and our escort remained outside while Tira came in. The great doors closed. We went on through a large foyer into a comfy “living room” about four times as big as Hilda’s ballroom and lavish enough for Mad King Ludwig.

  Eight—count ’em, eight—Red females were lined upon the padded floor, in that same full submission Tira had offered us. Our slaves-on-loan—two for each of us.

  Hilda and Deety at once tried to put a stop to it—without success. Tira said, “Miladies Princesses, they know no English. That is why I am here.”

  “Then you tell them!” said Deety.

  Tira spoke; the eight stood up, waited. Deety added, “Now tell them they are not to do that again. Not with us. Not with any of us.”

  “I will tell them” Tira agreed, “but I am not sure they will understand. They have been carefully trained. They will think that you are displeased with them.”

  Deety looked frustrated. My darling took over. “Tira, do you know what a curtsy is?”

  “I think I know, Princess Hilda—but doesn’t it require those floor-length ornaments worn by Earthling ladies?”

  (No one told her that long skirts had become scarce on Earth. Then I recalled that I had no notion of what women were wearing on Earth-Ten.)

  “Not at all!” Deety answered. “Like this.” She dropped her right foot behind her, bobbed down with her left knee, spine erect. “Try it.”

  Tira tried it. “No,” Deety corrected, “not quite. Your right toe barely touches, with all your weight on your left leg.” She did it slowly. “Like that, but quicker. Now try again.”

  Tira curtsied, correctly. “That’s it. There is another sort, for long skirts, but it is used in dancing. This curtsy is the correct way for a domestic servant to salute her mistress, or master, or guest, on Earth. Prostration all the way to the floor may be correct for Helium, but never for Virginia or for Logan. Never! It offends us. Please explain this to them. Then teach them proper manners for serving Earthlings. Go ahead—you did it beautifully.”

  Tira dimples when she smiles.

  Her talk to the eight slave girls (“girls”?—the one who looked sixteen may have been a century old)—Tira’s explanation drew surprise, doubt, beginning comprehension, acceptance, in that order. Then we had a chorus line, by the numbers—One! Two! Three!—Down! Hold! Up!

  A beautiful sight! All had red skins, black hair on their heads, no body hair worth mentioning, and any of them would have placed in the finals in any beauty contest on Earth. But their skin colors ran from copper to mahogany, they ranged in height from as short as my beloved to slightly taller than my daughter, from willowy slender to pleasantly plump.

  One little girl stumbled, her lip trembled; Deety quickly moved in beside her, placed a firm arm around her waist, did it with her, smiling at her. Hilda moved in on another one, then moved on to a third—then watched. “That’s enough, Tira,” she decided. “They all have it perfectly, stop them.”

  Deety squeezed little Tremble-Lip (smiling now), kissed her quickly. “Good girl! You’ve got it, Tira! Tell her what ‘Good girl!’ means.”

  Tremble-Chin dimples, too, but also blushes, from warm copper to deep red.

  “Tira,” said my daughter, “we don’t know their names. Or what they do.”

  “They do whatever you wish, Princess. But I must tell them … at first. I think that you will find that they learn quickly. Now these three, and that one”—Tira pointed—“are especially skilled as ladies’ maids. The other four are experienced in serving gentlemen. However, any of them can do either. If I may suggest it, each of you could pick two as your personal slaves … but you all can expect service from whichever one is nearest. And from me, always. I am not here just to translate; the Empress has given me to you for however many cycles you choose to live in the palace. Or to travel with you if such be your pleasure.”

  “Travel on Barsoom, you mean,” I said, “as we will be traveling elsewhere, to other planets, when I have completed my scientific investigations here.”

  Tira looked interested, but not daunted. “The jeddara placed no restriction, Doctor Burroughs. I am your slave until such time as it pleases your fancy to give me back.” She looked at me thoughtfully. “Travel is broadening, I have heard. I have never been outside the gates of the twin cities of Helium.”

  We had to make choices; Tira had strongly implied that we were expected to do so. But no one was willing to risk hurting the feelings of any of them. One of the saddest things in childhood is being picked last in choosing up sides—and these grown women felt childlike to me in their vulnerability … even though the youngest might be older than I.

  My daughter solved it by lottery with no hurt feelings: two maids to Hilda, two to her, with the “vallettes” split between me and Zeb. My two were Kissa and Teeka, the latter being “Tremble-Chin” whose chin never trembled again (impossible to be stern with such willingness to please) even when mistakes were made through lack of common language and background.

  At Hilda’s suggestion, Tira took us on a tour of our apartment, a parade of threes, as Teeka and Kissa placed themselves one on each side of me, as did the other six with my wife, my daughter, and Zeb. But it was not a column of three as no passage was so narrow as not to allow nine people abreast had we wished. Instead, we milled around. Deety was prone to dart off to the side to look at something (pursued by two wood nymphs), then call to Hilda or all of us to “Come see, too!”

  In addition to a large foyer and that enormous living room (about six meters to the ornate ceiling, and broad and wide in proportion) there were four large sleeping rooms—no beds; the floors were pleasantly soft-firm, with sleeping silks, cushions, and furs in colorful heaps. The corridors of the palace had appeared to be paved in marble, but all floors in our apartment were soft to the feet; sleeping rooms were more deeply padded.

  There was a banquet hall with a long, low table—no chairs but many cushions. I saw no chairs anywhere but there were many places suitable for sitting: alcoves, benches that were integral with walls, and something like love seats.

  The apartment had only one bath—but the “tub” was an oval pool flush with the floor and twenty meters long. It was not a “bat
hroom” in the American idiomatic sense; instead every room had at least one “powder room” but with fixtures so unlike ours that I had to puzzle them out, being (I confess) too shy to ask Tira. But I was not left in ignorance; Deety poked into everything, asked questions, and the word filtered to us males.

  I was pleased to see, also, a small dining room. It opened on a balcony, as did all major rooms. The balcony hung over an inner garden but we could see little, it being night—and too chilly to be outdoors. Of greater interest was the lavish buffet in that refectory.

  My daughter said, “Golly, that looks good! I had been intending to bathe before asking about food—but now I’m torn. Pop, what do you think?”

  “You’re married now. Ask your husband.”

  “Zeb just tells me to make up my own mind.”

  Tira said, “If I may suggest, Princess Deety, there is no need to make a choice.”

  “Explain yourself, Tira hon.”

  “Yes, Princess. I have heard and I have read that on Earth it is the custom to eat at certain times, sleep at certain times, bathe at certain times. In Helium, and especially in the palace, there are no customs in such matters save on formal occasions. One eats when one is hungry, sleeps when one is sleepy, bathes when one feels the wish. Not infrequently hunger and a wish to bathe can occur at the same time … especially, I have noticed, after traveling. So one does both.”

  “How?” Deety challenged.

  “It is the happy duty of Larlo and Fig to bathe and feed the princess whenever she wishes. Shall I tell them to do so now?”

  “Zebadiah, this is the best hotel I’ve ever been in! Want to join me? Get soap suds in your soup?”

  We all joined her, all having the same dilemma. Me, I felt that I should stink of thoat—ridiculous, as thoats do not carry an odor.

  Tira gave an order; all eight slave girls got very busy while we four and Tira started back toward the bathing room, about a hundred meters away. Zeb muttered something about “ ‘All this joint lacks is bicycles.’ ”