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

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “Uh … Zeb, this isn’t Barsoom.”

  “So? Have they changed its name since yesterday?”

  “But Barsoom isn’t a real place! It’s just in a story. Like Oz.”

  I ate a Barsoomian grape—no seeds and big as a plum. “So it’s in a story and it turned out to be real. You want to sue?”

  “No. I want a hypothesis to account for it.”

  “You sound like a philosopher! Jake, theories are a dime a dozen and causation is a myth. But if you want a theory, slip this one on for size. Edgar Rice Burroughs—or maybe John Carter, since Burroughs insisted that he simply recorded what was handed to him—somebody, call him ‘X,’ found a way to reach, not Mars, but Barsoom on Universe-Ten, tau-axis. We know it’s possible, but we did … but someone else did too and beat us to it. Shucks, we know American Express beat us to it, but John Carter got here even sooner. Does that theory fit?”

  “Uh … this Barsoom isn’t quite like the one in those classic romances. Similar … but not the same.”

  “What of it? It wouldn’t be the first time that a reporter slanted his story. My theory covers all data, I think. Got a better one?”

  “Well … no.”

  “My theory is pure hogwash, Jake, whipped up as fast as the stuff I was shoveling yesterday. Why don’t you stick to what you are best at?”

  “Eh?”

  “You’ve told me—and I believe it—that you are one of the new breed of mathematical physicists who doesn’t worry about what ought to be—a meaningless concept, you said, and I agree—but instead attempts to invent mathematics to describe the real world, as you see it. This is a real world we are in—our bellies are full … and we’ve got nine girls getting hungry while we’ve been yakking; we should be ashamed. Hey! Wogi! Ajal!”

  My little shadows came zipping out; sign language sufficed; they cleared things off like a prairie fire, leaving us each a cup of uncoffee. “Good girls!” I called after them. “Jake, your genius for inventing new math gave us the key to the universes, an unthinkable number of them—the Number of the Beast. Now we find that one of them matches, or almost, what we had both thought of as a fictional universe. If this planet had been utterly unfamiliar, neither of us would have boggled. Instead, you are moaning because it’s too familiar. Can’t you devise a sheaf of postulates to include this Barsoom?” If you can, will your description also fit other universes we’ve always thought of as fiction? Some might turn out to be as real as this Barsoom. I don’t say all of them; that’s too much to ask. But some. Atlantis. Doc Smith’s Gray Lensman. Can you write equations for a few?”

  Jake said slowly, “I can write equations for all of them.”

  “Hey! I didn’t ask to buy the store. I’ll settle for a few.”

  “Zeb, I’ve been sitting here thinking about three theories. One, I was killed in that explosion in the parking lot and this is where I wound up. A dying dream, or possibly another life.”

  “Huh uh! No, Doc. That may fit you, it doesn’t fit me.”

  “I anticipated your objection. The second theory is solipsism.”

  “Solipsism is a cop-out, Jake. It explains everything and nothing. Nor can I buy your solipsism; it’s got to be mine.”

  “Yes, that’s the weakness of solipsism. Ever hear the theory that in endless time and space, not only everything can happen but has happened and will happen? Mathematically, it is equivalent to Cantor’s Alephs, or higher infinities—and contains the same fallacy. But a brilliant writer named Brown wrote a fine story about it.”

  “Fredric Brown’s What Mad Universe—Yes, I know that book, Jake. A classic. You say it contains a fallacy? I was impressed by its logic.”

  “I didn’t say the story contained a fallacy; I said that the mathematical theory contained a fallacy. Mr. Brown’s story may be utterly real. Is real … if the formulation I’ve been thinking about has any merit.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Zeb, the most powerful concept in modern physics is the quantum. The longer it is studied, the more we find out about how nature ticks. Discrete units, everywhere we look. World has texture; that texture is quantum mechanics. All I did was to extend that notion of smallest units and applied it to closed space … and we started making quantum jumps. Suppose human thought exists in discrete and smallest—not divisible—units?”

  “I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “ ’Tisn’t necessary yet; I haven’t tried writing it down. Or ever necessary, as you tell me you don’t follow the math we used to come here.”

  “I don’t. It works. I’m not a worrier as to why it works.”

  “Well … if human thought, or imagination, exists in quants, then every conceivable universe lies somewhere in the Number of the Beast. A very large number … so large as not to be physically countable—just written. But still a number. Not infinity. Zeb, if thought is quantized, every story ever told—or to be told—same idea in closed continua—is real. Gulliver’s Travels. Travis McGee. The Wizard of Oz. Barsoom. Wagner’s Ring Cycle. Doesn’t matter. Room for all of them. And we may find ourselves in any of them. Although it is a high improbability that we will—in one lifetime—happen to hit another that we recognize as being a fiction story in the universe we were born in. Although we might. A basic law of statistics is that the extremely unlikely is as real as the humdrum almost-certain.”

  “Hmm … I’d better stick to the left seat while you twist the verniers. You said you were worried about a fourth thing.”

  “Yes. Pregnant women … on a planet that doesn’t use obstetrics!”

  XXIII

  Jake

  Zeb and I were still lazing on the balcony when a gong sounded. Zeb’s talk, and, even more, his presence, had done me a world of good. I’m a worrier; Zeb is not. I don’t mean that Zeb is happy-go-lucky; he’s not. There is an old prayer that goes something like this: “God grant me the strength to cope with troubles I can solve, the serenity to endure those I cannot solve—and the wisdom to know the one from the other.”

  The wording is not exact, and I don’t know who first said it. Zeb Carter seems to have been born knowing it. But he wouldn’t phrase it that way. Zeb would be more likely to say, “Don’t bang your head against a stone wall.” He might add: “Climb over, go around, tunnel under, knock a hole in it—and if nothing works, forget it! Change your plans. Or take a nap. But don’t get ulcers.”

  I had gotten up fretful because I’ve come to expect Hilda to be within arm’s reach—or not too far away to call. But I woke in a strange place and she was gone—and I got up so suddenly that I omitted my morning ritual of “talking” with Jane. A mistake.

  So I fretted—instead of savoring the most lavish breakfast I have ever seen. Solipsism, for heaven’s sake! God invented people to amuse Him because He didn’t have television—that makes just as much sense! The world of experience is the only “reality” (undefined term) I know, so that was the one to cope with.

  Zeb reduced our problems to two practical ones: 1) how best to outfit for more travel, and b) find a friendly planet with skilled obstetricians, if possible, during the first trimester of our darlings.

  All else was either irrelevant or must be tabled for later. Including “Blokes in Black Hats” with double-hinged legs and green blood.

  Meanwhile, whenever I had time, I could think about the elegant notion of trying to apply quantum mechanics to human imagination. Is there somewhere—when—a Seacoast Bohemia? Is Dorothy walking the Yellow Brick Road with companions as grotesque and as friendly as Kach Kachkan and Kanakook? Does Huck Finn float down an endless Mississippi with imposters as preposterous as we? Is Allan Quartermain exploring the Mountains of the Moon? The Gray Lensman righting Galactic wrongs? Is the Mad Tea Party going strong—with, of course, “the best butter”? When—where—will Wotan sell one eye that the human race may flourish? What verniers must I touch, what translations, what rotations, to find the Once-and-Future King seated opposite Siege Perilous with his knights in circle ar
ound him?

  What of 221B Baker Street and the house on West 35th? Did Major Edgar Allan Poe “Go South” in ’61 or did his West Point indoctrination cause him to die fighting for “damn Yankees”? Either way, did he find time to write the loveliest lyrics since Shakespeare? Does Kuka Shan dream of her restless barbarian in company with Dido and Poor Butterfly in some land no farther away than a twist of my dials?

  My mind was buzzing happily with new symbols and an urge to manipulate them as equations when that gong broke my recovery.

  Tira hurried in out onto the balcony—started to drop into full prostration, caught herself, curtsied, started a rush of worlds: “The prince regent commands …” stopped, stuttered, and started over, saying most carefully, while staring straight ahead: “Prince Carthoris sends this inquiry to Captain Zebadiah John Carter of Virginia: is this a convenient time for him to call on his senior cousin? Or should he try again some later time?”

  Zeb said, “Take it easy, Tira, nobody’s going to bite you. Certainly, this is as good a time as any.”

  I interrupted before she could back away. “Did the prince want to see me? Or does he want to speak to the captain alone?”

  “The prince regent did not mention the distinguished doctor. I cannot answer your question; I do not know.”

  Zeb said, “Stick around, Jake; he’ll see us both. I’ll do the talking—unless you feel like chucking in something. I mean, I’m willing to carry the ball. Tira, send word to my cousin that he’s welcome. How soon can we expect him?”

  “Captain, he’s right outside your doors!”

  “Oh! Go let him in! Come on, Jake; we’ll meet our guest at the door.”

  Instead of taking off like an arrow, Tira stammered again. “C-C-Captain, must I c-c-curtsy?”

  “Oh. Honey chill, do whatever makes you feel easiest. Now scoot!”

  She scooted. As we reached the foyer, the big doors started to open, and a voice boomed: “The Prince Regent!”

  A handsome, well-built young Red man came in. He was wearing plain leather, no ornaments, but his belt buckle was shaped in the sigil of the Warlord. He was wearing a sword, no other weapons. “Sorry about that,” he said, grinning. “I told them ‘no protocol.’ I’m Carthoris.” He glanced at each of us. “Senior Cousin?”

  Zeb stepped forward, stuck out his hand. “I’m Zeb Carter.”

  The prince shook hands. “I’m happy to meet you, Senior Cousin. Our home is yours.”

  “Thanks, Prince. In the family I’m called ‘Zeb.’ This is my father-in-law, Doctor Burroughs.”

  Carthoris bowed to me. “I am honored, distinguished doctor.”

  I stuck out my hand instead of bowing back. “My name inside our family is ‘Jake,’ Your Imperial Highness.”

  “Doctor, I’d be most pleased to be treated as a member of your family, as well as Zeb’s and mine—and call you ‘Jake’—if you’ll knock off the fancy titles with me. I’m called ‘Cart’ at home … except that my mother uses my full name. However, she named me.” He grinned again, a most engaging grin. He was smooth-shaven—if Red men had beards; I wasn’t sure.

  “ ‘Cart,’ it is,” I agreed, as Zeb urged us all inside. Tira was still face down, knees drawn under her, motionless. Carthoris glanced at her.

  “Zeb, she won’t stir until you tell her to. I can’t tell her; she belonged to my mother until Mother gave her to you.”

  Zeb leaned down, patted Tira’s head. “Get up, Tira, and say hello to the prince.”

  Tira got to her feet like an opening flower, stood with downcast eyes. “This humble one is deeply honored to be permitted to greet the prince regent.”

  “Tira,” Carthoris said mildly, “that wasn’t what your master told you to say. He said for you to say hello to the prince.”

  She raised her eyes, said solemnly, “Hello … Prince.”

  “Howdy, Tira. Zeb, servants are deucedly conservative. You and I—and Jake—can dispense with protocol. But they won’t. Tira has known me many cycles; she is a member of our family in all but rank. But she insists on doing that full salute dozens of times each day—as if the ink were still wet on her contract. No way to stop her. Won’t get up without permission.”

  “We stopped her, Cart,” said Zeb.

  “What? How? Tell me your secret.”

  “Tira had special permission from me to prostrate herself to you. But with us—we substituted a simpler salute used in Virginia. Tira, please curtsy to the prince.”

  Her eyes widened, but she bobbed up and down at once.

  “See?” Zeb went on. “It’s like giving a hand salute instead of bothering to draw sword. Means the same but quicker and more convenient. Saves time, both for you and your servant. Since your servant’s time is yours, it doubly saves your time.”

  “By Issus, that’s clever! I must tell Mother. Mother is always looking for better ways to do things. You say this is common in Virginia?”

  “Yes.” (Zeb didn’t tell him that servants were no longer common.)

  “Then my father is familiar with the custom. We can have every servant in the palace trained in it before he gets back. Using it. Except for visiting jeds and jeddaks, I think.”

  “May I make a suggestion, Cart?” I put in.

  “The distinguished Doct—Jake, your words of wisdom are welcome always.”

  “This isn’t wisdom, but it may be common sense. How many servants are there in the palace?”

  “Tira?”

  “Two thousand one hundred and eighty-eight last ten-day muster, Highness. The free citizens employ …”

  “Never mind those. So many? No wonder Mother mutters over the grocery bills.”

  “Cart, how many are habitually in contact with royalty? Or with nobility or any others to whom they prostrate themselves?”

  “There aren’t any others besides family and a few resident nobility. Servants must be respectful to officers of the guard and to upper servants, but not by dropping to the floor. Wouldn’t get any work done. Tira, in answer to the distinguished doctor—how many?”

  “Imperial Highness, I can but estimate.”

  “Come off it, dear. You know the palace better than I do. Make a guess.”

  Tira couldn’t come out with an instant answer the way my daughter can. I could see her lips move. “Highness and Doctor, approximately one hundred and twenty slaves come in contact with royalty and nobility one or more times each day. The number varies because some—personal servants—are close at hand day and night. And some several times a day. And some may live in the palace a full cycle and never see royalty or nobility … but the very next day might be sent on an errand that would take her clear into the inner chambers of the jeddara.”

  I said, “Simple enough, Cart. Limit the curtsy to upper servants, and to any habitually in close contact with your family and resident nobles. I assume that servants serving your family are your best.”

  “Oh, certainly!”

  “So make it a mark of distinction limited to those few—inner servants and supervisor servants. You’ll accomplish the same time-saving … and yet those few are the very ones smart enough to shift to the old way when serving visiting royalty. In addition to making it a privilege, you can use it another way. Minor punishment. If a curtsy-privileged servant slacks off or does something she knows she should not do, you can assign loss of privilege—back to prostrations for a day or a ten-day or whatever the offense merits.”

  Carthoris grinned. “Wouldn’t have to whip them so often. Tira, how many times have you been whipped?”

  Her eyes widened. “Highness, not once.”

  “About how many whippings in the palace each ten-day?”

  She hesitated. “Highness, none … that I know of.”

  “She’s right, gentle friends. Since my father became Jeddak of Jeddaks, no servant’s been whipped in this household. It is still lawful in Helium … but rare, so strong is the example of my parents. You see …. Well, perhaps you don’t; I don’t know how much of
our history you know. But I, my wife, my mother, and even my father have been slaves one time or another. Complete slaves, not servants under indenture. So we know what the lash means and are too proud to use it on the helpless. Flogging for crimes not meriting death, yes. But not for peccadillos of servants. Tira, what do you think of the proposal? Speak truth, speak my name, look me in the eye. I have spoken.”

  Tira took a deep breath. “Carthoris, I think it a good proposal. It would be a source of pride … and its mirror use as a means of discipline would cause such shame that rarely it would be needed. Service would never be slack, I think, but I do not recommend it without reservations.”

  “How so, woman? You just did recommend all of it.”

  “I recommend that it be tried … for two ten-days. If it does not work well, you can return to the old way before your grandfather and your great-grandfather return from Okar.”

  Zeb chortled. “She knows Murphy’s Law!”

  Tira looked startled. The prince cocked a brow. “Perhaps Tira does, but I don’t.”

  “ ‘What can go wrong, will go wrong.’ So always test a process or a machine or whatever as thoroughly as possible—then still be careful. It may turn and bite you.”

  “Oh. We have a similar saying. But this is a shrewd one, is Tira. She should have been born a princess—and some smart Jed may make her his princess yet. Lay his sword at her feet and marry her in full state.”

  “Highness … that could never happen.”

  “That’s what the pilot said just before he crashed. Remember Murphy’s Law, dear. But you won’t be sold; you must love him or Mother would never consent.” Carthoris patted her cheek, kissed her quickly, a mere peck. “Now tell me: have you been taking good care of our guests?”

  “Highness, I have tried.”

  “Just ‘tried’? What untrained apprentices have you been using? Let me see them. With your permission, Zeb?” he added.

  “Certainly, Cart.”

  Tira clapped twice; our girls came bursting out their side corridor as if for fire drill, lined upon the bounce, dropped in full prostration in unison. Zeb and I started patting heads, they stood up and waited.