Deety braced herself and looked squarely at the exhibit—gulped once, and said, “You could be right.”
“I am right. Tommy. How long have these been extinct?”
“I don’t know, Princess Hilda. Kach Kachkan?”
“Nor do I.” The larger giant added, “My horde used tansery. Cheevil was hard to find.”
“Kach!” Deety exploded. “You have eaten them?”
“No, Princess Deety. They were gone before I was hatched.”
“I feel better.”
“I don’t,” said Hilda. “I don’t care who ate them or how they were cooked. I want to know how long ago this was—and where they came from. Tommy, say your brood-mother’s brood-mother cooked them. How many cycles ago would that be?”
Tawm Takus looked helpless. “Princess Hilda, how can this one tell? My people keep no records; we had no written language. Stories were handed down around campfires … and, I feel certain, sometimes changed in the telling. The expression ‘brood-mother’s brood-mother’ does not mean ‘grandmother’—it means”—the giant hesitated—
“ ‘Once upon a time!’ Or ‘Many cycles ago.’ Where they came from? Issus alone knows. They are not like any other creature in Barsoom. Legend has it that they appeared in great numbers … then they were gone. Eaten. Or back to whatever lair they were hatched in. But they are no longer seen on Barsoom.” He pointed to an inscription. “That reads, ‘Gone where the oceans went.’ I translated it as ‘extinct.’ ”
“I wish they were,” said Hilda. “But they are not. Come, we must hurry home.”
XXVII
Zebadiah
The next day I decided to help our gals by finding out the going price on couriers. But I decided to be “cute” about it. A haystack is no place to hide a needle—hide it in a stack of other needles. I got hold of Tira, explained what I wanted to find out, and my notion of how to conceal it. She listened, then said, “Captain, may I offer one suggestion?”
“Tira, your suggestions are always valuable.”
“Captain, I thank you and pray that I will continue to merit your good opinion.”
“Don’t be humble, Tira; you’re smarter than I am—and you know it.”
Tira managed not to hear the comparison. “I suggest that the captain send identical messages to American Express and to Thomas Cook. That might conceal even more thoroughly the point you wish to know.”
I thought so, too. Tira turned out to have access to palace stationery—scrolls that looked like parchment; each had the sigil of the Warlord on it.
Here’s what she wrote, one to each agency:
To the Manager of American Express in Helium—
Greetings—
In anticipation of the pleasure of entertaining honored guests, I desire to learn what services of all sorts you are prepared to supply for the edification and amusement of strangers to this great city. I trust that your reply will include full details concerning each diversion offered with tariff schedules both for parties of several guests and for escorted single guests or couples. Please quote fees for refreshments separately and state them both for service in the Hilton Interplanetary and for service elsewhere, with all details.
For this courtesy, I thank you. My messenger will wait for your reply—which, I trust, will be prompt.
Captain Zebadiah John Carter of Virginia,
Senior Cousin of the Jeddak of Jeddaks,
Warlord of Barsoom
Given at the Palace—My Hand
At the bottom on each was space for my handprint—nothing as messy as ink; the parchment, when a hand was pressed to it, produced a sharp print—impregnated somehow.
I read each letter while thinking about the relative merits of being hanged as a sheep rather than as a lamb. However, my claim of cousinship to a “fictional” character who had turned out to be real was known to the manager of American Express from the day we arrived (and soon after, I suspected, to Thomas Cook Agency)—and known and accepted by the royal family … and, no doubt common gossip throughout the city; I hadn’t dared try to keep my claim quiet. Still, I hoped that my “cousin” would not return until after we were gone. I pressed my hand to each sheet, handed them to Tira, thanked her—turned to other matters and put it out of my mind.
Service was good—in less than two hours answers were handed in by our door guards.
The packages were mostly brochures of guided tours. I had barely time to find one item on the American Express schedule of tariffs when Deety and Hilda returned—the item being:
“Personal Courier (English-speaking), by the day—Tanpi 50”
“Personal Courier (no English), by the day—Tanpi 25”
I got no further because Hilda and Deety had seen a ‘Bloke in a Black Hat,’ a double-jointed alien with green blood. It took a number of questions to tell, first, that it was a dead alien. Second, that it was a museum exhibit. Third, it was possible that it was a “Madame Tussaud” job, a realistic simulacrum—although Deety did not think so and Hilda felt certain that it was not … some sort of perfect embalming.
Tawm and Kach had assured them that the “vermin” were “extinct” on Barsoom (I hoped so!) and had been for longer than either of them knew.
Nevertheless, I sent across the corridor for them and questioned them myself—while I was doing so, Jake returned and went over the same ground.
Tawm stated that it was an actual body, preserved; then conceded that it could have been a reproduction, but he knew of no reason why a substitution would be necessary or why the sign would not have mentioned it. (I couldn’t see that it mattered—mummy or wax image—if Hilda was correct … and she was mostly firmly certain.) Stipulating that she was right, the nasties did have continua craft (but we had deduced that before we fled from the attacks on us).
The major new datum was that the nasties seemed to make a habit of invading wherever they could get a toehold … even on a dying planet. It made traveling among the universes less attractive. How widespread were they? What was the Number of the Beast?
There was one somewhat comforting corollary: they had been driven off Barsoom with primitive weapons (I doubted that all had been eaten; they had fled). I began to think longingly of a planet of civilized human nudists—where double-jointed aliens could never disguise themselves. Had there been even one obstetrician on Barsoom I would have favored staying right there—banths and all.
I called in Tira and questioned her. She had never been to the museum, almost never left the palace. But Hilda can sketch and knew that anatomy. Yes, Tira had heard of them. It was long ago, she was certain, but she knew what they were. She suggested that the captain ask the prince regent; there might be records—she didn’t know.
It was next morning before I got a chance to examine those two packages. Deety is courageous—recall who gave Jake and me our chance to kill that armed fake “ranger” and how she did it—but courage is the complement of fear and those double-jointed “Black Hats” gave Deety the willies. Once we were alone in our sleeping room she got taken by the shakes—fear she had kept bottled up since afternoon. So I had no time for brochures; I had to comfort her. Eventually, she got to sleep and clung like a limpet all night.
The next day our gals spent with Thuvia. I had nothing urgent to do aside from minor items. Gay Deceiver was ready to travel. The space-for-sleeping problem had been worked out. A double bed that was nothing but a sleeping silk stretched taut by a light frame (dural, it seemed to be, but more rigid) was suspended over all four seats and the instrument board, and secured port and starboard, fore and aft. This offered a springy surface over two meters long, nearly two meters wide, and more than half a meter high—a bed comfortable for two, even with one of them a lout my size.
The space abaft the bulkhead had been greatly revised. The decking was now clear except for the space-time twister. We had packed in great haste; by re-stowing at leisure, discarding wrappings and packaging plus unnecessaries fetched through hasty judgment, we now carried
more in less space—especially food, water, and compressed air.
One item discarded was my bulky, oversized sleeping bag. We now had four sleeping bags that took less space than my old one—thin but warm fur lined with silk. Cart claimed that you could sleep on ice in that fur and never notice it.
I didn’t risk moving the Burroughs continua apparatus; it worked fine where it was, at Gay Deceiver’s center of mass (Jake assured me that this was not necessary, but that was how I had positioned it to balance the car more easily)—since it worked, I left it undisturbed.
Despite that small apparatus, the cleared deck space was ample for two persons of ordinary size. Even I could scrunch into it, in some positions.
Our sleeping bags stowed back there and could be used as bags or blankets as they “unzipped”—not zippers but more like Velcro; the edges clung together under finger pressure, or peeled apart as easily. The bed frame stowed there, too—snapped together and the silk rolled around the frame, like a two-meter flagpole.
Even with garage doors closed, we could rig for sleeping in ten minutes, unrig in five—we proved it one night by sleeping in Gay Deceiver.
So we were almost ready to leave—except that we owed Cart our best efforts concerning a Burroughs-type craft. I was hoping that bids on gyroscopes would show up soon (and was holding back a notion on how to pay for them, if the bids staggered Cart). And, while I had explained that the Burroughs gear did not require Gay Deceiver, that any airtight craft would serve (such as one of his air boats, modified by sealing), nevertheless, I had promised him copies of Gay Deceiver’s manuals. (Never mind that they could not build a solid-state computer, or Gay’s power plant, or an L-gun; a promise is a promise. Cart had gone all-out for us; we would not short-change him. So Gay’s anatomy was being copied, page by page, but this time by painting on translucent overlays with a master artist checking each page.
My efforts to teach Cart the engineering motions behind Jake’s continua twister without resorting to abstruse math resulted in a change in attitude by Mobyas Toras; he now treated Jake with respect instead of brushing him off as a nuisance. Like this—
Cart and Thuvia, without Jake, had a session with the ancient savant. Mobyas Toras would not be so uncouth as to fail to listen to Prince Regent and Consort even though he esteemed himself (correctly) as being their mental superior. So, speaking their own language, writing in their own mathematical symbols, and illustrating what they were saying with sketches and thread-model projections done in bamboo slivers and clay pellets, Cart and Thuv passed on to Mobyas Toras my kindergarten version of n-dimensional, curved, and closed space.
Thuvia told me that the old mathematician had listened, bored, but attentive—then had suddenly brightened: “Oh! That branch of metronomy! Why hadn’t the Earthling doctor said so?”
Thuvia had answered, “Because, Learned Elder, he had no language in common with you. He was attempting to build one, starting with basic elements.”
“Mmmph! That must be corrected. His field of mathematics is a most amusing one—even if of no possible use. I shall enjoy discussing it with him.”
Cart then asserted that the Earthling doctor’s knowledge of this branch of mathematics was very useful … and essential to the welfare of Helium.
“Zeb,” Thuvia told me later, “Mobyas Toras agreed with Cart’s opinion—but with the sort of politeness that means he didn’t agree at all. Understand me?” I said I did. “Nevertheless, he is now eager to talk with Jake. Mobyas Toras doesn’t care whether mathematics is useful or not.”
“Very few mathematicians do.”
I was present at one of these later sessions between Mobyas Toras and Jake (with Thuvia as an animate dictionary) because of Jake’s belief (mistaken) that I could add something. I listened for a half hour while these two yakked at each other, drew sketches, and wrote symbols. I left as soon as I could—sentences, from each of them, that were weird mixtures of English words, Barsoomian words, and mathematicians’ argot, caused me to need aspirin. So I blew Thuv a kiss, she smiled, and I left. Neither of the Big Brains noticed my departure.
So it looked as if we could leave Cart, not only a wealth of engineering new to him, but also mathematics to back it up. It would be up to Cart to get his stiff-necked savant to admit that there could be a connection—if Jake couldn’t swing it.
I later asked Jake whether or not Mobyas Toras was beginning to understand six-dimensional, quantized, closed-space geometry. Jake had looked startled. “Why, we’re way past that. I’m learning concepts I never dreamed of. Zeb, I could spend a century here.”
“Pop, we don’t have a century. Two bombs, ticking away—and timed to explode in less than seven months. Remember?”
“Yes, of course—that comes first. But I want to come back later.” He got that faraway look in his eyes that told me that the monkey was on his back. Oh, well, when the day came—soon—I would take him by the hand and lead him to the starboard control seat. With verniers in front of him, Jake would wake up—meanwhile I would catch last-minute details.
Even the puzzle of how to reimburse our giant friends was clearing up. I had not been wearing my navigator’s watch since arrival, as it did not match the local day by about a half hour. I did not adjust it to match this planet; that was a job for a factory horologist. It is accurate to twenty seconds a year and its principal dial shows Greenwich time with a display for Greenwich date—perfect for navigation … and perfect for pregnant wombs. It had an outer ring that could be moved to show zone time (I never use it; a pilot finds it simpler to do that in his head), and all the usual bells and whistles of a good, versatile watch. Costly, of course—and not essential, as Gay Deceiver kept time as accurately.
I usually kept it in Gay Deceiver, as I did not want to leave it behind by accident. Deety’s clock-in-her-head had adjusted in about a ten-day to the local circadian; she could answer with correct local time either in hours and minutes (stretched by two and a half percent to match Barsoom’s rotation), or in Barsoomian time units—which never meant much to me.
One day when Deety was helping me re-stow Gay Deceiver, I asked her what time it was in Snug Harbor. She hesitated a minute, then said, “Sixteen-thirty-two—time to go swimming.” Then she giggled and added, “That piece of me was asleep. I had to wake it.”
I didn’t remind her that her swimming pool was destroyed in the blast—no use making the kid homesick; I simply showed her my watch. She was dead on. She nodded and took it for granted.
Cart stopped by soon after, making a friendly check on our progress. I had Deety repeat the trick for him, three ways: Helium time, Helium time converted to hours and minutes—then asked for Greenwich time. She clicked them all off, and I showed him on my watch that she had correctly called Greenwich time. He was only mildly impressed by her knowing local time—said that her talent was fairly common on Barsoom, especially among farmers … although he did not have the talent himself. “But Deety, you may be the only person anywhere who knows the time on two planets.”
Deety grinned and wrinkled her nose. Cart then added, “That’s a piloting timepiece, isn’t it, Zeb?” I had agreed that it was. “Thought so. I have one—different shape and different markings and I don’t wear it on my wrist. But I felt sure that it had the same purpose.”
“Cart, what do portable timekeepers—watches—cost here?”
“Why, whatever one wishes to spend. A cheap one might cost ten tanpi. A good one might be ten times that price. But one could easily spend a thousand tanpi. No limit for one intended as a gift for a princess, as you would be paying for gems as well. But …” that charming grin! … “Your princess doesn’t need a watch … and her eyes are gems beyond price.”
“No argument out of me. Deety, do Tommy and Kach have watches?”
“Why … I don’t think so. I’ve never seen either of them look at anything that looked like a timepiece to me. I don’t know what all they carry in their pouches … but I think I would have noticed.”
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br /> “Cart, wouldn’t a watch be useful to a courier? If so, would it be a present a green warrior could accept without wounding his honor?”
“Certainly he could. If I were a courier, I feel sure that I would need one.”
Deety became alert. “Cart, where does one buy watches?”
“Here, of course. Princess, you don’t go to tradesmen; you send for them. But if you are as smart as I know you are, you’ll ask Thuv to help you. Or you’ll be charged ten times what you should pay.”
So things were shaping up and I had time that morning to look over those brochures and price schedules from American Express and Thomas Cook. The American Express charge by the day for an English-speaking courier had surprised me. Apparently, Cart had grossly underestimated what a tourist courier was paid—but there was no reason why Cart should know; a reigning prince would never be a tourist in his own capital. True, he might have guests who would need guides and guards … but they would come from his own household.
I checked Thomas Cook’s tariff schedule: non-English-speaking courier, 22 tanpi—but an English-speaking one cost 28 tanpi more, or 50 tanpi, the same price quoted by their competitor. On checking other items, I found mild variations: If one charged a few tanpi more for a tour, the other charged a bit higher for some other tour—it balanced out. I smelled a “gentlemen’s agreement” and wondered how the much-abused word “gentleman” was ever assigned to price-fixing conniving ….
I tried to guess what couriers were paid. An applied overhead of one hundred percent seemed possible. I did not know what taxes they paid, what office expenses they had, what “squeeze” might be customary—but one hundred percent overhead was a good working figure until I knew more. In that case, both Tommy and Kach should earn about twenty-five tanpi ($25 Earth-Ten) in wages per day—possibly more for Tommy (better English and a straw boss at times), possibly less for Kach. Were they on salary, or were they called as needed?—it could make a difference. Overtime? Again, I did not know—I simply knew that they had worked to around the middle of the night the day we met them. And they supplied their own thoats. No clue about that in tariffs. But “excursions by thoatback” appeared in each agency’s offerings … and those excursions were far more expensive than any in Greater or Lesser Helium.
The Pursuit of the Pankera: A Parallel Novel About Parallel Universes Page 30