“No, we were relieved on station by Patrol Vessel Horned Owl and my crew will be granted a few days groundside. Captain Carter, if you will trust me, your ship will be moved with utmost care, inertia-free, to a safe and convenient hangar. She already has the intrinsic of Prime Base and to make doubly sure of not disturbing your instruments and apparatus, she will be placed in the exact attitude and orientation she is now in. By ‘safe hangar,’ I mean one where she could not be hurt short of Prime Base itself being reduced to molten rock and metal. This is the most heavily defended spot in this galaxy. Believe me, sir, after what you have shown me, the Patrol is as anxious to protect your ship as you are.”
“You reassure me. By the way, what happens to open water surfaces in a state free of inertia? Our water closets are not like yours.” (Indeed they weren’t; theirs weren’t truly “water” closets at all. Better. Clever engineering I planned to investigate. But a few liters of water loose in our magic bathrooms would be merely a sloppy mess, not a catastrophe.)
The Lensman took an inordinately long time—for him—to answer. Possibly five seconds. “If there could be damage of that sort, it has already been done during the night. If so, I regret it and will make every possible effort to rectify it.”
“Take it easy, Captain; I’m certain that no real harm could be done. Just curiosity.” I added, “Suppose we go to our ship now, then call you when we return here. An hour, at a guess.”
“Thank you, Captain Carter. It is now nine oh four oh seven. Is it likely that we could all make rendezvous in the wardroom shortly before eleven?”
“I see no difficulty. If one develops, I will call you.”
“Zebadiah, I’m scared. I haven’t the slightest idea what is meant by ‘full honors.’ How do we act? How do we dress? Neither Hilda nor I have any smart daytime clothes.”
“Deety hon, quit worrying. The honors will be rendered to us. So we don’t have to do a durn thing but stand in line and receive them. Once they’re over, I’ll salute and you three will barely bow—like this—hardly more than inclining your heads. No, Jake and I salute; we’ve established a precedent; Jake and I wear sidearms at all times. Sharpie, you said you fetched all of Jake’s clothes. That wouldn’t include an army uniform, would it?”
“It would. Dress blues.”
“I wish I had known that last night.”
“I don’t. Pop looked just perfect.”
“I think so, too, Zebbie.”
“ ‘Jake’s folly,’ I call it. Zeb, when they sent me to the Pentagon, I consoled myself with a silly hope that I might someday be invited to the White House. Or even sent there on an errand. After I had paid for it, dress uniforms were cancelled for the duration. So I’ve worn it once. To an Army Day Ball. But now I can’t get into it. I’m too big in the waist.”
“Jacob, I have later data. It fits.”
“Huh? But, Hilda my dear ….”
“Shush, my modest darling. Tira was prepared to alter it but we checked your waistline from the notch you use on your Sam Browne. My slender hero, that uniform fits you. All Tira did was have it cleaned and that magic no-wrinkle stuff put on it that they use on silks.”
“I’ll believe it fits me when I try it on. Did you fetch the dress belt? A Sam Browne is a World War I anachronism.”
“Doesn’t matter whether she did or not, Jake ….”
“I did.”
“… because we are setting our own styles and can’t be wrong. While this universe seems to be based on Doctor E. E. Smith’s colossal space operas—maybe vice versa ….”
“It’s the same either way, Zebbie. You’re still hung up on causation. Forget it.”
“… it’s at least two or three centuries in our future … if we were on the same time axis, which we aren’t. So we can’t be wrong. Wear the belt you prefer. But you and I always wear sidearms.”
“Zebbie, any reason Deety and I can’t wear our pretty daggers?”
“Not if you want to. Why?”
“Just thinking, dear, just thinking.”
We spent more time working out how to dress than we did dressing. I had kept my academic regalia in my car for the same reason I had uniforms there; more likely to need the stuff at some other campus than on my own—and still at hand if I joined the academic procession where I was nominally a professor. Deety and Jake had no reason to keep gowns and hoods and such at Snug Harbor, but three months earlier they had packed their car to go to Snug Harbor before they attended commencement at Logan—then had headed for Snug Harbor, just chucking their robes into the back seat. The stuff had never been returned to Logan.
So we put Dr. Hilda into Deety’s academic gown through the gals’ shortening the hemline in a hurry. Deety is broad-shouldered and, in high heels, almost as tall as Jake. So with high heels, his gown fitted her well enough. Jake’s hood was large for Hilda but those things don’t really have to fit—and it had a magnificent gold and scarlet lining. They tacked it up a bit and made sure that the lining showed well. It set off the sky blue lining of Deety’s hood.
But Jake’s mortarboard could not fit Hilda short of thumbtacks. No matter, that degree factory I went to uses a soft hat for doctorates resembling a four-cornered tam o’shanter—right out of the Middle Ages, which that school is not. Its gold tassel tied in with her hood. Needle and thread and some hairpins and Hilda looked good in it.
“Hillbilly, what are we going to wear under these?”
“Those fancy lightweight flying suits Tira had made for us. And our daggers.”
“But, Aunt Hilda, those things are leotards, tights. And translucent.”
“Not all that translucent. And the swirly colors worked into them confuse the issue. We showed lots more skin last night. Cap’n Zebbie said we could set our own styles. I’m going to wear the flesh-colored stick-on cheaters I wore last night … so that if I’m invited to take off this nightgown, I’ll still be smartly dressed. Tell her, Zebbie.”
I was about to back up Deety but I suddenly switched sides. Deety didn’t want to wear a gingham dress or slacks or jeans (such being the sort of clothes she had had at Snug Harbor); she just wanted to be assured that what amounted to a paint job put on with an airbrush was all right. “Deety girl, are you running a fever? A couple of days ago I saw you standing in the starboard door of Gay Deceiver dressed in a happy smile, in full view of at least five hundred men and a dozen women.”
“But … but that was Barsoom!”
“And this is Prime Base in another universe—and they know we come from still another universe. Sharpie is right; we set our own styles and can’t be wrong.”
We were dressed and back in our suite in the Nighthawk before ten-thirty. We hadn’t been slowed by water slopping around; either being inertia-free doesn’t bother a surface of water or our bathrooms are in another universe—I favor the latter theory. I had time to renew my shave while the gals were busy with hasty sewing. I called Captain Smith, told him that Gay Deceiver was not in his tender care, then Jake and I practiced sword salutes, by the numbers, counting cadence silently, holding each position for two counts—just “Draw … swords!” and the rest of it silent drill. We got it down pat.
We tried it with our wives between us. Yes, with Deety on my left, I could handle the return to scabbard without poking out one of her eyes—she needs both of them.
At five minutes before eleven we showed up in the wardroom.
Captain Smith bowed to our ladies, said good morning, shook hands. “Thanks for being so prompt, Captain.”
“There was nothing to slow us up; water in our bathrooms had not spilled.”
“Really? I’m relieved to hear it … and would like to look into the phenomenon … later. The Port Admiral is ready … if you are.”
“We’re ready. What’s the drill, Captain?”
“Quite simple. You four will leave the ship first; I will follow you. The Port Admiral and his party will be facing the gangway about thirty feet from its foot. There is a gold line on
the floor about midway between the gangway and the Port Admiral’s party. If you and your companions will stop at that line and wait, honors will be rendered. Immediately following honors, the Port Admiral requests that you accompany him to his lounge for lunch—if that suits your convenience. If not ….”
“It does. Please tell him so.”
“I have so told him.” (Lenses have their minor uses, too! No messenger ….) “I was about to say that you could be taken to your guest quarters, and let me add that the hangar for Gay Deceiver is reached by a short private passageway from your quarters.”
“Most convenient and thoughtful. Shall we get on with it, sir?”
“This way, please.”
When we reached the “quarterdeck”—a big compartment with a door leading out—I could see that Lensman Ted Smith had gone all out … as I had suspected when I saw how he was dressed: a black and silver and gold uniform dressier than that he had worn the night before—and polished DeLameters at his hips.
I had expected him to dress up; he had said “full honors” but I had not expected some touches hoary with tradition. The Officer of the Watch at the gangway was the astrogator (reasonable) but he carried, tucked under his left arm, an ancient spyglass—reasonable! I wondered if it functioned, then decided that the Patrol would not use a fake.
After seeing that, I was not surprised at eight sideboys and still not surprised but much flattered that they were junior officers rather than enlisted spacemen.
The ship’s guard took up most of the deck space; fifty-odd Valerian Dutchmen all about the size of their commander use a lot of cubage. As we appeared, Major van Vogt gave “Pr’sent! … Harmp!” and fifty space axes flashed high and came abruptly down.
I twice asked permission to leave the ship, first of the captain since he was present, then of the astrogator since he had the deck, with a hand salute to each, then headed out between the double rank of sideboys.
Trust Deety to toss a curve into anything— One of our sideboys was Lieutenant Nganagana. Deety, right behind me, said, “Hi, Agú!” Nganagana kept silent, stayed rigidly at attention, eyes front, frozen ebony. Deety stopped dead, said to the Lensman, “Captain, my friend won’t speak to me.”
This would not have mattered had I not at that instant stepped over the nonexistent “waterway,” and saluted their colors (I assumed they had colors; I never saw them) in the direction I thought of as “aft,” thereby formally leaving the ship—and the shrill whistle of the boatswain’s pipe sounded. Hell’s bells, I don’t think the Galactic Patrol had boatswains! (But they did have “boats”—small spaceships carried aboard—and there must be some officer responsible for their upkeep, so he may be known as “Boats’n” regardless of rank.) As may be, somebody had a boatswain’s pipe, knew how to play it, and had to get us all across that gangway on one lungful of air.
Meanwhile, Deety held up the procession.
I heard Smith say sharply, “Nganagana, answer the lady!”
“Hi, Deety!”
“Take care of yourself, Agú—I’ll see you!” Deety consented to resume the march; I waited until she was beside me, then hurried a little. The gangway was a horizontal footbridge about four meters wide and forty long; I wanted to get us to the far end before that lilting skirl stopped, both for the player’s lungs and for his face.
We made it but it was a dead heat—I hope he didn’t rupture a blood vessel.
We stopped at that gold line: me, Deety, Hilda, Jake at far left, spaced out to let Jake and me handle swords. Captain Smith stopped short of the line, on my right. Facing us was more gold lace than I had ever seen, even at the Embassy in Melbourne.
We were somewhere underground but in a gargantuan hall or cavern so wide, high, and long, and so brilliantly lighted, that it felt like outdoors. To our left was a huge military band in uniforms more colorful—gaudy!—than the display of gold lace and medals facing us. Facing the band, on our right, was rank after rank of Patrolmen; the far end of this guard I could not see but it was at least a regiment.
As we stopped, loudspeakers everywhere boomed: “Present! Arms!” Captain Smith saluted; the Port Admiral and his party saluted; I did not, Jake did not—but my hand quivered in restrained reflex.
A line of trumpeters, front rank of the band, lifted their gleaming, bannered, bell-flared instruments and started flourishes, while drummers behind them matched them with ruffles:
“Tah titti tah tah taaaah!” (“Boom titti boom boom booooom!”)
I expected them to stop with four, enough for any skipper, but they continued with a fifth … and a sixth!—and I knew we were in for it. (Zeb, you four-flusher, can you swing this? I wished I were back in my teens again, mowing lawns and throwing papers—I even felt homesick for Jockstrap U, where the cockroaches ate out.)
But I recognized the music that followed ruffles and flourishes; this brought me into focus—I knew the role I was expected to play. It was the “Viceroy March,” also called the “Ambassador.” (The Patrol calls it something else—no matter; it’s as high as you can go: sovereignty saluting sovereignty, equals acknowledging equals.)
When it reached its crashing coda, I expected honors to end, since they couldn’t play our national anthem, not knowing where we were from. I waited for the command to order arms, ready to signal Jake.
Nope! From the rear of that mighty hall, over half a kilometer away, came a line of flashes—then, about two seconds later: “Ka-boom!” The sound reached us both directly and echoing endlessly off ceiling, walls, and floor, so that it was still rumbling out when the next line of flashes appeared. Traditional black powder? I didn’t know but it looked and sounded like it. If so, they must have enormous scavengers to suck the smoke away. On the other hand, it may have been done by exact simulation—no powder, no cannon. (I never did ask.)
I counted four-second intervals between flashes, while wondering where they would stop. Twenty-one? Fifty? More? The Port Admiral and party stayed frozen at salute, the guard of honor at present arms. When I saw the twenty-first flash, then counted six seconds past it, I knew they were through—so, as the rumbling roar died out, I signaled Jake: “Draw … swords!” We went through it like clockwork, a twelve-second silent drill. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Deety give a slight but distinct bow as we came to present arms, then straightened and stood tall as we returned swords. Hilda was right with her. Our pipsqueak salute was nothing compared with their full honors—but we did it correctly and in step. I felt relieved.
The loudspeakers boomed, “Order … Harmp!”
The Port Admiral’s party broke and moved toward us, as we moved toward them. As introductions were made, I heard the troops ordered to parade rest. All the reception party wore Lenses; two of them were in plain gray leather uniforms—but neither was the Gray Lensman, Kinnison. Port Admiral Haynes was entitled to wear Gray but chooses to accept the burden of commander in chief, and wore black, with rank insignia. However his chest was not covered with medals; he wore just one, around his neck.
Shortly, a car glided out from behind the band. I should say “vehicle,” as it was a very low platform with a long bench on it—no wheels, no noise, no apparent source of propulsion or guidance, no driver. It stopped by us; the Port Admiral handed up Hilda and seated her, his flag lieutenant Captain Fernandez seated Deety, and Jake and I wound up between Dr. Lacy and Commander Ted Smith (still dressed as “Captain” even though groundside). The dozen-odd others melted away (I didn’t see where); once we eight were seated, this vehicle started down the long line of troops at about three knots.
As we approached each unit—company, battery, troop, combat team, whatever—its commander brought it to attention and saluted. Haynes returned salutes but the other officers did not, so Jake and I refrained. We were “inspecting” the honor guard, but pro-forma, not de-facto. But I’ll take any odds that, had we stopped and put on white gloves, we could not have soiled them.
This moving platform delivered us into the Port Admiral’
s lounge, paused while we stepped off, then backed out, and the doors closed behind it. I made mental note to ask later how it was guided (I thought of three possibilities, one of which required a Lens)—but never asked.
Haynes and his flag lieutenant seated us in a circle of nine chairs, then Haynes started in without inanities. “That empty chair is for Sir Austin Cardynge. With luck he’ll be with us before lunch at thirteen-thirty. He was at a conference some distance away, about eight hundred light years, and, when I called him, he told me to go soak my head.” Haynes grinned and suddenly looked younger. “He’s been telling me that for thirty years. But I managed to convince him that there was something here beyond my capacity—which did not surprise him; he has a low opinion of most mentalities—and that the problem was worthy of his attention.” Haynes looked at me. “Captain Carter, Sir Austin says that your alleged space drive is ‘poppycock.’ ”
I’ve met high brass before; I don’t expect them to be diplomatic other than when it suits them. I made my answer low-key. “Admiral, I don’t recall alleging that I had a ‘space drive.’ I did not allege anything that I did not follow with demonstration. Ask Captain Smith.”
“Correction accepted. Captain Smith has just reminded me that his report did not use the phrase ‘space drive.’ ‘Continua craft’ is the phrase you used. He also has now reminded me of other phenomena that he reported, including something you called a ‘time-space warp.’ But your unsupported allegations referred to ‘continua travel’—travel in universes parallel to this one.”
Jake grabbed that one. “No, no, Admiral! We have traveled in several universes but not one of them is parallel to this one. I did not say they were.”
“Again Captain Smith has corrected me. You said ‘other universes.’ I acknowledge the correction but fail to see the difference.”
“That’s because you’re not a mathematician!” Jake’s voice was getting high. One more use of “alleged” or “allegation” was likely to set him off.
The Pursuit of the Pankera: A Parallel Novel About Parallel Universes Page 48