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

  Deety knew. After an eternity of sensual bliss, I swung her out into position precisely on coda; she answered my bow and scrape with a deep curtsy. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Whew! After a tango like that the couple ought to get married.”

  “All right. I’ll find our hostess and tell Pop. Five minutes? Front door, or side?”

  She looked serenely happy. I said, “Deety, do you mean what you appear to mean? That you intend to marry me? A total stranger?”

  Her face remained calm but the light went out. She answered steadily. “After that tango we are no longer strangers. I construed your statement as a proposal—no, a willingness—to marry me. Was I mistaken?”

  My mind went into emergency, reviewing the past years the way a drowning man’s life is supposed to flash before his eyes (how could anyone know that?): a rainy afternoon when my chum’s older sister had initiated me into the mysteries; the curious effect caused by the first time strangers had shot back at me; a twelve-month cohabitation contract that had started with a bang and had ended without a whimper; countless events which had left me determined never to marry.

  I answered instantly, “I meant what I implied—marriage, in its older meaning. I’m willing. But why are you willing? I’m no prize.”

  She took a deep breath. “Sir, you are the prize I was sent to fetch, and, when you said that we really ought to get married—hyperbole and I knew it—I suddenly realized, with a deep burst of happiness, that this was the means of fetching you that I wanted above all!”

  She went on, “But I will not trap you through misconstruing a gallantry. If you wish, you may take me into those bushes back of the pool … and not marry me.” She went on firmly, “But for that … whoring … my fee is for you to talk with my father and to let him show you something.”

  “Deety, you’re an idiot! You would ruin that pretty gown.”

  “Mussing a dress is irrelevant but I can take it off. I will. There’s nothing under it.”

  “There’s a great deal under it!”

  That fetched a grin, instantly wiped away. “Thank you. Shall we head for the bushes?”

  “Wait a half! I’m about to be noble and regret it the rest of my life. You’ve made a mistake. Your father doesn’t want to talk to me; I don’t know anything about n-dimensional geometry.” (Why do I get these attacks of honesty? I’ve never done anything to deserve them.)

  “Pop thinks you do; that is sufficient. Shall we go? I want to get Pop out of here before he busts somebody in the mouth.”

  “I wanted to marry you—but wanted to know why you were willing to marry me. Your answer concerned what your father wants. I’m not trying to marry your father; he’s not my type. Speak for yourself, Deety. Or drop it.” (Am I a masochist? There’s a sunbathing couch back of those bushes.)

  Solemnly she looked me over, from my formal tights to my crooked bow tie and on up to my thinning brush cut—a hundred and ninety-four centimeters of big ugly galoot. “I like your firm lead in dancing. I like the way you look. I like the way your voice rumbles. I like your hair-splitting games with words—you sound like Whorf debating Korzybski with Shannon as referee.” She took another deep breath, finished almost sadly: “Most of all, I like the way you smell.”

  It would have taken a sharp nose to whiff me. I had been squeaky clean ninety minutes before, and it takes more than one waltz and a tango to make me sweat. But her remark had that skid in it that Deety put into almost anything. Most girls, when they want to ruin a man’s judgment, squeeze his biceps and say, “Goodness, you’re strong!”

  I grinned down at her. “You smell good too. Your perfume could rouse a corpse.”

  “I’m not wearing perfume.”

  “Oh. Correction: your natural pheromone. Enchanting. Get your wrap. Side door. Five minutes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell your father we’re getting married. He gets that talk, free. I decided that before you started to argue. It won’t take him long to decide that I’m not Lobachevski.”

  “That’s Pop’s problem,” she answered, moving. “Will you let him show you this thing he’s built in our basement?”

  “Sure, why not? What is it?”

  “A time machine.”

  II

  Zebadiah

  Tomorrow I will seven eagles see, a great comet will appear, and voices will speak from whirlwinds foretelling monstrous and fearful things—this Universe never did make sense; I suspect that it was built on government contract.

  “Big basement?”

  “Medium. Nine by twelve. But cluttered. Work benches and power tools.”

  A hundred and eight square meters—ceiling height probably two and a half— Had Pop made the mistake of the man who built a boat in his basement?

  My musing was interrupted by a male voice in a high scream: “You overeducated, obstipated, pedantic ignoramus! Your mathematical intuition froze solid the day you matriculated!”

  I didn’t recognize the screamer but did know the stuffed shirt he addressed: Professor Neil O’Heret Brain, head of the Department of Mathematics—and God help the student who addressed a note to “Professor N. O. Brain” or even “N. O’H. Brain.” “Brainy” had spent his life in search of The Truth—intending to place it under house arrest.

  He was puffed up like a pouter pigeon with his professional pontifical pomposity reeling. His expression suggested that he was giving birth to a porcupine.

  Deety gasped, “It’s started,” and dashed toward the row. Me, I stay out of rows; I’m a coward by trade and wear fake zero-prescription glasses as a buffer—when some oaf snarls, “Take off your glasses!” that gives me time to retreat.

  I headed straight for the row.

  Deety had placed herself between the two, facing the screamer, and was saying in a low but forceful voice, “Pop, don’t you dare! I won’t bail you out!” She was reaching for his glasses with evident intent to put them back on his face. It was clear that he had taken them off for combat; he was holding them out of her reach.

  I reached over their heads, plucked them out of his hand, gave them to Deety. She flashed me a smile and put them back on her father. He gave up and let her. She then took his arm firmly. “Aunt Hilda!”

  Our hostess converged on the row. “Yes, Deety? Why did you stop them, darling? You didn’t give us time to get bets down.” Fights were no novelty at “Sharp” Corners’ parties. Her food and liquor were lavish, the music always live; her guests were often eccentric but never dull—I had been surprised at the presence of N. O. Brain.

  I now felt that I understood it: a planned hypergolic mixture.

  Deety ignored her questions. “Will you excuse Pop and me and Mr. Carter? Something urgent has come up.”

  “You and Jake may leave if you must. But you can’t drag Zebbie away. Deety, that’s cheating.”

  Deety looked at me. “May I tell?”

  “Eh? Certainly!”

  That bliffy “Brainy” picked this moment to interrupt. “Mrs. Corners, Doctor Burroughs can’t leave until he apologizes! I insist. My privilege!”

  Our hostess looked at him with scorn. “Merde, Professor. I’m not one of your teaching fellows. Shout right back at Jake Burroughs if you like. If your command of invective equals his, we’ll enjoy hearing it. But just one more word that sounds like an order to me or to one of my guests—and out you go! Then you had best go straight home; the chancellor will be trying to reach you.” She turned her back on him. “Deety, you started to add something?”

  “Sharp” Corners can intimidate Internal Revenue agents. She hadn’t cut loose on “Brainy”—just a warning shot across his bow. But from his face one would have thought she had hulled him. However, her remark to Deety left me no time to see whether he would have a stroke.

  I spoke up. “Not Deety, Hilda. Me. Zeb.”

  “Quiet, Zebbie. Whatever it is, the answer is No. Deety? Go ahead, dear.”

  Hilda Corners is related to that famous mule. I did not use
a baseball bat because she comes only up to my armpits and grosses forty-odd kilos. I picked her up by her elbows and turned her around, facing me. “Hilda, we’re going to get married.”

  “Zebbie darling! I thought you would never ask.”

  “Not you, you old harridan. Deety. I proposed, she accepted; I’m going to nail it down before the anesthetic wears off.”

  Hilda looked thoughtfully interested. “That’s reasonable.” She craned her neck to look at Deety. “Did he mention his wife in Boston, Deety? Or the twins?”

  I set her back on her feet. “Pipe down, Sharpie; this is serious. Doctor Burroughs, I am unmarried, in good health, solvent, and able to support a family. I hope this meets with your approval.”

  “Pop says Yes,” Deety answered. “I hold his power of attorney.”

  “You pipe down, too. My name is Carter, sir—Zeb Carter. I’m on campus; you can check my record. But I intend to marry Deety at once, if she will have me.”

  “I know your name and record, sir. It doesn’t require my approval; Deety is of age. But you have it anyhow.” He looked thoughtful. “If you two are getting married at once, you’ll be too busy for shop talk. Or would you be?”

  “Pop—let it be; it’s all set.”

  “So? Thank you, Hilda, for a pleasant evening. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “You’ll do no such thing; you’ll come straight back and give me a full report. Jake, you are not going on their honeymoon—I heard you.”

  “Aunt Hilda—please! I’ll manage everything.”

  We were out the side door close on schedule. At the parking lot there was a bobble: which heap, mine or theirs. Mine is intended for two but can take four. The rear seats are okay for two for short trips. Theirs was a four-passenger family saloon, not fast but roomy—and their luggage was in it. “How much luggage?” I asked Deety, while I visualized two overnight bags strapped into one back seat with my prospective father-in-law stashed in the other.

  “I don’t have much, but Pop has two big bags and a fat briefcase. I had better show you.”

  (Damn.) “Perhaps you had better.” I like my own rig, I don’t like to drive other people’s cars, and, while Deety probably handled controls as smoothly as she danced, I did not know that she did—and I’m chicken. I didn’t figure her father into the equation; trusting my skin to his temper did not appeal. Maybe Deety would settle for letting him trail us—but my bride-to-be was going to ride with me! “Where?”

  “Over in the far corner. I’ll unlock it and turn on the lights.”

  She reached into her father’s inside jacket pocket, took out a Magic Wand.

  “Wait for baby!”

  The shout was from our hostess. Hilda was running down the path from her house, purse clutched in one hand and about eight thousand newdollars of sunset mink flying like a flag from the other.

  So the discussion started over. Seems Sharpie had decided to come along to make certain that Jake behaved himself and had taken just long enough to tell Max (her bouncer-butler-driver) when to throw the drunks out or cover them with blankets, as needed.

  She listened to Deety’s summary, then nodded. “Got it. I can handle yours, Deety; Jake and I will go in it. You ride with Zebbie, dear.” She turned to me. “Hold down the speed, Zebbie, so that I can follow. No tricks, buster. Don’t try to lose us or you’ll have cops busting out of your ears.”

  I turned my sweet innocent eyes toward her. “Why, Sharpie darling, you know I wouldn’t do anything like that.”

  “You’d steal city hall if you could figure a way to carry it. Who dumped that load of lime Jell-O into my swimming pool?”

  “I was in Africa at that time, as you know.”

  “So you say. Deety darling, keep him on a short leash and don’t feed him meat. But marry him—he’s loaded. Now where’s that radio link? And your car.”

  “Here,” said Deety, pointed the Magic Wand and pressed the switch.

  I gathered all three into my arms and dived. We hit the ground as the blast hit everything else. But not us. The blast shadow of other cars protected us.

  III

  Zebadiah

  Don’t ask me how. Ask a trapeze artist how he does a triple ’sault. Ask a crapshooter how he knows when he’s “hot.” But don’t ask me how I know it’s going to happen just before it hits the fan.

  It doesn’t tell me anything I don’t need to know. I don’t know what’s in a letter until I open it (except the time it was a letter bomb). I have no precognition for harmless events. But this split-second knowledge when I need it has kept me alive and relatively unscarred in an era when homicide kills more people than does cancer and the favorite form of suicide is to take a rifle up some tower and keep shooting until the riot squad settles it.

  I don’t see the car around the curve on the wrong side; I automatically hit the ditch. When the San Andreas Fault cut loose, I jumped out a window and was in the open when the shock arrived—and didn’t know why I had jumped.

  Aside from this, my ESP is erratic; I bought it cheap from a war-surplus outlet.

  I sprawled with three under me. I got up fast, trying to avoid crushing them. I gave a hand to each woman, then dragged Pop to his feet. No one seemed damaged. Deety stared at the fire blazing where their car had been, face impassive. Her father was looking at the ground, searching. Deety stopped him. “Here, Pop.” She put his glasses back on him.

  “Thank you, my dear.” He started toward the fire.

  I grabbed his shoulder. “No! Into my car—fast!”

  “Eh? My briefcase—could have blown clear.”

  “Shut up and move! All of you!”

  “Do it, Pop!” Deety grabbed Hilda’s arm. We stuffed the older ones into the after-space; I shoved Deety into the front passenger seat and snapped: “Seat belts!” as I slammed the door—then was around to the left so fast that I should have caused a sonic boom. “Seat belts fastened?” I demanded as I fastened my own and locked the door.

  “Jake’s is fastened and so is mine, Zebbie dear,” Hilda said cheerfully.

  “Belt tight, door locked,” Deety reported.

  The heap was hot; I had left it on trickle—what use is a fast car that won’t go scat? I switched from trickle to full, did not turn on lights, glanced at the board and released the brake.

  It says here that duos must stay grounded inside city limits—so I was lifting her nose before she had rolled a meter and she was pointed straight up as we were clearing the parking lot.

  Half a klick straight up while the gee-meter climbed—two, three, four—I let it reach five and held it, not being sure what Pop’s heart would take. When the altimeter read four klicks, I cut everything—power, transponder, the works—while hitting a button that dropped chaff, and let her go ballistic. I didn’t know that anyone was tracking us—I didn’t want to find out.

  When the altimeter showed that we had topped out, I let the wings open a trifle. When I felt them bite air, I snap-rolled onto her belly, let wings crawl out to subsonic aspect, and let her glide. “Everybody okay?”

  Hilda giggled. “Whoops, dearie! Do that again! This time, somebody kiss me.”

  “Pipe down, you shameless old strumpet. Pop?”

  “I’m okay, son.”

  “Deety?”

  “Okay here.”

  “Did that fall in the parking lot hurt you?”

  “No, sir. I twisted in the air and took it on one buttock while getting Pop’s glasses. But next time put a bed under me, please. Or a wrestling mat.”

  “I’ll remember.” I switched on radio but not transponder, tried all police frequencies. If anyone had noticed our didoes, they weren’t discussing it on the air. We were down to two klicks; I made an abrupt wingover to the right, then switched on power. “Deety, where do you and your Pop live?”

  “Logan, Utah.”

  “How long does it take to get married there?”

  “Zebbie,” Hilda cut in, “Utah has no waiting time—”

  “So
we go to Logan.”

  “—but does require a blood test. Deety, do you know Zebbie’s nickname around campus? The Wasp. For ‘Wassermann Positive.’ Zebbie, everybody knows that Nevada is the only state that offers twenty-four-hour service, no waiting time, no blood test. So point this bomb at Reno and sign off.”

  “Sharpie darling,” I said gently, “would you like to walk home from two thousand meters?”

  “I don’t know; I’ve never tried it.”

  “That’s an ejection seat … but no parachutes.”

  “Oh, how romantic! Jake darling, we’ll sing the Liebestod on the way down—you sing tenor, I’ll force a soprano and we’ll die in each other’s arms. Zebbie, could we have more altitude? For the timing.”

  “Doctor Burroughs, gag that hitchhiker. Sharpie, Liebestod is a solo.”

  “Picky, picky! Isn’t dead-on-arrival enough? Jealous because you can’t carry a tune? I told Dicky Boy that should be a duet and Cosima agreed with me—”

  “Sharpie, button your frimpin’ lip while I explain. One: everybody at your party knows why we left and will assume that we headed for Reno. You probably called out something to that effect as you left—”

  “I believe I did. Yes, I did.”

  “Shut up. Somebody made a professional effort to kill Doctor Burroughs. Not just kill but overkill; that combo of high explosive and Thermite was intended to leave nothing to analyze. But it is possible that no one saw us lift. We were into this go-wagon and I was goosing it less than thirty seconds after that booby trap exploded. Innocent bystanders would look at the fire, not at us. Guilty bystanders—there wouldn’t be any. A professional who booby-traps a car either holes up or crosses a state line and gets lost. The party or parties who paid for the contract may be nearby, but if they are, Hilda, they’re in your house.”

  “One of my guests?”

  “Oh, shut it, Sharpie; you are never interested in the morals of your guests. If they can be depended on to throw custard pies or do impromptu strips or some other prank that will keep your party from growing dull, that qualifies them. However, I am not assuming that the boss villain was at your party; I am saying that he would not be lurking where the Man might put the arm on him. Your house would be the best place to hide and watch the plot develop.