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

  “Have you ever heard of H. G. Wells?”

  “Heard of him? I’ve had him.”

  “You are a boastful old tart, but not that old. When Mr. Wells died, you were still a virgin.”

  “Slanderer! Hit him, Jake—he insulted me.”

  “Zeb didn’t mean to insult you, I feel sure. Deety won’t permit me to hit people, even when they need it.”

  “We’ll change that.”

  “Second retrieval complete,” Gay Deceiver reported. “Holding.”

  “Report second retrieval, please.”

  “Reuters, Singapore. The Marston expedition in Sumatra is still unreported according to authorities at Palembang. The party is thirteen days overdue. Besides Professor Marston and native guides and assistants, the party included Doctor Z. E. Carter, Doctor Cecil Yang, and Mr. Giles Smythe-Belisha. The Minister of Tourism and Culture stated that the search will be pursued assiduously. End of retrieval.”

  Poor Ed. We had never been close but he had never caused me grief. I hoped that he was shacked up with something soft and sultry—rather than losing his head to a jungle machete, which seemed more likely. “Pop, a few minutes ago I said that somebody doesn’t like you. I now suspect that somebody doesn’t like n-dimensional geometers.”

  “It would seem so, Zeb. I do hope your cousin is safe—a most brilliant mind! He would be a great loss to all mankind.”

  (And to himself, I added mentally. And me, since family duty required that I do something about it. When what I had in mind was a honeymoon.) “Gay.”

  “Here, Zeb.”

  “Addendum. Third news retrieval program. Use all parameters second program. Add Sumatra to area. Add all proper names and titles found in second retrieval. Run until cancelled. Place retrievals in permanent memory. Report new items soonest. Start.”

  “Running, Boss.”

  “You’re a good girl, Gay.”

  “Thank you, Zeb. Grounding Elko two minutes seven seconds.”

  Deety squeezed my hand harder. “Pop, as soon as I’m legally Mrs. John Carter I think we should all go to Snug Harbor.”

  “Eh? Obviously.”

  “You, too, Aunt Hilda. It might not be safe for you to go home.”

  “Change in plans, dear. It’s going to be a double wedding. Jake. Me.”

  Deety looked alert but not displeased. “Pop?”

  “Hilda has at last consented to marry me, dear.”

  “Rats,” said Sharpie. “Jake has never asked me in the past and didn’t this time; I simply told him. Hit him with it while he was upset over losing his comic books and unable to defend himself. It’s necessary, Deety—I promised Jane I would take care of Jake and I have—through you, up to now. But from here on you’ll be taking care of Zebbie, keeping him out of trouble, wiping his nose … so I’ve got to hogtie Jake into marriage to keep my promise to Jane. Instead of sneaking into his bed from time to time as in the past.”

  “Why, Hilda dear, you have never been in my bed!”

  “Don’t shame me in front of the children, Jake. I gave you a test run before I let Jane marry you and you don’t dare deny it.”

  Jake shrugged helplessly. “As you wish, dear Hilda.”

  “Aunt Hilda … do you love Pop?”

  “Would I marry him if I didn’t? I could carry out my promise to Jane more simply by having him committed to a shrink factory. Deety, I’ve loved Jake longer than you have. Much! But he loved Jane … which shows that he is basically rational despite his weird ways. I shan’t try to change him, Deety; I’m simply going to see to it that he wears his overshoes and takes his vitamins—as you’ve been doing. I’ll still be ‘Aunt Hilda,’ not ‘Mother.’ Jane was and is your mother.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Hilda. I thought I was happy as a woman can be, getting Zebadiah. But you’ve made me still happier. No worries.”

  (I had worries. Blokes with Black Hats and no faces. But I didn’t say so, as Deety was snuggling closer and assuring me that it was all right because Aunt Hilda wouldn’t fib about loving Pop.) “Deety, where and what is ‘Snug Harbor?’ ”

  “It’s … a nowhere place. A hideout. Land Pop leased from the government when he decided to build his time twister instead of just writing equations. But we may have to wait for daylight. Unless—can Gay Deceiver home in on a given latitude and longitude?”

  “She certainly can! Precisely.”

  “Then it’s all right. I can give it to you in degrees, minutes, and fractions of a second.”

  “Grounding,” Gay warned us.

  The Elko county clerk did not object to getting out of bed and seemed pleased with the century note I slipped him. The county judge was just as accommodating and pocketed her honorarium without glancing at it. I stammered but managed to say, “I, Zebadiah John, take thee, Dejah Thoris—” Deety went through it as solemnly and perfectly as if she had rehearsed it … while Hilda sniffled throughout.

  A good thing that Gay can home on a pinpoint; I was in no shape to drive, even in daylight. I had her plan her route, too, a dogleg for minimum radar and no coverage at all for the last hundred-odd kilometers to this place in the Arizona Strip north of the Grand Canyon. But I had her hover before grounding—I being scared silly until I was certain there was not a third fire there.

  A cabin, fireproof, with underground parking for Gay—I relaxed.

  We split a bottle of Chablis. Pop seemed about to head for the basement. Sharpie tromped on it and Deety ignored it.

  I carried Deety over the threshold into her bedroom, put her gently down, faced her. “Dejah Thoris—”

  “Yes, John Carter?”

  “I did not have time to buy you a wedding present—”

  “I need no present from my captain.”

  “Hear me out, my princess. My Uncle Zamir did not have as fine a collection as your father had … but may I gift you with a complete set of Clayton Astoundings—”

  She suddenly smiled.

  “—and first editions of the first six Oz books, quite worn but with the original color plates? And a first in almost mint condition of A Princess of Mars?”

  The smile became a grin and she looked nine years old. “Yes!”

  “Would your father accept a complete set of Weird Tales?”

  “Would he! Northwest Smith and Jirel of Joiry? I’m going to borrow them—or he can’t look at my Oz books. I’m stubborn, I am. And selfish. And mean!”

  “ ‘Stubborn’ stipulated. The others denied.”

  Deety stuck out her tongue. “You’ll find out.” Suddenly her face was solemn. “But I sorrow, my prince, that I have no present for my husband.”

  “But you have.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes. Beautifully wrapped and making me dizzy with heavenly fragrance.”

  “Oh.” She looked solemn but serenely happy. “Will my husband unwrap me? Please?”

  I did.

  That is all anyone is ever going to know about our wedding night.

  IV

  Deety

  Iwoke early, as I always do at Snug Harbor, wondered why I was ecstatically happy—then remembered, and turned my head. My husband—“husband!”—what a heart-filling word—my husband was sprawled face down beside me, snoring softly and drooling onto his pillow. I held still, thinking how beautiful he was, how gently strong and gallantly tender.

  I was tempted to wake him, but I knew that my darling needed rest. So I eased out of bed and snuck noiselessly into my bath—our bath!—and quietly took care of this and that. I would grab that proper bath after my captain was awake.

  I pulled on briefs, started to tie on a halter—stopped and looked in the mirror. I have a face-shaped face and a muscular body that I keep in top condition. I would never reach semifinals in a beauty contest.

  You hear that, Deety? Don’t be stubborn, don’t be bossy, don’t be difficult—and above all don’t sulk! Mama never sulked, although Pop wasn’t and isn’t easy to live with. Mama told me gently that logic had little to do w
ith keeping a husband happy and that anyone who “won” a family argument had in fact lost it. Mama never argued and Pop always did what she wanted—if she really wanted it. When, at seventeen, I had to grow up and try to replace her, I tried to emulate her—not always successfully. I inherited some of Pop’s temper, some of Mama’s calm. I try to suppress the former and cultivate the latter. But I’m not Jane, I’m Deety.

  Suddenly I wondered why I was putting on a halter. The day was going to be hot. While Pop is so cubical about some things that he turns up at the corners, skin is not one of them. (Possibly he had been, then Mama had gently gotten her own way.) I like to be naked and usually am at Snug Harbor, weather permitting. Pop is almost as casual. Aunt Hilda was family-by-choice; we had often used her pool and never with suits—screened for the purpose.

  So why was I putting on a bra?

  Because two things equal to the same thing are never equal to each other. Basic mathematics if you select the proper sheaf of postulates. People are not abstract symbols. I could be naked with any one of them but not all three.

  I felt a twinge that Pop and Aunt Hilda might be in the way on my honeymoon … then realized that Zebadiah and I were just as much in the way on theirs—and stopped worrying; it would work out.

  I started to cat-foot through our bedroom when I noticed Zebadiah’s clothes—and stopped. The darling would not want to wear evening dress to breakfast. Deety, you are not being wifely—figure this out. Are any of Pop’s clothes where I can get them without waking the others?

  Yep! An old shirt that I had liberated as a house coat, khaki shorts I had been darning the last time we had been down—both in my wardrobe in my—our!—bathroom. I crept back, got them, laid them over my darling’s evening clothes so that he could not miss them.

  I went through and closed after me two soundproof doors, then no longer had to keep quiet. Pop does not tolerate anything shoddy—if it doesn’t work properly, he fixes it. Pop’s BS was in mechanical engineering, his MS in physics, his Ph.D. in mathematics; there isn’t anything he can’t design and build. A second Leonardo da Vinci—or a Paul Dirac.

  No one in the everything room. I decided not to head for the kitchen end yet; if the others slept a bit longer, I could get in my morning tone-up. Stretch high, then palms to the floor without bending knees—ten is enough. Vertical splits, both legs, then the same to the floor with my forehead to my shin, first right, then left.

  I was doing a back bend when I heard, “Ghastly. The battered bride. Deety, stop that.”

  I continued into a backward walkover and stood up facing Pop’s bride. “Good morning, Aunt Hillbilly.” I kissed and hugged her. “Not battered. Bartered, maybe.”

  “Battered,” she repeated, yawning.

  Hilda stopped to kiss me more warmly than before. “Now I’m the happiest woman in America.”

  “Nope. Second happiest. You’re looking at the happiest.”

  Aunt Hilda guffawed. “I surrender. We’re both the happiest woman in the world.”

  “And the luckiest. Aunt Nanny Goat, that robe of Pop’s is too hot. I’ll get something of mine. How about a tie-on fit-anybody bikini?”

  “Thanks, dear, but you might wake Zebbie.” Aunt Hilda opened Pop’s robe and held it wide, fanning it. I looked at her with new eyes. She’s had three or four term contracts, no children. At forty-two her face looks thirty-five, but from her collarbones down she could pass for eighteen. A china doll—makes me feel like a giant.

  She added, “If it weren’t for your husband, I would simply wear this old hide. It is hot.”

  “If it weren’t for your husband, so would I.”

  “Jacob? Deety, he’s changed your diapers. I know how Jane reared you. True modesty, no false modesty.”

  “It’s not the same, Aunt Hilda. Not today.”

  “No, it’s not. You always did have a wise head, Deety. Women are toughminded, men are not; we have to protect them … while pretending to be fragile ourselves, to build up their fragile egos. But I’ve never been good at it—I like to play with matches.”

  “Aunt Hilda, you are very good at it, in your own way. I’m certain Mama knows what you’ve done for Pop and blesses it and is happy for Pop. For all of us—all five of us.”

  “Don’t make me cry, Deety. Let’s break out the orange juice; our men will wake any time. First secret of living with a man: feed him as soon as he wakes.”

  “So I know.”

  “Yes, of course you know. Ever since we lost Jane. Does Zebbie know how lucky he is?”

  “He says so. I’m going to try hard not to disillusion him.”

  V

  Jake

  Iwoke in drowsy euphoria, became aware that I was in bed in our cabin that my daughter calls “Snug Harbor”—then woke completely and looked at the other pillow—the dent in it. Not a dream! Euphoric for the best of reasons!

  Hilda was not in sight. I closed my eyes and simulated sleep, as I had something to do. “Jane?” I said in my mind.

  “I hear you, dearest one. It has my blessing. Now we are all happy together.”

  “We couldn’t expect Deety to become a sour old maid, just to take care of her crotchety old father. This young man, he’s okay, to the nth power. I felt it at once, and Hilda is certain of it.”

  “He is. Don’t worry, Jacob. Our Deety can never be sour and you will never be old. This is exactly as Hilda and I planned it, more than five of your years ago. Predestined. She told you so, last night.”

  “Okay, darling.”

  “Get up and brush your teeth and take a quick shower. Don’t dawdle, breakfast is waiting. Call me when you need me. Kiss.”

  So I got up, feeling like a boy on Christmas morning. Everything was jake with Jake; Jane had put her stamp of approval on it. Let me tell you, you nonexistent reader sitting there with a tolerant sneer: don’t be smug. Jane is more real than you are.

  The spirit of a good woman cannot be coded by nucleic acids arranged in a double helix, and only an overeducated fool could think so. I could prove that mathematically save that mathematics can never prove anything. No mathematics has any content. All any mathematics can do is—sometimes—turn out to be useful in describing some aspects of our so-called physical universe.

  That is a bonus; most forms of mathematics are as meaning-free as chess.

  I don’t know any final answers. I’m an all-around mechanic and a competent mathematician … and neither is of any use in unscrewing the inscrutable.

  Some people go to church to talk to God, whoever He is. When I have something on my mind, I talk to Jane. I don’t hear “voices,” but the answers that come into my mind have as much claim to infallibility, it seems to me, as any handed down by any pope speaking ex cathedra. If this be blasphemy, make the most of it; I won’t budge. Jane is, was, and ever shall be, worlds without end. I had the priceless privilege of living with her for eighteen years and I can never lose her.

  Hilda was not in the bath but my toothbrush was damp. I smiled at this. Logical, as any germs I was harboring, Hilda now had—and Hilda, for all her playfulness, is no-nonsense practical. She faces danger without a qualm (had done so last night) but she would say “Gesundheit!” to an erupting volcano even as she fled from it. Jane is equally brave but would omit the quip. They are alike only in—no, not that way, either. Different but equal. Let it stand that I have been blessed in marriage by two superb women. (And blessed by a daughter whose Pop thinks she is perfect.)

  I showered, shaved, and brushed my teeth in nine minutes and dressed in under nine seconds as I simply wrapped around my waist a terrycloth sarong Deety had bought for me—the day promised to be a scorcher. Even that hip wrap was a concession to propriety, i.e., I did not know my new son-in-law well enough to subject him abruptly to our casual ways; it might offend Deety.

  I was last up and saw that all had made much the same decision. Deety was wearing what amounted to a bikini minimum (indecently “decent”) and my bride was “dressed” in a tie-on j
ob belonging to Deety. The tie—ties—had unusually large bows; Hilda is tiny, my daughter is not. Zeb was the only one fully dressed: an old pair of working shorts, a worn-out denim shirt Deety had confiscated, and his evening shoes. He was dressed for the street in any western town save for one thing: I’m built like a pear, Zeb is built like the Gray Lensman.

  My shorts fitted him well enough—a bit loose—but his shoulders were splitting the shirt’s seams. He looked uncomfortable.

  I took care of amenities—a good morning to all, a kiss for my bride, one for my daughter, a handshake for my son-in-law—good hands, calloused. Then I said, “Zeb, take that shirt off. It’s hot and getting hotter. Relax. This is your home.”

  “Thanks, Pop.” Zeb peeled off my shirt.

  Hilda stood up on her chair, making her about as tall as Zeb. “I’m a militant women’s-rights gal,” she announced, “and a wedding ring is not a ring in my nose—a ring that you have not yet given me, you old goat.”

  “When have I had time? You’ll get one, dear—first chance.”

  “Excuses, excuses! Don’t interrupt when I’m orating. Sauce for the gander is no excuse for goosing the goose. If you male chauvinist pigs can dress comfortably, Deety and I have the same privilege.” Whereupon my lovely little bride untied that bikini top and threw it aside like a stripper.

  “ ‘What’s for breakfast?’ asked Pooh,” I misquoted.

  I was not answered. Deety made me proud of her for the nth time. For years she had consulted me, at least with her eyes, on “policy decisions.” Now she looked not at me but at her husband. Zeb was doing Old Stone Face, refusing assent or dissent. Deety stared at him, gave a tiny shrug, reached behind her and untied or unsnapped something and discarded her own top.

  “I said, ‘What’s for breakfast?’ ” I repeated.

  “Greedy gut,” my daughter answered. “You men have had baths, while Aunt Hilda and I haven’t had a chance to get clean for fear of waking you slugabeds.”

  “ ‘What’s for breakfast?’ ”

  “Aunt Hilda, in only hours Pop has lost all the training I’ve given him for five years. Pop, it’s laid out and ready to go. How about cooking while Hilda and I grab a tub?”