“The New Boy?” I asked. Sid hadn’t got to him and he was still standing with hooded eyes where Erich had left him, a dark pillar of shame and rage.
“Ja, a lieutenant from World War One. An Englishman.”
“I gathered that,” I told Erich. “Is he really effeminate?”
“Weibischer? ” He smiled. “I had to call him something when he said I was a coward. He’ll make a fine Soldier—only needs a little more shaping.”
“You men are so original when you spat.” I lowered my voice. “But you shouldn’t have gone on and called him a Snake, Erich mine.”
“Schlange? ” The smile got crooked. “Who knows—about any of us? As Saint Petersburg showed me, the Snakes’ spies are getting cleverer than ours.” The blue eyes didn’t look sweet now. “Are you, Liebchen, really nothing more than a good loyal Spider?”
“Erich!”
“All right, I went too far—with Bruce and with you too. We’re all hacked over these days, riding with one leg over the breaking edge.”
Maud and Beau were supporting the Roman to a couch, Maud taking most of his weight, with Sid still supervising and the New Boy still sulking by himself. The New Girl should have been with him, of course, but I couldn’t see her anywhere and I decided she was probably having a nervous breakdown in the Refresher, the little jerk.
“The Roman looks pretty bad, Erich,” I said.
“Ah, Mark’s tough. Got virtue, as his people say. And our little starship girl will bring him back to life if anybody can and if . . .”
“. . . you call this living,” I filled in dutifully.
He was right. Maud had fifty-odd years of psychomedical experience, 23rd Century at that. It should have been Doc’s job, but that was fifty drunks back.
“Maud and Mark, that will be an interesting experiment,” Erich said. “Reminiscent of Goering’s with the frozen men and the naked gypsy girls.”
“You are a filthy Nazi. She’ll be using electrophoresis and deep suggestion, if I know anything.”
“How will you be able to know anything, Liebchen, if she switches on the couch curtains, as I perceive she is preparing to do?”
“Filthy Nazi I said and meant.”
“Precisely.” He clicked his heels and bowed a millimeter. “Erich Friederich von Hohenwald, Oberleutnant in the army of the Third Reich. Fell at Narvik, where he was Recruited by the Spiders. Lifeline lengthened by a Big Change after his first death and at latest report Commandant of Toronto, where he maintains extensive baby farms to provide him with breakfast meat, if you believe the handbills of the voyageurs underground. At your service.”
“Oh, Erich, it’s all so lousy,” I said, touching his hand, reminded that he was one of the unfortunates Resurrected from a point in their lifelines well before their deaths—in his case, because the date of his death had been shifted forward by a Big Change after his Resurrection. And as every Demon finds out, if he can’t imagine it beforehand, it is pure hell to remember your future, and the shorter the time between your Resurrection and your death back in the cosmos, the better. Mine, bless Bab-ed-Din, was only an action-packed ten minutes on North Clark Street.
Erich put his other hand lightly over mine. “Fortunes of the Change War, Liebchen. At least I’m a Soldier and sometimes assigned to future operations—though why we should have this monomania about our future personalities back there, I don’t know. Mine is a stupid Oberst, thin as paper—and frightfully indignant at the voyageurs! But it helps me a little if I see him in perspective and at least I get back to the cosmos pretty regularly, Gott sei Dank, so I’m better off than you Entertainers.”
I didn’t say aloud that a Changing cosmos is worse than none, but I found myself sending a prayer to the Bonny Dew for my father’s repose, that the Change Winds would blow lightly across the lifeline of Anton A. Forzane, professor of physiology, born in Norway and buried in Chicago. Woodlawn Cemetery is a nice gray spot.
“That’s all right, Erich,” I said. “We Entertainers Got Mittens too.”
He scowled around at me suspiciously, as if he were wondering whether I had all my buttons on.
“Mittens?” he said. “What do you mean? I’m not wearing any. Are you trying to say something about Bruce’s gloves— which incidentally seem to annoy him for some reason. No, seriously, Greta, why do you Entertainers need mittens?”
“Because we get cold feet sometimes. At least I do. Got Mittens, as I say.”
A sickly light dawned in his Prussian puss. He muttered, “Got mittens . . . Gott mit uns . . . God with us,” and roared softly, “Greta, I don’t know how I put up with you the way you murder a great language for cheap laughs.”
“You’ve got to take me as I am,” I told him, “mittens and all, thank the Bonny Dew—” and hastily explained, “That’s French—le bon Dieu—the good God—don’t hit me. I’m not going to tell you any more of my secrets.”
He laughed feebly, like he was dying.
“Cheer up,” I said. “I won’t be here forever, and there are worse places than the Place.”
He nodded grudgingly, looking around. “You know what, Greta, if you’ll promise not to make some dreadful joke out of it: on operations, I pretend I’ll soon be going backstage to court the world-famous ballerina Greta Forzane.”
He was right about the backstage part. The Place is a regular theater-in-the-round with the Void for an audience, the Void’s gray hardly disturbed by the screens masking Surgery (Ugh!), Refresher and Stores. Between the last two are the bar and kitchen and Beau’s piano. Between Surgery and the sector where the Door usually appears are the shelves and taborets of the Art Gallery. The control divan is stage center. Spaced around at a fair distance are six big low couches—one with its curtains now shooting us into the gray—and a few small tables. It is like a ballet set and the crazy costumes and characters that turn up don’t ruin the illusion. By no means. Diaghilev would have hired most of them for the Ballet Russe on first sight, without even asking them whether they could keep time to music.
2
Last week in Babylon, Last night in Rome,
—Hodgson
a right-hand glove
Beau had gone behind the bar and was talking quietly at Doc, but with his eyes elsewhere, looking very sallow and professional in his white, and I thought—Damballa!—I’m in the French Quarter. I couldn’t see the New Girl. Sid was at last getting to the New Boy after the fuss about Mark. He threw me a sign and I started over with Erich in tow.
“Welcome, sweet lad. Sidney Lessingham’s your host, and a fellow Englishman. Born in King’s Lynn, 1564, schooled at Cambridge, but London was the life and death of me, though I outlasted Bessie, Jimmie, Charlie, and Ollie almost. And what a life! By turns a clerk, a spy, a bawd—the two trades are hand in glove—a poet of no account, a beggar, and a peddler of resurrection tracts. Beau Lassiter, our throats are tinder!”
At the word “poet,” the New Boy looked up, but resentfully, as if he had been tricked into it.
“And to spare your throat for drinking, sweet gallant, I’ll be so bold as to guess and answer one of your questions,” Sid rattled on. “Yes, I knew Will Shakespeare—we were of an age —and he was such a modest, mind-your-business rogue that we all wondered whether he really did write those plays. Your pardon, faith, but that scratch might be looked to.”
Then I saw that the New Girl hadn’t lost her head, but gone to Surgery (Ugh!) for a first-aid tray. She reached a swab toward the New Boy’s sticky cheek, saying rather shrilly, “If I might . . .”
Her timing was bad. Sid’s last words and Erich’s approach had darkened the look in the young Soldier’s face and he angrily swept her arm aside without even glancing at her. Erich squeezed my arm. The tray clattered to the floor—and one of the drinks that Beau was bringing almost followed it. Ever since the New Girl’s arrival, Beau had been figuring that she was his responsibility, though I don’t think the two of them had reached an agreement yet. Beau was especially set on it be
cause I was thick with Sid at the time and Maud with Doc, she loving tough cases.
“Easy now, lad, and you love me!” Sid thundered, again shooting Beau the “Hold it” look. “She’s just a poor pagan trying to comfort you. Swallow your bile, you black villain, and perchance it will turn to poetry. Ah, did I touch you there? Confess, you are a poet.”
There isn’t much gets by Sid, though for a second I forgot my psychology and wondered if he knew what he was doing with his insights.
“Yes, I’m a poet, all right,” the New Boy roared. “I’m Bruce Marchant, you bloody Zombies. I’m a poet in a world where even the lines of the King James and your precious Will whom you use for laughs aren’t safe from Snakes’ slime and the Spiders’ dirty legs. Changing our history, stealing our certainties, claiming to be so blasted all-knowing and best intentioned and efficient, and what does it lead to? This bloody SI glove!”
He held up his black-gloved left hand which still held the mate and he shook it.
“What’s wrong with the Spider Issue gauntlet, heart of gold?” Sid demanded. “And you love us, tell us.” While Erich laughed, “Consider yourself lucky, Kamerad. Mark and I didn’t draw any gloves at all.”
“What’s wrong with it?” Bruce yelled. “The bloody things are both lefts!” He slammed it down on the floor.
We all howled, we couldn’t help it. He turned his back on us and stamped off, though I guessed he would keep out of the Void. Erich squeezed my arm and said between gasps, “Mein Gott, Liebchen, what have I always told you about Soldiers? The bigger the gripe, the smaller the cause! It is infallible!”
One of us didn’t laugh. Ever since the New Girl heard the name Bruce Marchant, she’d had a look in her eyes like she’d been given the sacrament. I was glad she’d got interested in something, because she’d been pretty much of a snoot and a wet blanket up until now, although she’d come to the Place with the recommendation of having been a real whoopee girl in London and New York in the Twenties. She looked disapprovingly at us as she gathered up the tray and stuff, not forgetting the glove, which she placed on the center of the tray like a holy relic.
Beau cut over and tried to talk to her, but she ghosted past him and once again he couldn’t do anything because of the tray in his hands. He came over and got rid of the drinks quick. I took a big gulp right away because I saw the New Girl stepping through the screen into Surgery and I hate to be reminded we have it and I’m glad Doc is too drunk to use it, some of the Arachnoid surgical techniques being very sickening as I know only too well from a personal experience that is number one on my list of things to be forgotten.
By that time, Bruce had come back to us, saying in a carefully hard voice, “Look here, it’s not the dashed glove itself, as you very well know, you howling Demons.”
“What is it then, noble heart?” Sid asked, his grizzled gold beard heightening the effect of innocent receptivity.
“It’s the principle of the thing,” Bruce said, looking around sharply, but none of us cracked a smile. “It’s this mucking inefficiency and death of the cosmos—and don’t tell me that isn’t in the cards!—masquerading as benign omniscient authority. The Spiders—and we don’t know who they are ultimately; it’s just a name; we see only agents like ourselves—the Spiders pluck us from the quiet graves of our lifelines—”
“Is that bad, lad?” Sid murmured, innocently straight-faced.
“—and Resurrect us if they can and then tell us we must fight another time-traveling power called the Snakes—just a name, too—which is bent on perverting and enslaving the whole cosmos, past, present and future.”
“And isn’t it, lad?”
“Before we’re properly awake, we’re Recruited into the Big Time and hustled into tunnels and burrows outside our spacetime, these miserable closets, gray sacks, puss pockets—no offense to this Place—that the Spiders have created, maybe by gigantic implosions, but no one knows for certain, and then we’re sent off on all sorts of missions into the past and future to change history in ways that are supposed to thwart the Snakes.”
“True, lad.”
“And from then on, the pace is so flaming hot and heavy, the shocks come so fast, our emotions are wrenched in so many directions, our public and private metaphysics distorted so insanely, the deepest thread of reality we cling to tied in such bloody knots, that we never can get things straight.”
“We’ve all felt that way, lad,” Sid said soberly; Beau nodded his sleek death’s head; “You should have seen me, Kamerad, my first fifty sleeps,” Erich put in; while I added, “Us girls, too, Bruce.”
“Oh, I know I’ll get hardened to it, and don’t think I can’t. It’s not that,” Bruce said harshly. “And I wouldn’t mind the personal confusion, the mess it’s made of my spirit, I wouldn’t even mind remaking history and destroying priceless, oncecalled imperishable beauties of the past, if I felt it were for the best. The Spiders assure us that, to thwart the Snakes, it is allimportant that the West ultimately defeat the East. But what have they done to achieve this? I’ll give you some beautiful examples. To stabilize power in the early Mediterranean world, they have built up Crete at the expense of Greece, making Athens a ghost city, Plato a trivial fabulist, and putting all Greek culture in a minor key.”
“You got time for culture?” I heard myself say and I clapped my hand over my mouth in gentle reproof.
“But you remember the dialogues, lad,” Sid observed. “And rail not at Crete—I have a sweet Keftian friend.”
“For how long will I remember Plato’s dialogues? And who after me?” Bruce challenged. “Here’s another. The Spiders want Rome powerful and, to date, they’ve helped Rome so much that she collapses in a blaze of German and Parthian invasions a few years after the death of Julius Caesar.”
This time it was Beau who butted in. Most everybody in the Place loves these bull sessions. “You omit to mention, sir, that Rome’s newest downfall is directly due to the Unholy Triple Alliance the Snakes have fomented between the Eastern Classical World, Mohammedanized Christianity, and Marxist Communism, trying to pass the torch of power futurewards by way of Byzantium and the Eastern Church, without ever letting it pass into the hands of the Spider West. That, sir, is the Snakes’ Three-Thousand-Year Plan which we are fighting against, striving to revive Rome’s glories.”
“Striving is the word for it,” Bruce snapped. “Here’s yet another example. To beat Russia, the Spiders kept England and America out of World War Two, thereby ensuring a German invasion of the New World and creating a Nazi empire stretching from the salt mines of Siberia to the plantations of Iowa, from Nizhni Novgorod to Kansas City!”
He stopped and my short hairs prickled. Behind me, someone was chanting in a weird spiritless voice, like footsteps in hard snow.
“Salz, Salz, bringe Salz. Kein’ Peitsch’, gnädige Herren. Salz, Salz, Salz.”
I turned and there was Doc waltzing toward us with little tiny steps, bent over so low that the ends of his shawl touched the floor, his head crooked up sideways and looking through us.
I knew then, but Erich translated softly. “ ‘Salt, salt, I bring salt. No whip, merciful sirs.’ He is speaking to my countrymen in their language.” Doc had spent his last months in a Nazioperated salt mine.
He saw us and got up, straightening his top hat very carefully. He frowned hard while my heart thumped half a dozen times. Then his face slackened, he shrugged his shoulders and muttered, “Nichevo.”
“And it does not matter, sir,” Beau translated, but directing his remark at Bruce. “True, great civilizations have been dwarfed or broken by the Change War. But others, once crushed in the bud, have bloomed. In the 1870’s, I traveled a Mississippi that had never known Grant’s gunboats. I studied piano, languages, and the laws of chance under the greatest European masters at the University of Vicksburg.”
“And you think your pipsqueak steamboat culture is compensation for—” Bruce began but, “Prithee none of that, lad,” Sid interrupted smartly.
“Nations are as equal as so many madmen or drunkards, and I’ll drink dead drunk the man who disputes me. Hear reason: nations are not so puny as to shrivel and vanish at the first tampering with their past, no, nor with the tenth. Nations are monsters, boy, with guts of iron and nerves of brass. Waste not your pity on them.”
“True indeed, sir,” Beau pressed, cooler and keener for the attack on his Greater South. “Most of us enter the Change World with the false metaphysic that the slightest change in the past—a grain of dust misplaced—will transform the whole future. It is a long while before we accept with our minds as well as our intellects the law of the Conservation of Reality: that when the past is changed, the future changes barely enough to adjust, barely enough to admit the new data. The Change Winds meet maximum resistance always. Otherwise the first operation in Babylonia would have wiped out New Orleans, Sheffield, Stuttgart, and Maud Davies’ birthplace on Ganymede!
“Note how the gap left by Rome’s collapse was filled by the imperialistic and Christianized Germans. Only an expert Demon historian can tell the difference in most ages between the former Latin and the present Gothic Catholic Church. As you yourself, sir, said of Greece, it is as if an old melody were shifted into a slightly different key. In the wake of a Big Change, cultures and individuals are transposed, it’s true, yet in the main they continue much as they were, except for the usual scattering of unfortunate but statistically meaningless accidents.”
“All right, you bloody savants—maybe I pushed my point too far,” Bruce growled. “But if you want variety, give a thought to the rotten methods we use in our wonderful Change War. Poisoning Churchill and Cleopatra. Kidnapping Einstein when he’s a baby.”
“The Snakes did it first,” I reminded him.
“Yes, and we copied them. How resourceful does that make us?” he retorted, arguing like a woman. “If we need Einstein, why don’t we Resurrect him, deal with him as a man?”
American Science Fiction Five Classic Novels 1956-58 Page 79