by Damon Knight
Gently, Johnny told himself.
Zip!
They were sliding side by side down the giant chute in the fun house at Jantzen’s Beach in Portland, Oregon. “Listen!” said the dark man. “You’re a mutant superman, see? Don’t get sore—we had to test you before we could lead you into your glorious heritage of—”
As Johnny started to get to his feet, the movement jarred the thing in his hand, and…
Zip!
They were standing on the observation platform on top of the Empire State. It was a cold, raw day. The dark man was shivering—cold, or frightened enough to talk, or too frightened to stay drunk? His voice trembled. “Okay, this is it, friend. You aren’t human; you’re an android, but such a good imitation, you don’t even know it. But we’re your inventors, see—”
Gently: it was the little jumps that were dangerous, Johnny reminded himself.
Zip! They were in a revolving door, and zip! Johnny was on the staircase of his own rooming house, looking down at the dark man who was goggling up at him, trying to say something, and zip! they were standing beside a disordered banana cart while a cold chill ran up Johnny’s spine, and…
“All right!” the dark man shouted. There was raw sincerity in his voice. “I’ll tell you the truth, but please—”
Johnny’s hand tilted in spite of himself.
Zip!
They were on the top deck of a Fifth Avenue bus parked at the kerb, waiting for a load. Johnny lowered his hand with infinite care to the shiny rail top of the seat ahead. “Tell,” he said.
The dark man swallowed. “Give me a chance,” he said in an undertone. “I can’t tell you. If I do, they’ll break me, I’ll never get a post again—”
“Last chance,” said Johnny, looking straight ahead.
“One… Two…”
“It’s a livie,” the dark man said, pronouncing the first i long. His voice was resigned and dull.
“A what?”
“Livie. Like movies. You know. You’re an actor.”
“What is this now?” said Johnny uneasily. “I’m a painter. What do you mean, I’m an ac—”
“You’re an actor, playing a painter!” said the dark man. “You actors! Dumb cows! You’re an actor! Understand? It’s a livie”
“What is the livie about?” Johnny asked carefully.
“It’s a musical tragedy. All about poor people in the slums.”
“I don’t live in the slums,” said Johnny indignantly.
“In the slums. You want to tell me, or should I tell you? It’s a big dramatic show. You’re the comic relief. Later on you die.” The dark man stopped short, and looked as if he wished he had stopped shorter. “A detail,” he said. “Not important. We’ll fix it up, next script conference.” He put his hands to his temples suddenly. “Oh, why was I decanted?” he muttered. “Glorm will split me up the middle. He’ll pulverize me. He’ll shove me back into the—”
“You’re serious?” said Johnny. His voice cracked. “What is this, I die? I die how?” He twitched uncontrollably.
Zip!
The Fifth Avenue bus was gone. They were sitting in the second row of a movie theatre. The house lights had just gone up; the audience was shuffling out. Johnny seized the dark man by the shirt front.
“I forget,” said the dark man sullenly. “You fall off something, I think. Right before the end of the livie, when the hero gets to bed with the girl. You want to know who’s the hero? Somebody you know. Duke—”
“Fall off what?” said Johnny, tightening his grip.
“Off a building. Into a trash can. Half.”
“Comic relief?” said Johnny with an effort.
“Sure. Pratfalls! You’ll steal the livie! The lookers’ll have heart attacks laughing!”
The sounds of the departing audience abruptly stopped. The walls and ceiling flickered alarmingly; when they steadied, Johnny saw with total bewilderment that they were in a different room altogether. It was nowhere he had ever been before—nowhere, he realized abruptly, with his heart racing, that he ever could have been before.
Out across the great silvery bowl, under a cloud-high ceiling, men were floating in the air like gnats, some drifting, some moving quickly around a bulbous metal shape that hung over the centre of the huge room. Down below, twenty feet lower than the balcony on which they sat, there was a little puff of light and exploding shape—a brilliant unfolding that lasted only an instant, leaving a crazy memory of moving trees and buildings. After a moment, it happened again.
Johnny was aware that the dark man beside him had stiffened and somehow shrunk into himself.
He turned. Behind them, in the eerie stillness, a silvery man came striding through a doorway.
“Glorm,” said the dark man, gasping, “ne estis mia kulpo. Li—”
Glorm said, “Fermu vian truon.” He was slender and sinewy, dressed in something that looked like tinfoil. He had bulging eyes under a broad shelf of brow. He turned them on Johnny. “Now you vill give me d’instrument,” he said.
Johnny found his breath. The bit of leather in his hand, he discovered, was now as rigid as if it were part of an invisible pillar in the air; but he tightened his grip on it, anyhow. “Why should I give it to you?” he demanded.
Glorm gestured impatiently. “Vait.” He turned to look out over the enormous sunken bowl, and his voice suddenly echoed everywhere, somehow a hundred times magnified:
“Giŝpinu!”
Again came that flowering of colour and movement under the hanging bulge of metal, but this time it sprang into full life and didn’t collapse again.
Fascinated, Johnny stared down over the balcony rim. The floor of the bowl was gone now, buried by a glittering marble street. On either side were white buildings, all porticoes and pillars, and down at the end loomed something that looked like the Parthenon, only as big as the main U.N. building in New York.
The street was aboil with people, dwarfed by distance. They scattered as a four-horse chariot came hurtling past, then flowed together again. Johnny could hear them muttering angrily, like so many bees. There was a curious acrid scent in the air.
Puzzled, he glanced at Glorm and the dark man. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing.
Glorm made a gesture. “Rome,” said the dark man, shaking as if with a chill. “They’re making a spectacle, back in 44 B.C. This here’s the scene where Julius Caesar burns the place down because they won’t make him emperor.”
Sure enough, the acrid scent was stronger; down below, a thin veil of grey-black smoke was beginning to rise…
“But he didn’t,” Johnny protested, stung. “That isn’t even Rome—the Parthenon’s in Athens.”
“It used to be,” said the dark man. His teeth were chattering. “We changed it. The last outfit that made livies there, they were okay on the little scenes, but they didn’t understand spectacle. Glorm—” he cast a furtive glance at the silver man and raised his voice slightly—“he understands spectacle.”
“Let me get this straight now,” said Johnny with a thick tongue. “You went to all the trouble of building that phoney set, with that crazy Parthenon and all, when you could just go back in time and shoot the real thing?”
“Bona!” shouted Glorm’s amplified voice. “Gi estu presata!” The scene down below whirled in upon itself and winked out.
Glorm turned impatiently to Johnny. “Now,” he said. “You do not understand. Dat vich you see dere is vat you call d’ real ding. Ve not built set—built not set—not set—Kiel oni ĝi diras?” .
“ ‘We din’t build no set,’ ” said the dark man.
“Putra lingvo! Ve din build no set. Ve made dat Romans build it. Dey din build no set—dey build Rome, different. Understand? Nobody din build no set! Real Rome! Real fire! Real dead! Real history!”
Johnny gaped at him. “You mean you’re changing history, just to make movies?”
“Livies,” the dark man muttered.
“Livies, then. You must all be loo
pies. Where does that leave the people up in the future? Look—where are we now? What time?” .
“Your calendar, uh, 4400-something. About twenty-five hundred years from your time.”
“Twenty-five hundred—Well, what does it do to you, when you change the Romans all around?”
“Noddin’,” said Glorm emphatically.
“Noddin’?” said Johnny obtusely.
“Noddin’ at all. Vat happens to dog ven you cut off his modder’s tail?”
Johnny thought about it. “Noddin’.”
“Korekti. You dink it is big job?”
Johnny nodded.
“It is big job. But ve do it tventy, forty times every year. You know how many people live on d’ planet now?” Without pausing, he answered himself. “Tirty billion. You know how many go to livies? Half. Fifteen billion. Seven times more people dan live on d’ planet in your time. Old, young. Stupid, smart. Livies got to entertain dem all. Not like your Hollyvood. Dat vas not art, not spectacle. Yen d’people tink, deep down—” he tapped his head—“someting is true, den I make it true, and it is true! Dat is art! Dat is spectacle!”
“You haven’t changed New York much, anyway,” said Johnny in self-defence.
Glorm’s bulging eyes grew bulgier. “Not change!” He snorted, turned. His amplified voice rang out again: “Donu al mi flugantan kvieton de Nov-Jorko natura!”
There was a stirring of floating figures out around the hanging bulge of metal. Glorm cracked his knuckles impatiently. After a long moment the floor of the bowl blossomed again.
Johnny caught his breath.
The illusion was so perfect that the floor seemed to have dropped away: a thousand feet down, Manhattan Island lay spread in the morning sunlight; he could see ships at anchor in the harbour, and the clear glints of the Hudson and the East River running up northward into the mists over the Bronx.
The first thing he noticed was that the chaotic chequerboard of low buildings spread over the whole island: the cluster of skyscrapers at the southern tip, and the scattering at midtown, were missing.
“Guess vat year,” said Glorm’s voice.
He frowned. “About 1900?” But that couldn’t be right, he thought uneasily—there were too many bridges: more, even, than in his own time.
Glorm laughed heartily. “Dat vich you see is Nov-York, 1956—before ve change it. You dink you invent skyscrepers? Oh, no. Me invent it.”
“For Wage Slaves of Broadway,” said the dark man reverently. “That was his first livie. What a spectacle!”
“Now you understand?” Glorm asked patronizingly. “Long time I vanted to tell dis to actor, see his face. Good—you understand now.” His lean face was shining. “You are actor; I am producer, director. Producer, director is everything.
Actor is dirt! So you vill give me d’instrument.”
“Won’t,” said Johnny weakly.
“You vill,” Glorm said. “In a minute you have to let go.”
Johnny discovered with a shock that his hand was growing numb. So this was what they had all been stalling for, all this time. And now they’d got it. He was about to let go; he could feel it. So…
“Listen!” he said desperately. “What about the people in the future—I mean your future? Do they make livies, too? If they do, are you an actor to them?”
Glorm’s face tautened with fury. “Kraĉajo!” he said. “Vait until—” He stared at the thing in Johnny’s hand, and his fingers clenched.
Johnny’s grip loosened. He was going to let go, and then what? Back to his own time, and more pratfalls, leading inexorably to…
His whole arm was tired. He was going to have to let go.
… And there was nothing he could do about it. That endless chain of tinkerers, Glorms standing on each others” shoulders, all the way up into the unguessable future—that was too big to change. It was, he supposed, no more frightening or terrible than other kinds of macrocosmic tyranny the human mind had imagined; it would be possible to live with it, if only his part weren’t so unpleasant…
His hand dropped.
Smiling, Glorm reached out to the suspended bit of leather. His fingers did something to it that Johnny couldn’t follow, and abruptly it sagged into his palm.
It shuddered and flickered there for a moment like a top running down. All at once it split into a brown coin and a pair of pince-nez, The flickering came again, a blur of bright shapes: fountain pen, notebook, watch, cigarette lighter. Then both objects came to rest, tiny and metallic and dead.
Glorm put them into a fold of his clothing.
“Bona,” he said indifferently over his shoulder. “Resendu tion al Nov-Jorkon.”
Desperation limbered Johnny’s tongue. He started talking before he even knew what he was going to say. “What if I don’t stay in New York?”
Glorm paused, looking annoyed. “Kio?”
“You’ve got your gadget back,” said Johnny, as the idea took shape in his head. “All right, but what are you going to do if I decide to move to Chicago, or some place? Or get myself arrested and sent to jail? I mean, you can shuffle the probabilities around, but if I try hard enough, I can put myself where it’s impossible to have what you want to have happen, happen.” He took a deep breath. “See what I mean?”
“Plejmalpuro,” said Glorm. From his expression, he saw.
“Listen,” Johnny said. “Let me get the picture. This Duke you say is the hero—that’s the Duke I know?” He got a nod from Glorm. “And that was part of the script, when he helped me get out of town?”
“Dress rehearsal,” said the dark man. “You fall in a swamp in Florida—come up all over mud and leeches. A real boff.”
Johnny shuddered and turned his mind resolutely away from leeches and falls from high buildings… “What I want to know is, what was Duke’s angle? Why did he think he wanted to get me out of town?”
They told him. The answer was brutally simple, and Johnny had been half afraid that he knew it already.
He waited until his nails unclenched from his palms, and he felt able to talk sensibly again. And even then, he found he had nothing to say. How could you talk to people who would do a thing like that and call it art, or entertainment? It was logical, he supposed, that a culture whose taste demanded Glorm’s ruthless spectacles should have such a concept of a “hero” . It was also terrifying.
His time was running out again. But the answer to that one occurred to him too.
If Duke were here, what would he say?
“Okay, look,” Johnny said rapidly, “I’m just spitballing, you understand, talking off the top of my head—”
Glorm and the dark man leaned forward with interested, wary expressions.
“—but here’s how I see it. Instead of this clown type for your comedy relief, we have this suave man-of-the-world type. It’s a switch. A really great, uh, producer-director could put it over. I can really see it. Take for instance—here, show me where it says in the script…”
Johnny materialized on the quiet side street a few steps from his door. He felt heavy and tired. The sun was still high over the tops of the old buildings; it was about 2:30—an hour and a half after Duke had left him at the airport.
He leaned against a railing and waited. Sure enough, here came Mary Finigan across the street, her hair uncombed, dark circles under her eyes.
“Go home, Mary,” he said.
She was startled. “What’s the matter, isn’t he there? I mean, Duke called me—he said he was at your place.”
“He’s got an axe,” said Johnny. “I’m telling you the truth. He was going to kill you in my apartment, with my Scout axe that I use for kindling, with my fingerprints on it.”
When she was gone, Johnny went on around the corner and into the foyer. Duke was there with his hand in Johnny’s mailbox. He turned around and swore, and his hand twitched a long fat envelope out of the box. “What the devil are you doing here, Johnny?”
“I decided not to go.”
Duke le
aned against the wall, grinning. “Well, every coming together again gives a foretaste of the resurrection. Whew!”, He glanced at the envelope he was holding as if he had just noticed it. “Now I wonder what this might be.”
“You know what it is,” said Johnny without rancour. “Ted Edwards’ fifty bucks that he owed me. That was what gave you the idea, when he told you he’d put it in the mail. Then this Mary business came up, and I suppose it just seemed to you like a God-given opportunity.”
Duke’s eyes were narrow and hard. “You know about that, too, do you? What were you planning to do about it, would you tell an old friend that?”
“Nothing,” said Johnny. “Just give me my IOU, and we’ll call it square.”
Duke fished in his pocket for the folded scrap of paper and handed it over. He peered into Johnny’s eyes, looking baffled. “Well, well. You’re sure, are you?”
Johnny nodded and turned to go up the stairs.
“I believe you are,” said Duke. He was shaking his head, arms akimbo. “Johnny, my boy, you’re a character.”
Johnny looked down at him for a moment. “You’re another,” he said.
TIME ENOUGH
The walls and the control panel were grey, but in the viewscreen it was green summer noon.
“That’s the place,” said the boy’s voice in Vogel’s ear.
The old man gently touched the controls, and the viewpoint steadied, twenty feet or so above the ground. In the screen, maple leaves swayed in a light breeze. There was just a glimpse of the path below, deep in shadow.
The display, on the tiny screen, was as real as if one could . somehow squeeze through the frame and drop into those sunlit trees. A warm breath of air came into the room.
“Guess I could go there blindfold, I remember it so well,” he heard Jimmy say. The boy seemed unable to stop talking; his hands tightened and relaxed on his knees. “I remember, we were all standing around in front of the drugstore in the village, and one of the kids said let’s go swimming. So we all started off across town, and first thing I knew, we weren’t going down to the beach; we were going out to the old quarry.”