The Fritz Leiber Megapack Page 13

  Ha! Now the kind of recuperation Soldiers get when they come to the Place is a horse of a far brighter color, simply dazzling by comparison. Entertainment is our business and we give them a bang-up time and send them staggering happily back into action, though once in a great while something may happen to throw a wee shadow on the party.

  * * * *

  I am dead in some ways, but don’t let that bother you—I am lively enough in others. If you met me in the cosmos, you would be more apt to yak with me or try to pick me up than to ask a cop to do same or a father to douse me with holy water, unless you are one of those hard-boiled reformer types. But you are not likely to meet me in the cosmos, because (bar Basin Street and the Prater) 15th Century Italy and Augustan Rome—until they spoiled it—are my favorite (Ha!) vacation spots and, as I have said, I stick as close to the Place as I can. It is really the nicest Place in the whole Change World. (Crisis! I even think of it capitalized!)

  Anyhoo, when this thing started, I was twiddling my thumbs on the couch nearest the piano and thinking it was too late to do my fingernails and whoever came in probably wouldn’t notice them anyway.

  The Place was jumpy like it always is on an approach and the gray velvet of the Void around us was curdled with the uneasy lights you see when you close your eyes in the dark.

  Sid was tuning the Maintainers for the pick-up and the right shoulder of his gold-worked gray doublet was streaked where he’d been wiping his face on it with quick ducks of his head.

  Beauregard was leaning as close as he could over Sid’s other shoulder, one white-trousered knee neatly indenting the rose plush of the control divan, and he wasn’t missing a single flicker of Sid’s old fingers on the dials; Beau’s co-pilot besides piano player. Beau’s face had that dead blank look it must have had when every double eagle he owned and more he didn’t were riding on the next card to be turned in the gambling saloon on one of those wedding-cake Mississippi steamboats.

  Doc was soused as usual, sitting at the bar with his top hat pushed back and his knitted shawl pulled around him, his wide eyes seeing whatever horrors a life in Nazi-occupied Czarist Russia can add to being a drunk Demon in the Change World.

  Maud, who is the Old Girl, and Lili—the New Girl, of course—were telling the big beads of their identical pearl necklaces.

  You might say that all us Entertainers were a bit edgy; being Demons doesn’t automatically make us brave.

  Then the red telltale on the Major Maintainer went out and the Door began to darken in the Void facing Sid and Beau, and I felt Change Winds blowing hard and my heart missed a couple of beats, and the next thing three Soldiers had stepped out of the cosmos and into the Place, their first three steps hitting the floor hard as they changed times and weights.

  * * * *

  They were dressed as officers of hussars, as we’d been advised, and—praise the Bonny Dew!—I saw that the first of them was Erich, my own dear little commandant, the pride of the von Hohenwalds and the Terror of the Snakes. Behind him was some hard-faced Roman or other, and beside Erich and shouldering into him as they stamped forward was a new boy, blond, with a face like a Greek god who’s just been touring a Christian hell.

  They were uniformed exactly alike in black—shakos, fur-edged pelisses, boots, and so forth—with white skull emblems on the shakos. The only difference between them was that Erich had a Caller on his wrist and the New Boy had a black-gauntleted glove on his left hand and was clenching the mate in it, his right hand being bare like both of Erich’s and the Roman’s.

  “You’ve made it, lads, hearts of gold,” Sid boomed at them, and Beau twitched a smile and murmured something courtly and Maud began to chant, “Shut the Door!” and the New Girl copied her and I joined in because the Change Winds do blow like crazy when the Door is open, even though it can’t ever be shut tight enough to keep them from leaking through.

  “Shut it before it blows wrinkles in our faces,” Maud called in her gamin voice to break the ice, looking like a skinny teen-ager in the tight, knee-length frock she’d copied from the New Girl.

  But the three Soldiers weren’t paying attention. The Roman—I remembered his name was Mark—was blundering forward stiffly as if there were something wrong with his eyes, while Erich and the New Boy were yelling at each other about a kid and Einstein and a summer palace and a bloody glove and the Snakes having booby-trapped Saint Petersburg. Erich had that taut sadistic smile he gets when he wants to hit me.

  The New Boy was in a tearing rage. “Why’d you pull us out so bloody fast? We fair chewed the Nevsky Prospekt to pieces galloping away.”

  “Didn’t you feel their stun guns, Dummkopf, when they sprung the trap—too soon, Gott sei Dank?” Erich demanded.

  “I did,” the New Boy told him. “Not enough to numb a cat. Why didn’t you show us action?”

  “Shut up. I’m your leader. I’ll show you action enough.”

  “You won’t. You’re a filthy Nazi coward.”

  “Weibischer Engländer!”

  “Bloody Hun!”

  “Schlange!”

  The blond lad knew enough German to understand that last crack. He threw back his sable-edged pelisse to clear his sword arm and he swung away from Erich, which bumped him into Beau. At the first sign of the quarrel, Beau had raised himself from the divan as quickly and silently as a—no, I won’t use that word—and slithered over to them.

  “Sirs, you forget yourselves,” he said sharply, off balance, supporting himself on the New Boy’s upraised arm. “This is Sidney Lessingham’s Place of Entertainment and Recuperation. There are ladies—”

  With a contemptuous snarl, the New Boy shoved him off and snatched with his bare hand for his saber. Beau reeled against the divan, it caught him in the shins and he fell toward the Maintainers. Sid whisked them out of the way as if they were a couple of beach radios—simply nothing in the Place is nailed down—and had them back on the coffee table before Beau hit the floor. Meanwhile, Erich had his saber out and had parried the New Boy’s first wild slash and lunged in return, and I heard the scream of steel and the rutch of his boot on the diamond-studded pavement.

  Beau rolled over and came up pulling from the ruffles of his shirt bosom a derringer I knew was some other weapon in disguise—a stun gun or even an Atropos. Besides scaring me damp for Erich and everybody, that brought me up short: us Entertainers’ nerves must be getting as naked as the Soldiers’, probably starting when the Spiders canceled all cosmic leaves twenty sleeps back.

  Sid shot Beau his look of command, rapped out, “I’ll handle this, you whoreson firebrand,” and turned to the Minor Maintainer. I noticed that the telltale on the Major was glowing a reassuring red again, and I found a moment to thank Mamma Devi that the Door was shut.

  Maud was jumping up and down, cheering I don’t know which—nor did she, I bet—and the New Girl was white and I saw that the sabers were working more businesslike. Erich’s flicked, flicked, flicked again and came away from the blond lad’s cheek spilling a couple of red drops. The blond lad lunged fiercely, Erich jumped back, and the next moment they were both floating helplessly in the air, twisting like they had cramps.

  I realized quick enough that Sid had shut off gravity in the Door and Stores sectors of the Place, leaving the rest of us firm on our feet in the Refresher and Surgery sectors. The Place has sectional gravity to suit our Extraterrestrial buddies—those crazy ETs sometimes come whooping in for recuperation in very mixed batches.

  From his central position, Sid called out, kindly enough but taking no nonsense, “All right, lads, you’ve had your fun. Now sheathe those swords.”

  For a second or so, the two black hussars drifted and contorted. Erich laughed harshly and neatly obeyed—the commandant is used to free fall. The blond lad stopped writhing, hesitated while he glared upside down at Erich and managed to get his saber into its scabbard, although he turned a slow somer
sault doing it. Then Sid switched on their gravity, slow enough so they wouldn’t get sprained landing.

  * * * *

  Erich laughed, lightly this time, and stepped out briskly toward us. He stopped to clap the New Boy firmly on the shoulder and look him in the face.

  “So, now you get a good scar,” he said.

  The other didn’t pull away, but he didn’t look up and Erich came on. Sid was hurrying toward the New Boy, and as he passed Erich, he wagged a finger at him and gayly said, “You rogue.” Next thing I was giving Erich my “Man, you’re home” hug and he was kissing me and cracking my ribs and saying, “Liebchen! Doppchen!”—which was fine with me because I do love him and I’m a good lover and as much a Doubleganger as he is.

  We had just pulled back from each other to get a breath—his blue eyes looked so sweet in his worn face—when there was a thud behind us. With the snapping of the tension, Doc had fallen off his bar stool and his top hat was over his eyes. As we turned to chuckle at him, Maud squeaked and we saw that the Roman had walked straight up against the Void and was marching along there steadily without gaining a foot, like it does happen, his black uniform melting into that inside-your-head gray.

  Maud and Beau rushed over to fish him back, which can be tricky. The thin gambler was all courtly efficiency again. Sid supervised from a distance.

  “What’s wrong with him?” I asked Erich.

  He shrugged. “Overdue for Change Shock. And he was nearest the stun guns. His horse almost threw him. Mein Gott, you should have seen Saint Petersburg, Liebchen: the Nevsky Prospekt, the canals flying by like reception carpets of blue sky, a cavalry troop in blue and gold that blundered across our escape, fine women in furs and ostrich plumes, a monk with a big tripod and his head under a hood—it gave me the horrors seeing all those Zombies flashing past and staring at me in that sick unawakened way they have, and knowing that some of them, say the photographer, might be Snakes.”

  Our side in the Change War is the Spiders, the other side is the Snakes, though all of us—Spiders and Snakes alike—are Doublegangers and Demons too, because we’re cut out of our lifelines in the cosmos. Your lifeline is all of you from birth to death. We’re Doublegangers because we can operate both in the cosmos and outside of it, and Demons because we act reasonably alive while doing so—which the Ghosts don’t. Entertainers and Soldiers are all Demon-Doublegangers, whichever side they’re on—though they say the Snake Places are simply ghastly. Zombies are dead people whose lifelines lie in the so-called past.

  * * * *

  “What were you doing in Saint Petersburg before the ambush?” I asked Erich. “That is, if you can talk about it.”

  “Why not? We were kidnapping the infant Einstein back from the Snakes in 1883. Yes, the Snakes got him, Liebchen, only a few sleeps back, endangering the West’s whole victory over Russia—”

  “—which gave your dear little Hitler the world on a platter for fifty years and got me loved to death by your sterling troops in the Liberation of Chicago—”

  “—but which leads to the ultimate victory of the Spiders and the West over the Snakes and Communism, Liebchen, remember that. Anyway, our counter-snatch didn’t work. The Snakes had guards posted—most unusual and we weren’t warned. The whole thing was a great mess. No wonder Bruce lost his head—not that it excuses him.”

  “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 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 mutter
ed, “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 up 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.

  CHAPTER 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!”