The Big Time (3 page)

“Is that bad, lad?” Sid murmured, innocently straightfaced.

“—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,” Ski 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 girl’s, 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 all-important 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 as 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’, gnadige 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

Nazi-operated 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?”

Beau said, serving his culture in slightly thicker slices, “
Pardonnez-moi
, but when you have enjoyed your status as Doubleganger a
soupcon
longer, you will understand that great men can rarely be Resurrected. Their beings are too crystalized, sir, their lifelines too tough.”

“Pardon me, but I think that’s rot. I believe that most great men refuse to make the bargain with the Snakes, or with us Spiders either. They scorn Resurrection at the price demanded.”

“Brother, they ain’t that great,” I whispered, while Beau glided on with, “However that may be, you have accepted Resurrection, sir, and so incurred an obligation which you as a gentleman must honor.”

“I accepted Resurrection all right,” Bruce said, a glare coming into his eyes. “When they pulled me out of my line at Passchendaele in ‘17 ten minutes before I died, I grabbed at the offer of life like a drunkard grabs at a drink the morning after. But even then I thought I

was also seizing a chance to undo historic wrongs, work for peace.” His voice was getting wilder all the time. Just beyond our circle, I noticed the New Girl watching him worshipfully.

“But what did I find the Spiders wanted me for? Only to fight more wars, over and over again, make them crueler and stinkinger, cut the swath of death a little wider with each Big

Change, work our way a little closer to the death of the cosmos.”

Sid touched my wrist and, as Bruce raved on, he whispered to me, “What kind of ball, think you, will please and so quench this fire-brained rogue? And you love me, discover it.”

I whispered back without taking my eyes off Bruce either, “I know somebody who’ll be happy to put on any kind of ball he wants, if he’ll just notice her.”

“The New Girl, sweetling? ‘Tis well. This rogue speaks like an angry angel. It touches my heart and I like it not.”

Bruce was saying hoarsely but loudly, “And so we’re sent on operations in the past and from each of those operations the Change Winds blow futurewards, swiftly or slowly according to the opposition they breast, sometimes rippling into each other, and any one of those Winds may shift the date of our own death ahead of the date of our Resurrection, so that in an instant—even here, outside the cosmos—we may molder and rot or crumble to dust and vanish away. The wind with our name in it may leak through the Door.”

Faces hardened at that, because it’s bad form to mention Change Death, and Erich flared out with, “
Halt’s Maul, Kamerad!
There’s always another Resurrection.”

But Bruce didn’t keep his mouth shut. He said, “Is there? I know the Spiders promise it, but even if they do go back and cut another Doubleganger from my lifeline, is he me?” He

slapped his chest with his bare hand. “I don’t think so. And even if he Is me, with unbroken consciousness, why’s he been Resurrected again? Just to refight more wars and face more

Change Death for the sake of an almighty power—” his voice was rising to a climax—an almighty power so bloody ineffectual, it can’t furnish one poor Soldier pulled out of the mud of Passchendaele, one miserable Change Commando, one Godforsaken Recuperee a proper issue of equipment!”

And he held out his bare right hand toward us, fingers spread a little, as if it were the most amazing object and most deserving of outraged sympathy in the whole world.

And he held out his bare right hand toward us, fingers spread a little, as if it were the most amazing object and most deserving of outraged sympathy in the whole world.

The New Girl’s timing was perfect. She whisked through us, and before he could so much as wiggle the fingers, she whipped a black gauntleted glove on it and anyone could see that it fitted his hand perfectly.

This time our laughing beat ‘the other. We collapsed and slopped our drinks and pounded each other on the back and then started all over.

“
Ach, der Handschuh, Liebchen!
Where’d she get it?” Erich gasped in my ear.

“Probably just turned the other one inside out— that turns a left into a right—I’ve done it myself,” I wheezed, collapsing again at the idea.

“That would put the lining outside,” he objected.

“Then I don’t know,” I said. “We get all sorts of junk in Stores.”

“It doesn’t matter,
Lie bc hen
,” he assured me. “
Ach, der Hand schuh!
”

All through It, Bruce just stood there admiring the glove, moving the fingers a little now and then, and the New Girl stood watching him as if he were eating a cake she’d baked.

When the hysteria quieted down, he looked up at her with a big smile. “What did you say your name was?”

“Lili,” she said, and believe you me, she was Lili to me even in my thoughts from then on, for the way she’d handled that lunatic.

“Lilian Foster,” she explained. “I’m English also. Mr. Marchant, I’ve read _A Young

Man’s Fancy_ I don’t know how many times.”

“You have? It’s wretched stuff. From the Dark Ages—I mean my Cambridge days. In the trenches, I was working up some poems that were rather better.”

“I won’t hear you say that. But I’d be terribly thrilled to hear the new ones. Oh, Mr.

Marchant, it was so strange to hear you call it Passiondale.”

“Why, if I may ask?”

“Because that’s the way I pronounce it to myself. But I looked it up and it’s more like

Pas-ken-DAIuh.”

“Bless you! All the Tommies called it Passiondale, just as they called Ypres Wipers.”

“How interesting. You know, Mr. Marchant, I’ll wager we were Recruited in the same operation, summer of 1917. I’d got to France as a Red Cross nurse, but they found out my age and were going to send me back.”

“How old were you—are you? Same thing, I mean to say.”

“Seventeen.”

“Seventeen in ‘17,” Bruce murmured, his blue eyes glassy.

It was real corny dialogue and I couldn’t resent the humorous leer Erich gave me as we listened to them, as if to say, “Ain’t it nice,
Liebchen
, Bruce has a silly little English schoolgirl to occupy him between operations?”

Just the same, as I watched Lili in her dark bangs and pearl necklace and tight little gray dress that reached barely to her knees, and Bruce huildng over her tenderly in his snazzy hussar’s rig, I knew that I was seeing the start of something that hadn’t been part of me since

Dave died fighting Franco years before I got on the Big Time, the sort of thing that almost made me wish there could be children in the Change World. I wondered why I’d never thought of trying to work things so that Dave got Resurrected and I told myself: no, it’s all changed, I’ve changed, better the Change Winds don’t disturb Dave or I know about it.

“No, I didn’t die in 1917—I was merely Recruited then,” Lili was telling Bruce. “I

lived all through the Twenties, as you can see from the way I dress. But let’s not talk about that, shall we? Oh, Mr. Marchant, do you think you can possibly remember any of those poems you started in the trenches? I can’t fancy them bettering your sonnet that concludes

with, ‘The bough swings in the wind, the night is deep; Look at the stars, poor little ape, and sleep.’”

That one almost made me whoop—what monkeys we are, I thought—though I’d be the first to admit that the best line to use on a poet is one of his own—in fact as many as possible.