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 because 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 space-time, 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, once-called 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 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', gnaedige 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
1870s, 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 crystallized, 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.
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 got all sorts of junk in Stores."
"It doesn't matter, _Liebchen_," he assured me. "_Ach, der Handschuh!_"
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-DA-luh."
"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
hulking 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. I decided I could safely forget
our little Britons and devote myself to Erich or whatever needed me.