Hell is the place for me. For to Hell go the fine churchmen, and the
fine knights, killed in the tourney or in some grand war, the brave
soldiers and the gallant gentlemen. With them will I go. There go
also the fair gracious ladies who have lovers two or three beside
their lord. There go the gold and the silver, the sables and ermine.
There go the harpers and the minstrels and the kings of the earth.
--Aucassin
NINE FOR A PARTY
I exchanged my drink for a new one from another tray Beau was bringing
around. The gray of the Void was beginning to look real pleasant, like
warm thick mist with millions of tiny diamonds floating in it. Doc was
sitting grandly at the bar with a steaming tumbler of tea--a chaser, I
guess, since he was just putting down a shot glass. Sid was talking to
Erich and laughing at the same time and I said to myself it begins to
feel like a party, but something's lacking.
It wasn't anything to do with the Major Maintainer; its telltale was
glowing a steady red like a nice little home fire amid the tight cluster
of dials that included all the controls except the lonely and
frightening Introversion switch that was never touched. Then Maud's
couch curtains winked out and there were she and the Roman sitting
quietly side by side.
He looked down at his shiny boots and the rest of his black duds like he
was just waking up and couldn't believe it all, and he said, "_Omnia
mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis_," and I raised my eyebrows at Beau,
who was taking the tray back, and he did proud by old Vicksburg by
translating: "All things change and we change with them."
Then Mark slowly looked around at us, and I can testify that a Roman
smile is just as warm as any other nationality, and he finally said, "We
are nine, the proper number for a party. The couches, too. It is good."
Maud chuckled proudly and Erich shouted, "Welcome back from the Void,
_Kamerad_," and then, because he's German and thinks all parties have to
be noisy and satirically pompous, he jumped on a couch and announced,
"_Herren und Damen_, permit me to introduce the noblest Roman of them
all, Marcus Vipsaius Niger, legate to Nero Claudius (called Germanicus
in a former time stream) and who in 763 A.U.C. (Correct, Mark? It means
10 A.D., you meatheads!) died bravely fighting the Parthians and the
Snakes in the Battle of Alexandria. _Hoch, hoch, hoch!_"
* * * * *
We all swung our glasses and cheered with him and Sid yelled at Erich,
"Keep your feet off the furniture, you unschooled rogue," and grinned
and boomed at all three hussars, "Take your ease, Recuperees," and Maud
and Mark got their drinks, the Roman paining Beau by refusing Falernian
wine in favor of scotch and soda, and right away everyone was talking a
mile a minute.
We had a lot to catch up on. There was the usual yak about the war--"The
Snakes are laying mine fields in the Void," "I don't believe it, how can
you mine nothing?"--and the shortages--bourbon, bobby pins, and the
stabilitin that would have brought Mark out of it faster--and what had
become of people--"Marcia? Oh, she's not around any more," (She'd been
caught in a Change Gale and green and stinking in five seconds, but I
wasn't going to say that)--and Mark had to be told about Bruce's glove,
which convulsed us all over again, and the Roman remembered a legionary
who had carried a gripe all the way to Octavius because he'd
accidentally been issued the unbelievable luxury item sugar instead of
the usual salt, and Erich asked Sid if he had any new Ghostgirls in
stock and Sid sucked his beard like the old goat he is. "Dost thou ask
me, lusty Allemand? Nay, there are several great beauties, amongst them
an Austrian countess from Strauss's Vienna, and if it were not for
sweetling here ... Mnnnn."
I poked a finger in Erich's chest between two of the bright buttons with
their tiny death's heads. "You, my little von Hohenwald, are a menace to
us real girls. You have too much of a thing about the unawakened, ghost
kind."
He called me his little Demon and hugged me a bit too hard to prove it
wasn't so, and then he suggested we show Bruce the Art Gallery. I
thought this was a real brilliant idea, but when I tried to argue him
out of it, he got stubborn. Bruce and Lili were willing to do anything
anyone wanted them to, though not so willing to pay any attention while
doing it. The saber cut was just a thin red line on his cheek; she'd
washed away all the dried blood.
The Gallery gets you, though. It's a bunch of paintings and sculptures
and especially odd knick-knacks, all made by Soldiers recuperating here,
and a lot of them telling about the Change War from the stuff they're
made of--brass cartridges, flaked flint, bits of ancient pottery glued
into futuristic shapes, mashed-up Incan gold rebeaten by a Martian,
whorls of beady Lunan wire, a picture in tempera on a crinkle-cracked
thick round of quartz that had filled a starship porthole, a Sumerian
inscription chiseled into a brick from an atomic oven.
* * * * *
There are a lot of things in the Gallery and I can always find some I
haven't ever seen before. It gets you, as I say, thinking about the guys
that made them and their thoughts and the far times and places they came
from, and sometimes, when I'm feeling low, I'll come and look at them so
I'll feel still lower and get inspired to kick myself back into a good
temper. It's the only history of the Place there is and it doesn't
change a great deal, because the things in it and the feelings that went
into them resist the Change Winds better than anything else.
Right now, Erich's witty lecture was bouncing off the big ears I hide
under my pageboy bob and I was thinking how awful it is that for us that
there's not only change but Change. You don't know from one minute to
the next whether a mood or idea you've got is really new or just welling
up into you because the past has been altered by the Spiders or Snakes.
Change Winds can blow not only death but anything short of it, down to
the featheriest fancy. They blow thousands of times faster than time
moves, but no one can say how much faster or how far one of them will
travel or what damage it'll do or how soon it'll damp out. The Big Time
isn't the little time.
And then, for the Demons, there's the fear that our personality will
just fade and someone else climb into the driver's seat and us not even
know. Of course, we Demons are supposed to be able to remember through
Change and in spite of it; that's why we are Demons and not Ghosts like
the other Doublegangers, or merely Zombies or Unborn and nothing more,
and as Beau truly said, there aren't any great men among us--and blamed
few of the masses, either--we're a rare sort of people and that's why
the Spiders have to Recruit us where they find us without caring about
our previous knowledge and background, a Foreign Legion of time, a
strange kind of folk, bright but always in the background, with built-in
nostalgia and cynicism, as adaptable as Centaurian shape-changers but
with memories as long as a Lunan's six arms, a kind of Change People,
you might say, the cream of the damned.
But sometimes I wonder if our memories are as good as we think they are
and if the whole past wasn't once entirely different from anything we
remember, and we've forgotten that we forgot.
As I say, the Gallery gets you feeling real low, and so now I said to
myself, "Back to your lousy little commandant, kid," and gave myself a
stiff boot.
Erich was holding up a green bowl with gold dolphins or spaceships on it
and saying, "And, to my mind, this proves that Etruscan art is derived
from Egyptian. Don't you agree, Bruce?"
Bruce looked up, all smiles from Lili, and said, "What was that, dear
chap?"
* * * * *
Erich's forehead got dark as the Door and I was glad the hussars had
parked their sabers along with their shakos, but before he could even
get out a Jerry cussword, Doc breezed up in that plateau-state of
drunkenness so like hypnotized sobriety, moving as if he were on a
dolly, ghosted the bowl out of Erich's hand, said, "A beautiful specimen
of Middle Systemic Venusian. When Eightaitch finished it, he told me you
couldn't look at it and not feel the waves of the Northern Venusian
Shallows rippling around your hoofs. But it might look better inverted.
I wonder. Who are you, young officer? _Nichevo_," and he carefully put
the bowl back on its shelf and rolled on.
It's a fact that Doc knows the Art Gallery better than any of us, really
by heart, he being the oldest inhabitant, though he maybe picked a bad
time to show off his knowledge. Erich was going to take out after him,
but I said, "Nix, _Kamerad_, remember gloves and sugar," and he
contented himself with complaining, "That _nichevo_--it's so gloomy and
hopeless, _ungeheuerlich_. I tell you, _Liebchen_, they shouldn't have
Russians working for the Spiders, not even as Entertainers."
I grinned at him and squeezed his hand. "Not much entertainment in Doc
these days, is there?" I agreed.
He grinned back at me a shade sheepishly and his face smoothed and his
blue eyes looked sweet again for a second and he said, "I shouldn't want
to claw out at people that way, Greta, but at times I am just a jealous
old man," which is not entirely true, as he isn't a day over
thirty-three, although his hair is nearly white.
Our lovers had drifted on a few steps until they were almost fading into
the Surgery screen. It was the last spot I would have picked for the
formal preliminaries to a little British smooching, but Lili probably
didn't share my prejudices, though I remembered she'd told me she'd
served a brief hitch in an Arachnoid Field Hospital before being
transferred to the Place.
But she couldn't have had anything like the experience I'd had during my
short and sour career as a Spider nurse, when I'd acquired my best-hated
nightmare and flopped completely (jobwise, but on the floor, too) at
seeing a doctor flick a switch and a being, badly injured but human,
turn into a long cluster of glistening strange fruit--ugh, it always
makes me want to toss my cookies and my buttons. And to think that dear
old Daddy Anton wanted his Greta chile to be a doctor.
* * * * *
Well, I could see this wasn't getting me anywhere I wanted to go, and
after all there was a party going on.
Doc was babbling something at a great rate to Sid--I just hoped Doc
wouldn't get inspired to go into his animal imitations, which sound
pretty fierce and once seriously offended some recuperating ETs.
Maud was demonstrating to Mark a 23rd Century two-step and Beau sat down
at the piano and improvised softly on her rhythm.
As the deep-thrumming relaxing notes hit us, Erich's face brightened and
he dragged me over. Pleasantly soon I had my feet off the diamond-rough
floor, which we don't carpet because most of the ETs, the dear boys,
like it hard, and I was shouldering back deep into the couch nearest the
piano, with cushions all around me and a fresh drink in my hand, while
my Nazi boy friend was getting ready to discharge his _Weltschmerz_ as
song, which didn't alarm me too much, as his baritone is passable.
Things felt real good, like the Maintainer was just idling to keep the
Place in existence and moored to the cosmos, not exerting itself at all
or at most taking an occasional lazy paddle stroke. At times the Place's
loneliness can be happy and comfortable.
Then Beau raised an eyebrow at Erich, who nodded, and next thing they
were launched into a song we all know, though I've never found out where
it originally came from. This time it made me think of Lili, and I
wondered why--and why it's a tradition at Recuperation Stations to call
the new girl Lili, though in this case it happened to be her real name.
_Standing in the Doorway just outside of space,
Winds of Change blow 'round you but don't touch your face;
You smile as you whisper tenderly,
"Please cross to me, Recuperee;
The operation's over, come in and close the Door."_