"Familiar with infinite universe sheafs and open-ended postulate
systems?--the notion that everything is possible--and I mean
everything--and everything has happened. _Everything._"
--Heinlein
THE POSSIBILITY-BINDERS
An hour later, I was nursing a weak highball and a black eye in the
sleepy-time darkness on the couch farthest from the piano, half watching
the highlighted party going on around it and the bar, while the Place
waited for rendezvous with Egypt and the Battle of Alexandria.
Sid had swept all our outstanding problems into one big bundle and,
since his hand held the joker of the Minor Maintainer, he had settled
them all as high-handedly as if they'd been those of a bunch of
schoolkids.
It amounted to this:
We'd been Introverted when most of the damning things had happened, so
presumably only we knew about them, and we were all in so deep one way
or another that we'd all have to keep quiet to protect our delicate
complexions.
Well, Erich's triggering the bomb did balance rather neatly Bruce's
incitement to mutiny, and there was Doc's drinking, while everybody who
had declared for the peace message had something to hide. Mark and Kaby
I felt inclined to trust anywhere, Maud for sure, and Erich in this
particular matter, damn him. Illy I didn't feel at all easy about, but I
told myself there always has to be a fly in the ointment--a darn big
one this time, and furry.
Sid didn't mention his own dirty linen, but he knew we knew he'd flopped
badly as boss of the Place and only recouped himself by that last-minute
flimflam.
Remembering Sid's trick made me think for a moment about the real
Spiders. Just before I snuck out of Surgery, I'd had a vivid picture of
what they must look like, but now I couldn't get it again. It depressed
me, not being able to remember--oh, I probably just imagined I'd had a
picture, like a hophead on a secret-of-the-universe kick. Me ever find
out anything about the Spiders?--except for nervous notions like I'd had
during the recent fracas?--what a laugh!
The funniest thing (ha-ha!) was that I had ended up the least-trusted
person. Sid wouldn't give me time to explain how I'd deduced what had
happened to the Maintainer, and even when Lili spoke up and admitted
hiding it, she acted so bored I don't think everybody believed
her--although she did spill the realistic detail that she hadn't used
partial Inversion on the glove; she'd just turned it inside out to make
it a right and then done a full Inversion to get the lining back inside.
* * * * *
I tried to get Doc to confirm that he'd reasoned the thing out the same
way I had, but he said he had been blacked out the whole time, except
during the first part of the hunt, and he didn't remember having any
bright ideas at all. Right now, he was having Maud explain to him twice,
in detail, everything that had happened. I decided that it was going to
take a little more work before my reputation as a great detective was
established.
I looked over the edge of the couch and just made out in the gloom one
of Bruce's black gloves. It must have been kicked there. I fished it up.
It was the right-hand one. My big clue, and was I sick of it! Got
mittens, God forbid! I slung it away and, like a lurking octopus, Illy
shot up a tentacle from the next couch, where I hadn't known he was
resting, and snatched the glove like it was a morsel of underwater
garbage. These ETs can seem pretty shuddery non-human at times.
I thought of what a cold-blooded, skin-saving louse Illy had been, and
about Sid and his easy suspicions, and Erich and my black eye, and how,
as usual, I'd got left alone in the end. My men!
Bruce had explained about being an A-tech. Like a lot of us, he'd had
several widely different jobs during his first weeks in the Change World
and one of them had been as secretary to a group of the minor atomics
boys from the Manhattan-Project-Earth-Satellite days. I gathered he'd
also absorbed some of his bothersome ideas from them. I hadn't quite
decided yet what species of heroic heel he belonged to, but he was thick
with Mark and Erich again. Everybody's men!
Sid didn't have to argue with anybody; all the wild compulsions and
mighty resolves were dead now, anyway until they'd had a good long rest.
I sure could use one myself, I knew.
The party at the piano was getting wilder. Lili had been dancing the
black bottom on top of it and now she jumped down into Sid's and
Sevensee's arms, taking a long time about it. She'd been drinking a lot
and her little gray dress looked about as innocent on her as diapers
would on Nell Gwyn. She continued her dance, distributing her marks of
favor equally between Sid, Erich and the satyr. Beau didn't mind a bit,
but serenely pounded out "Tonight's the Night"--which she'd practically
shouted to him not two minutes ago.
I was glad to be out of the party. Who can compete with a highly
experienced, utterly disillusioned seventeen-year-old really throwing
herself away for the first time?
* * * * *
Something touched my hand. Illy had stretched a tentacle into a furry
wire to return me the black glove, although he ought to have known I
didn't want it. I pushed it away, privately calling Illy a washed-out
moronic tarantula, and right away I felt a little guilty. What right had
I to be critical of Illy? Would my own character have shown to advantage
if I'd been locked in with eleven octopoids a billion years away? For
that matter, where did I get off being critical of anyone?
Still, I was glad to be out of the party, though I kept on watching it.
Bruce was drinking alone at the bar. Once Sid had gone over to him and
they'd had one together and I'd heard Bruce reciting from Rupert Brooke
those deliberately corny lines, "For England's the one land, I know,
Where men with Splendid Hearts may go; and Cambridgeshire, of all
England, The Shire for Men who Understand;" and I'd remembered that
Brooke too had died young in World War One and my ideas had got fuzzy.
But mostly Bruce was just calmly drinking by himself. Every once in a
while Lili would look at him and stop dead in her dancing and laugh.
I'd figured out this Bruce-Lili-Erich business as well as I cared to.
Lili had wanted the nest with all her heart and nothing else would ever
satisfy her, and now she'd go to hell her own way and probably die of
Bright's disease for a third time in the Change World. Bruce hadn't
wanted the nest or Lili as much as he wanted the Change World and the
chances it gave for Soldierly cavorting and poetic drunks; Lili's seed
wasn't his idea of healing the cosmos; maybe he'd make a real mutiny
some day, but more likely he'd stick to bar-room epics.
His and Lili's infatuation wouldn't die completely, no matter how rancid
it looked right now. The real-love angle might go, but Change would
magnify the romance angle and it might seem to them like a big thing of
a sort if they met again.
Erich had his _Kamerad_, shaped to suit him, who'd had the guts and
cleverness to disarm the bomb he'd had the guts to trigger. You have to
hand it to Erich for having the nerve to put us all in a situation where
we'd have to find the Maintainer or fry, but I don't know anything
disgusting enough to hand to him.
I had tried a while back. I had gone up behind him and said, "Hey, how's
my wicked little commandant? Forgotten your _und so weiter_?" and as he
turned, I clawed my nails and slammed him across the cheek. That's how I
got the black eye. Maud wanted to put an electronic leech on it, but I
took the old handkerchief in ice water. Well, at any rate Erich had his
scratches to match Bruce's, not as deep, but four of them, and I told
myself maybe they'd get infected--I hadn't washed my hands since the
hunt. Not that Erich doesn't love scars.
* * * * *
Mark was the one who helped me up after Erich knocked me down.
"You got any omnias for that?" I snapped at him.
"For what?" Mark asked.
"Oh, for everything that's been happening to us," I told him
disgustedly.
He seemed to actually think for a moment and then he said, "_Omnia
mutantur, nihil interit._"
"Meaning?" I asked him.
He said, "All things change, but nothing is really lost."
It would be a wonderful philosophy to stand with against the Change
Winds. Also damn silly. I wondered if Mark really believed it. I wished
I could. Sometimes I come close to thinking it's a lot of baloney trying
to be any decent kind of Demon, even a good Entertainer. Then I tell
myself, "That's life, Greta. You've got to love through it somehow." But
there are times when some of these cookies are not too easy to love.
Something brushed the palm of my hand again. It was Illy's tentacle,
with the tendrils of the tip spread out like a little bush. I started to
pull my hand away, but then I realized the Loon was simply lonely. I
surrendered my hand to the patterned gossamer pressures of
feather-talk.
[Illustration]
Right away I got the words, "Feeling lonely, Greta girl?"
It almost floored me, I tell you. Here I was understanding feather-talk,
which I just didn't, and I was understanding it in English, which didn't
make sense at all.
For a second, I thought Illy must have spoken, but I knew he hadn't, and
for a couple more seconds I thought he was working telepathy on me,
using the feather-talk as cues. Then I tumbled to what was happening: he
was playing English on my palm like on the keyboard of his squeakbox,
and since I could play English on a squeakbox myself, my mind translated
automatically.
Realizing this almost gave my mind stage fright, but I was too fagged to
be hocused by self-consciousness. I just lay back and let the thoughts
come through. It's good to have someone talk to you, even an underweight
octopus, and without the squeaks Illy didn't sound so silly; his
phrasing was soberer.
* * * * *
"Feeling sad, Greta girl, because you'll never understand what's
happening to us all," Illy asked me, "because you'll never be anything
but a shadow fighting shadows--and trying to love shadows in between the
battles? It's time you understood we're not really fighting a war at
all, although it looks that way, but going through a kind of evolution,
though not exactly the kind Erich had in mind.
"Your Terran thought has a word for it and a theory for it--a theory
that recurs on many worlds. It's about the four orders of life: Plants,
Animals, Men and Demons. Plants are energy-binders--they can't move
through space or time, but they can clutch energy and transform it.
Animals are space-binders--they can move through space. Man (Terran or
ET, Lunan or non-Lunan) is a time-binder--he has memory.
"Demons are the fourth order of evolution, possibility-binders--they can
make all of what might be part of what is, and that is their
evolutionary function. Resurrection is like the metamorphosis of a
caterpillar into a butterfly: a third-order being breaks out of the
chrysalis of its lifeline into fourth-order life. The leap from the
ripped cocoon of an unchanging reality is like the first animal's leap
when he ceases to be a plant, and the Change World is the core of
meaning behind the many myths of immortality.
"All evolution looks like a war at first--octopoids against monopoids,
mammals against reptiles. And it has a necessary dialectic: there must
be the thesis--we call it Snake--and the antithesis--Spider--before
there can be the ultimate synthesis, when all possibilities are fully
realized in one ultimate universe. The Change War isn't the blind
destruction it seems.
"Remember that the Serpent is your symbol of wisdom and the Spider your
sign for patience. The two names are rightly frightening to you, for all
high existence is a mixture of horror and delight. And don't be
surprised, Greta girl, at the range of my words and thoughts; in a way,
I've had a billion years to study Terra and learn her languages and
myths.
"Who are the real Spiders and Snakes, meaning who were the first
possibility-binders? Who was Adam, Greta girl? Who was Cain? Who were
Eve and Lilith?
"In binding all possibility, the Demons also bind the mental with the
material. All fourth-order beings live inside and outside all minds,
throughout the whole cosmos. Even this Place is, after its fashion, a
giant brain: its floor is the brainpan, the boundary of the Void is the
cortex of gray matter--yes, even the Major and Minor Maintainers are
analogues of the pineal and pituitary glands, which in some form sustain
all nervous systems.
"There's the real picture, Greta girl."
The feather-talk faded out and Illy's tendril tips merged into a soft
pad on which I fingered, "Thanks, Daddy Longlegs."
* * * * *
Chewing over in my mind what Illy had just told me, I looked back at the
gang around the piano. The party seemed to be breaking up; at least some
of them were chopping away at it. Sid had gone to the control divan and
was getting set to tune in Egypt. Mark and Kaby were there with him, all
bursting with eagerness and the vision of ranks on ranks of mounted
Zombie bowmen going up in a mushroom cloud; I thought of what Illy had
told me and I managed a smile--seems we've got to win and lose all the
battles, every which way.
Mark had just put on his Parthian costume, groaning cheerfully,
"Trousers again!" and was striding around under a hat like a fur-lined
ice-cream cone and with the sleeves of his metal-stuffed candys flapping
over his hands. He waved a short sword with a heart-shaped guard at
Bruce and Erich and told them to get a move on.
Kaby was going along on the operation wearing the old-woman disguise
intended for Benson-Carter. I got a half-hearted kick out of knowing she
was going to have to cover that chest and hobble.
Bruce and Erich weren't taking orders from Mark just yet. Erich went
over and said something to Bruce at the bar, and Bruce got down and
went over with Erich to the piano, and Erich tapped Beau on the shoulder
and leaned over and said something to him, and Beau nodded and yanked
"Limehouse Blues" to a fast close and started another piece, something
slow and nostalgic.
Erich and Bruce waved to Mark and smiled, as if to show him that whether
he came over and stood with them or not, the legate and the lieutenant
and the commandant were very much together. And while Sevensee hugged
Lili with a simple enthusiasm that made me wonder why I've wasted so
much imagination on genetic treatments for him, Erich and Bruce sang:
"_To the legion of the lost ones, to the cohort of the damned,
To our brothers in the tunnels outside time,
Sing three Change-resistant Zombies, raised from death and
robot-crammed,
And Commandos of the Spiders--
Here's to crime!
We're three blind mice on the wrong time-track,
Hush--hush--hush!
We've lost our now and will never get back,
Hush--hush--hush!
Change Commandos out on the spree,
Damned through all possibility,
Ghostgirls, think kindly on such as we,
Hush--hush--hush!_"
While they were singing, I looked down at my charcoal skirt and over at
Maud and Lili and I thought, "Three gray hustlers for three black
hussars, that's our speed." Well, I'd never thought of myself as a
high-speed job, winning all the races--I wouldn't feel comfortable that
way. Come to think of it, we've got to lose and win all the races in the
long run, the way the course is laid out.
I fingered to Illy, "That's the picture, all right, Spider boy."
--FRITZ LEIBER
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from _Galaxy Science Fiction_ March and
April 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the
U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.