The Big Time (10 page)

through
the Big Time is out. It’s this way: the Big Time is a train, and the Little Time is the countryside and we’re on the train, unless we go out a Door, and as Gertie Stein might put it, you can’t time travel through the time you time travel in when you time travel.

I’d also played around with the idea of some fantastically obvious hiding place, maybe something that several people could pass back and forth between them, which could mean a conspiracy, and, of course, if you assume a big enough conspiracy, you can explain anything, including the cosmos itself. Still, I’d got a sort of shell-game idea about the

Soldiers’ three big black shakos and I hadn’t been satisfied until I’d got the three together and looked in them all at the same time.

“Wake up, Gerta, and take something, I can’t stand here forever.” Maud had brought us a tray of hearty snacks from then and you, and I must say they were tempting; she whips up a mean hors d’oeuvre.

I looked them over and said, “Siddy, I want a hot dog.”

“And I want a venison pasty! Out upon you, you finical jill, you o’erscrupulous jade, you whimsic and tyrannous poppet!”

I grabbed a handful and snuggled back against him.

“Go on, call me some more, Siddy,” I told him. “Real juicy ones.”

My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man that function

Is smother’d in surmise, and

nothing is

But what is not.

—Macbeth

MOTIVES AND OPPORTUNITIES

My big bad waif from King’s Lynn had set the tray on his knees and started to wolf the food down. The others were finishing up. Erich, Mark and Kaby were having a quietly furious argument I couldn’t overhear at the end of the bar nearest the bronze chest, and Illy was draped over the piano like a real octopus, listening in.

Beau and Sevensee were pacing up and down near the control divan and throwing each other a word now and then. Beyond them, Bruce and Lili were sitting on the opposite couch from us, talking earnestly about something. Maud had sat down at the other end of the bar and was knitting—it’s one of the habits like chess and quiet drinking, or learning to talk by squeak box, that we pick up to pass the time in the Place in the long stretches between parties.

Doc was fiddling around the Gallery, picking things up and setting them down, still managing to stay on his feet at any rate.

Lili and Bruce stood up, still gabbing intensely at each other, and Illy began to pick out with one tentacle a little tune in the high keys that didn’t sound like anything on God’s earth. “Where do they get all the energy?” I wondered.

As soon as I asked myself that, I knew the answer and I began to feel the same way myself. It wasn’t energy; it was nerves, pure and simple.

Change is like a drug, I realized—you get used to the facts never staying the same, and one picture of the past and future dissolving into another maybe not very different but still different, and your mind being constantly goosed by strange moods and notions, like nightclub lights of shifting color with weird shadows between shining right on your brain.

The endless swaying and jogging is restful, like riding on a train.

You soon get to like the movement and to need it without knowing, and when it suddenly stops and you’re just you and the facts you think from and feel from are exactly the same when you go back to them—boy, that’s rough, as I found out now.

The instant we got Introverted, everything that ordinarily leaks into the Place, wake or sleep, had stopped coming, and we were nothing but ourselves and what we meant to each other and what we could make of that, an awfully lonely, scratchy situation.

I decided I felt like I’d been drooped into a swimming pool full of cement and held under until it hardened.

I could understand the others bouncing around a bit. It was a wonder they didn’t hit the Void. Maud seemed to be standing it the best, maybe she’d got a little preparation from the long watches between stars; and then she is older than all of us, even Sid, though with a small “o” in “older.”

The restless work of the search for the Maintainer had masked the feeling, but now it was beginning to come full force. Before the search, Bruce’s speech and Erich’s interruptions had done a passable masking job too. I tried to remember when I’d first got the feeling and decided it was after Erich had jumped on the bomb, about the time he mentioned poetry.

Though I couldn’t be sure. Maybe the Maintainer had been Introverted even earlier, when I’d turned to look at the Ghostgirls. I wouldn’t have known. Nuts!

Believe me, I could feel that hardened cement on every inch of me. I remembered

Bruce’s beautiful picture of a universe without Big Change and decided it was about the worst idea going. I went on eating, though I wasn’t so sure now it was a good idea to keep myself strong.

“Does the Maintainer have an Introversion telltale? Siddy!”

“Sdeath, chit, and you love me, speak lower. Of a sudden, I feel not well, as if I’d drunk a butt of Rhenish and slept inside it. Marry yes, blue. In short flashes, saith the manual.

Why ask’st thou?”

“No reason. God, Siddy, what I’d give for a breath of Change Wind.”

“Thou can’st say that eftsoons,” he groaned. I must have looked pretty miserable myself, for he put his arm around my shoulders and whispered gruffly, “Comfort thyself sweetling, that while we suffer thus sorely, we yet cannot die the Change Death.”

“What’s that?” I asked him.

I didn’t want to bounce around like the others. I had a suspicion I’d carry it too far.

So, to keep myself from going batty, I started to rework the business of who had done what to the Maintainer.

During the hunt, there had been some pretty wild suggestions tossed around as to its disappearance or at least its Introversion: a feat of Snake science amounting to sorcery; the

Spider high command bunkering the Places from above, perhaps in reaction to the loss of the

Express Room, in such a hurry that they hadn’t even time to transmit warnings; the hand of the Late Cosmicians, those mysterious hypothetical beings who are supposed to have successfully resisted the extension of the Change War into the future much beyond Sevensee’s epoch—unless the Late Cosmicians are the ones fighting the Change War.

One thing these suggestions had steered very clear of was naming any one of us as a suspect, whether acting as Snake spy, Spider political police, agent of—who knows, after

Bruce?—a secret Change World Committee of Public Safety or Spider revolutionary underground, or strictly on our own. Just as no one had piped a word, since the Maintainer had been palmed, about the split between Erich’s and Bruce’s factions.

Good group thinking probably, to sink differences in the emergency, but that didn’t apply to what I did with my own thoughts.

Who wanted to escape so bad they’d Introvert the Place, cutting off all possible contact and communication either way with the cosmos and running the very big risk of not getting back to the cosmos at all?

Leaving out what had happened since Bruce had arrived and stirred things up, Doc seemed to me to have the strongest motive. He knew that Sid couldn’t keep covering up for him forever and that Spider punishments for derelictions of duty are not just the clink of a firing squad, as Erich had reminded us. But Doc had been flat on the floor in front of the bar from the time Bruce had jumped on top of it, though I certainly hadn’t had my eye on him every second.

Beau? Beau had said he was bored with the Place at a time when what he said counted, so he’d hardly lock himself in it maybe forever, not to mention locking Bruce in with himself and the babe he had a yen for.

Sid loves reality, Changing or not, and every least thing in it, people especially, more than any man or woman I’ve ever known—he’s like a big-eyed baby who wants to grab every object and put it in his mouth—and it was hard to imagine him ever cutting himself off from the cosmos.

Maud, Kaby, Mark and the two ETs? None of them had any motive I knew of, though

Sevensee’s being from the very far future did tie in with that idea about the Late Cosmicians, and there did seem to be something developing between the Cretan and the Roman that could make them want to be Introverted together.

“Stick to the facts, Greta,” I reminded myself with a private groan.

That left Erich, Bruce, Lili and myself.

Erich, I though—now we’re getting somewhere. The little commandant has the nervous system of a coyote and the courage of a crazy tomcat, and if he thought it would help him settle his battle with Bruce better to be locked in with him, he’d do it in a second.

But even before Erich had danced on the bomb, he’d been heckling Bruce from the crowd. Still, there would have been time between heckles for him to step quietly back from us, Introvert the Maintainer and … well, that was nine-tenths of the problem.

If I was the guilty party, I was nuts and that was best explanation of all. Gr-r-r!

Bruce’s motives seemed so obvious, especially the mortal (or was it immortal?)

danger he’d put himself in by inciting mutiny, that it seemed a shame he’d been in full view on the bar so long. Surely, if the Maintainer had been Introverted before he jumped on the bar, we’d all have noticed the flashing blue telltale. For that matter, I’d have noticed it when I

looked back at the Ghostgirls—if it worked as Sid claimed, and he said he had never seen it in operation, just read in the manual—oh, ‘sdeath!

But Bruce didn’t need opportunity, as I’m sure all the males in the Place would have told me right off, because he had Lifi to pull the job for him and she had as much opportunity as any of the rest of us. Myself, I have large reservations to this woman-isputty-in-the-hands-of-the-man-she-loves-madly theory, but I had to admit there was something to be said for it in

this case, and it had seemed quite natural to me when the rest of us had decided, by unspoken agreement, that neither Lili’s nor Bruce’s checks counted when we were hunting for the

Maintainer.

That took care of all of us and left only the mysterious stranger, intruding somehow through a Door (how’d he get it without using our Maintainer?) or from an unimaginable hiding place or straight out of the Void itself. I know that last is impossible— nothing can step out of nothing—but if anything ever looked like it was specially built for something not at all nice to come looming out of, it’s the Void—misty, foggily churning, slimy gray …

“Wait a second,” I told myself, “and hang onto this, Greta. It should have smacked you in the face at the start.”

Whatever came out of the Void, or, more to the point, whoever slipped back from our crowd to the Maintainer, Bruce would have seen them. He was looking at the Maintainer past our heads the whole time, and whatever happened to it, he saw it.

Erich wouldn’t have, even after he was on the bomb, because he’d been stagewise enough to face Bruce most of the time to build up his role as tribune of the people.

But Bruce would have—unless he got so caught up in what he was saying …

No, kid, a Demon is always an actor, no matter how much he believes in what he’s saying, and there never was an actor yet who wouldn’t instantly notice a member of the audience starting to walk out on his big scene.

So Bruce knew, which made him a better actor than I’d have been willing to grant, since it didn’t look as if anyone else had thought of what had just occurred to me, or they’d have gone over and put it to him.

Not me, though—I don’t work that way. Besides, I didn’t feel up to it—Nervy Anna enfold me, I felt like pure hell.

“Maybe,” I told myself encouragingly, “the Place is Hell,” but added, “Be your age, Greta—be a real rootless, ruleless, ruthless twenty-nine.”

The barrage roars and lifts. Then, clumsily bowed

With bombs and guns and shovels and battle gear, Men jostle and climb to meet the bristling fire.

Lines of gray, muttering faces, masked with fear, They leave their trenches, going over the top, While time ticks blank and busy on their wrists

—Sassoon

THE WESTERN FRONT, 1917

“Please don’t, Lili.”

“I shall, my love.”

“Sweetling, wake up! Hast the shakes?”

I opened my eyes a little and lied to Siddy with a smile locked my hands together tight and watched Bruce and Lili quarrel nobly near the control divan and wished I had a great love to blur my misery and provide me with a passable substitute for Change Winds.

Lili won the argument, judging from the way she threw her head back and stepped away from Bruce’s arms while giving him a proud, tender smile. He walked off a few steps;

praise be, he didn’t shrug his shoulders at us like an old husband, though his nerves were showing and he didn’t seem to be standing Introversion well at all, as who of us were?

Lili rested a hand on the head of the control divan and pressed her lips together and looked around at us, mostly with her eyes. She’d wound a gray silk bandeau around her bangs. Her short gray silk dress without a waistline made her look, not so much like a flapper, though she looked like that all right, as like a little girl, except the neckline was scooped low enough to show she wasn’t.

Her gaze hesitated and then stopped at me and I got a sunk feeling of what was coming, because women are always picking on me for an audience. Besides, Sid and I were the centrist party of two in our fresh-out-of-the-shell Place politics.

She took a deep breath and stuck out her chin and said in a voice that was even a little higher and Britisher than she usually uses, “We girls have often cried, ‘Shut the Door!’ But now the Door is jolly well shut for keeps!”

I knew I’d guessed right and I felt crawly with embarrassment, because I know about this love business of thinking you’re the other person and dying to live their life—and grab their glory, though you don’t know that—and carry their message for them, and how it can foul things up. Still, I couldn’t help admitting what she said wasn’t too bad a start—unpleasantly apt to be true, at any rate.