The Big Time - Fritz Leiber (little red riding hood read aloud TXT) š
- Author: Fritz Leiber
Book online Ā«The Big Time - Fritz Leiber (little red riding hood read aloud TXT) šĀ». Author Fritz Leiber
I poked a finger in Erichās chest between two of the bright buttons with their tiny deathās heads. āYou, my little von Hohenwald, are a menace to us real girls. You have too much of a thing about the unawakened, ghost kind.ā
He called me his little Demon and hugged me a bit too hard to prove it wasnāt 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; sheād washed away all the dried blood.
The Gallery gets you, though. Itās a bunch of paintings and sculptures and especially odd knickknacks, all made by Soldiers recuperating here, and a lot of them telling about the Change War from the stuff theyāre made ofā ābrass 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 havenāt 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 Iām feeling low, Iāll come and look at them so Iāll feel still lower and get inspired to kick myself back into a good temper. Itās the only history of the Place there is and it doesnāt 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, Erichās 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 thereās not only change but Change. You donāt know from one minute to the next whether a mood or idea youāve 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 itāll do or how soon itāll damp out. The Big Time isnāt the little time.
And then, for the Demons, thereās the fear that our personality will just fade and someone else climb into the driverās seat and us not even know. Of course, we Demons are supposed to be able to remember through Change and in spite of it; thatās 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 arenāt any great men among usā āand blamed few of the masses, eitherā āweāre a rare sort of people and thatās 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 Lunanās 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 wasnāt once entirely different from anything we remember, and weāve forgotten that we forgot.
As I say, the Gallery gets you feeling real low, and so now I said to myself, āBack to your lousy little commandant, kid,ā and gave myself a stiff boot.
Erich was holding up a green bowl with gold dolphins or spaceships on it and saying, āAnd, to my mind, this proves that Etruscan art is derived from Egyptian. Donāt you agree, Bruce?ā
Bruce looked up, all smiles from Lili, and said, āWhat was that, dear chap?ā
Erichās 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 Erichās hand, said, āA beautiful specimen of Middle Systemic Venusian. When Eightaitch finished it, he told me you couldnāt 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,ā and he carefully put the
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