Short Fiction by Fritz Leiber (top romance novels .TXT) 📕

to put every moment to use when the performance-fire is in people, but this project seemed pretty far afield⁠—hyper-pedantic. Yet at the same time I felt my scalp shivering as if my mind were jumping with speculations just below the surface.

Doc shook his head and shrugged again.

Sid shoved a palm at Martin and roared softly, “ ‘Sdeath, boy, thou’rt not playing a Roman statua but a Roman! Loosen your knees and try again.”

Then he saw me. Signing Martin to stop, he called, “Come hither, sweetling.” I obeyed quickly. He gave me a fiendish grin and said, “Thou’st heard our proposal from Martin. What sayest thou, wench?”

This time the shiver was in my back. It felt good. I realized I was grinning back at him, and I knew what I’d been getting ready for the last twenty minutes.

“I’m on,” I said. “Count me in the company.”

Sid jumped up and grabbed me by the shoulders and hair and bussed me on both cheeks. It was a little like being bombed.

“Prodigious!” he cried. “Thou’lt play the Gentlewoman in the Sleepwalking Scene tonight. Martin, her costume! Now sweet wench, mark me well.” His voice grew grave and old. “When was it she last walked?”

The new courage went out of me like water down a chute. “But Siddy, I can’t start tonight,” I protested, half pleading, half outraged.

“Tonight or never! ’Tis an emergency⁠—we’re short-handed.” Again his voice changed. “When was it she last walked?”

“But Siddy, I don’t know the part.”

“You must. You’ve heard the play twenty times this year past. When was it she last walked?”

Martin was back and yanking down a blonde wig on my head and shoving my arms into a light gray robe.

“I’ve never studied the lines,” I squeaked at Sidney.

“Liar! I’ve watched your lips move a dozen nights when you watched the scene from the wings. Close your eyes, girl! Martin, unhand her. Close your eyes, girl, empty your mind, and listen, listen only. When was it she last walked?”

In the blackness I heard myself replying to that cue, first in a whisper, then more loudly, then full-throated but grave, “Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth⁠—”

“Bravissimo!” Siddy cried and bombed me again. Martin hugged his arm around my shoulders too, then quickly stooped to start hooking up my robe from the bottom.

“But that’s only the first lines, Siddy,” I protested.

“They’re enough!”

“But Siddy, what if I blow up?” I asked.

“Keep your mind empty. You won’t. Further, I’ll be at your side, doubling the Doctor, to prompt you if you pause.”

That ought to take care of two of me, I thought. Then something else struck me. “But Siddy,” I quavered, “how do I play the Gentlewoman as a boy?”

“Boy?” he demanded wonderingly. “Play her without falling down flat on your face and I’ll be past measure happy!” And he smacked me hard on the fanny.

Martin’s fingers were darting at the next to the last hook. I stopped him and shoved my hand down the neck of my sweater and got hold of the subway token and the chain it was on and yanked. It burned my neck but the gold links parted. I started to throw it across the room, but instead I smiled at Siddy and dropped it in his palm.

“The Sleepwalking Scene!” Maud hissed insistently to us from the door.

VII

I know death hath
ten thousand several doors
For men to take their exits,
and ’tis found
They go on such strange
geometrical hinges,
You may open them both
ways.

The Duchess

There is this about an actor on stage: he can see the audience but he can’t look at them, unless he’s a narrator or some sort of comic. I wasn’t the first (Grendel groks!) and only scared to death of becoming the second as Siddy walked me out of the wings onto the stage, over the groundcloth that felt so much like ground, with a sort of interweaving policeman-grip on my left arm.

Sid was in a dark gray robe looking like some dismal kind of monk, his head so hooded for the Doctor that you couldn’t see his face at all.

My skull was pulse-buzzing. My throat was squeezed dry. My heart was pounding. Below that my body was empty, squirmy, electricity-stung, yet with the feeling of wearing ice cold iron pants.

I heard as if from two million miles, “When was it she last walked?” and then an iron bell somewhere tolling the reply⁠—I guess it had to be my voice coming up through my body from my iron pants: “Since his majesty went into the field⁠—” and so on, until Martin had come on stage, stary-eyed, a white scarf tossed over the back of his long black wig and a flaring candle two inches thick gripped in his right hand and dripping wax on his wrist, and started to do Lady Mack’s sleepwalking half-hinted confessions of the murders of Duncan and Banquo and Lady Macduff.

So here is what I saw then without looking, like a vivid scene that floats out in front of your mind in a reverie, hovering against a background of dark blur, and sort of flashes on and off as you think, or in my case act. All the time, remember, with Sid’s hand hard on my wrist and me now and then tolling Shakespearean language out of some lightless storehouse of memory I’d never known was there to belong to me.

There was a medium-size glade in a forest. Through the half-naked black branches shone a dark cold sky, like ashes of silver, early evening.

The glade had two horns, as it were, narrowing back to either side and going off through the forest. A chilly breeze was blowing out of them, almost enough to put out the candle. Its flame rippled.

Rather far back in the horn to my left, but not very far, were clumped two dozen or so men in dark cloaks they huddled around themselves. They