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the usual yak about the warā ā€”ā€œThe Snakes are laying mine fields in the Void,ā€ ā€œI donā€™t believe it, how can you mine nothing?ā€ā ā€”and the shortagesā ā€”bourbon, bobby pins, and the stabilitin that would have brought Mark out of it fasterā ā€”and what had become of peopleā ā€”ā€œMarcia? Oh, sheā€™s not around any more,ā€ (Sheā€™d been caught in a Change Gale and green and stinking in five seconds, but I wasnā€™t going to say that)ā ā€”and Mark had to be told about Bruceā€™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 heā€™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. ā€œDost thou ask me, lusty Allemand? Nay, there are several great beauties, amongst them an Austrian countess from Straussā€™s Vienna, and if it were not for sweetling hereā ā€Šā ā€¦ Mnnnn.ā€

I poked a finger in Erichā€™s chest between two of the bright buttons with their tiny deathā€™s heads. ā€œYou, 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 wasnā€™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; sheā€™d washed away all the dried blood.

The Gallery gets you, though. Itā€™s 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 theyā€™re made ofā ā€”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 havenā€™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 Iā€™m feeling low, Iā€™ll come and look at them so Iā€™ll feel still lower and get inspired to kick myself back into a good temper. Itā€™s the only history of the Place there is and it doesnā€™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, Erichā€™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 thereā€™s not only change but Change. You donā€™t know from one minute to the next whether a mood or idea youā€™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 itā€™ll do or how soon itā€™ll damp out. The Big Time isnā€™t the little time.

And then, for the Demons, thereā€™s the fear that our personality will just fade and someone else climb into the driverā€™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; thatā€™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 arenā€™t any great men among usā ā€”and blamed few of the masses, eitherā ā€”weā€™re a rare sort of people and thatā€™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 Lunanā€™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 wasnā€™t once entirely different from anything we remember, and weā€™ve forgotten that we forgot.

As I say, the Gallery gets you feeling real low, and so now I said to myself, ā€œBack 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, ā€œAnd, to my mind, this proves that Etruscan art is derived from Egyptian. Donā€™t you agree, Bruce?ā€

Bruce looked up, all smiles from Lili, and said, ā€œWhat was that, dear chap?ā€

Erichā€™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 Erichā€™s hand, said, ā€œA beautiful specimen of Middle Systemic Venusian. When Eightaitch finished it, he told me you couldnā€™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,ā€ and he carefully put the

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