The Eighth Science Fiction MEGAPACK ®. Pamela Sargent

and watched him. When the other actors came boiling up behind him, he put his hands on the doorframe to either side so none of them could get past. Their faces peered around him.

      And all this while the stranger was saying, “What may this mean? Can such things be? Are all the seeds of time…wetted by some hell-trickle…sprouted at once in their granary? Speak…speak! You played me a play…that I am writing in my secretest heart. Have you disjointed the frame of things…to steal my unborn thoughts? Fair is foul indeed. Is all the world a stage? Speak, I say! Are you not my friend Sidney James Lessingham of King’s Lynn…singed by time’s fiery wand…sifted over with the ashes of thirty years? Speak, are you not he? Oh, there are more things in heaven and earth…aye, and perchance hell too…Speak, I charge you!”

      And with that he put his hands on Sid’s shoulders, half to shake him, I think, but half to keep from falling over. And for the one time I ever saw it, glib old Siddy had nothing to say.

      He worked his lips. He opened his mouth twice and twice shut it. Then, with a kind of desperation in his face, he motioned the actors out of the way behind him with one big arm and swung the other around the stranger’s narrow shoulders and swept him out of the dressing room, himself following.

      The actors came pouring in then, Bruce tossing Macbeth’s head to Martin like a football while he tugged off his horned helmet, Mark dumping a stack of shields in the corner, Maudie pausing as she skittered past me to say, “Hi Gret, great you’re back,” and patting my temple to show what part of me she meant. Beau went straight to Sid’s dressing table and set the portrait aside and lifted out Sid’s reserve makeup box.

      “The lights, Martin!” he called.

      Then Sid came back in, slamming and bolting the door behind him and standing for a moment with his back against it, panting.

      I rushed to him. Something was boiling up inside me, but before it could get to my brain I opened my mouth and it came out as, “Siddy, you can’t fool me, that was no dirty S-or-S. I don’t care how much he shakes and purrs, or shakes a spear, or just plain shakes—Siddy, that was Shakespeare!”

      “Aye, girl, I think so,” he told me, holding my wrists together. “They can’t find dolls to double men like that—or such is my main hope.” A big sickly grin came on his face. “Oh, gods,” he demanded, “with what words do you talk to a man whose speech you’ve stolen all your life?”

      I asked him, “Sid, were we ever in Central Park?”

      He answered, “Once—twelve months back. A one-night stand. They came for Erich. You flipped.”

      He swung me aside and moved behind Beau. All the lights went out.

      * * * *

      Then I saw, dimly at first, the great dull-gleaming jewel, covered with dials and green-glowing windows, that Beau had lifted from Sid’s reserve makeup box. The strongest green glow showed his intent face, still framed by the long glistening locks of the Ross wig, as he kneeled before the thing—Major Maintainer, I remembered it was called.

      “When now? Where?” Beau tossed impatiently to Sid over his shoulder.

      “The forty-fourth year before our Lord’s birth!” Sid answered instantly. “Rome!”

      Beau’s fingers danced over the dials like a musician’s, or a safe-cracker’s. The green glow flared and faded flickeringly.

      “There’s a storm in that vector of the Void.”

      “Circle it,” Sid ordered.

      “There are dark mists every way.”

      “Then pick the likeliest dark path!”

      I called through the dark, “Fair is foul, and foul is fair, eh, Siddy?”

      “Aye, chick,” he answered me. “’Tis all the rule we have!”