DAMNATION MORNING



Fritz Leiber 



Time travelling, which, is not quite the good clean boyish
fun it's cracked up to be, started for me when this woman
with the sign on her forehead looked in on me from the
open doorway of the hotel bedroom where I'd hidden
myself and the bottles and asked me, "Look, Buster, do
you want to live?"

It was the sort of question mat would have suited a re-
ligious crackpot of the strong-arm, save-your-soul variety,
but she didn't look like one. And I might very well have
answered it—in fact I almost did—with a hangover, one
percent humorous, "Good God, no!" Or—a poor second
—I could have studied the dark, dust-burnished arabesques
of the faded blue carpet for a perversely long time and
then countered with a grudging, "Oh, if you insist"

But I didn't, perhaps because there didn't seem to b®
anything like one percent of humour in the situation.
Point One: I have been blacked out the past half hour
or so—this woman might just have opened the door or
she might have been watching me for ten minutes. Point
Two: I was in the fringes of DTs, trying to come off a
big drunk. Point Three: I knew for certain that I had
just killed someone or left him or her to die, though I
hadn't the faintest idea of whom or why.

Let me try to picture my state of mind a little more
vividly. My consciousness, the sentient self-aware part of
me, was a single quivering point in the centre of an end-
less plane vibrating harshly with misery and menace. I
was like a man in a rowboat in the middle of the Pacific

—or better, I was like a man in a shell hole in the North
African desert (I served under Montgomery and any re-
gion adjoining the DTs is certainly a No Man's Land).
Around me, in every direction—'this is my consciousness
Fm describing, remember—-miles of flat burning sand,
nothing more. Way beyond the horizon were two divorced
wives, some estranged children, assorted jobs, and other
unexceptional wreckage. Much Closer, but still beyond the
horizon, w»e State Hospital (twice) and Psycho (four
times). Shallowly buried very near at hand, or perhaps
blackening in the open just behind me in the shell hole,
was the person I had killed.

But remember that I knew I had killed a real person.
That wasn't anything allegorical.                

Now for a little more detail on this "Look, Buster,"
woman. To begin with, she didn't resemble any part of
the DTs or its outlying kingdoms, though an amateur
aright 'have thought differently—especially if he had given
too much weight to the sigil on her forehead. But I was
no amateur.

She seemed about my age—forty-five—but I couldn't
be sure. Her body looked younger than that, her face

older; both were trim and had seen a lot of use, I got
the impression. She was wearing black sandals and a
black unbelted tunic with just a hint of the sack dress
to it, yet she seemed dressed for the street. It occurred

"to me even then (off-track ideas can come to you very
swiftly and sharply in the DT outskirts) that it was a
costume that, except perhaps for the colour, would have
fitted into any number of historical eras: old Egypt,
Greece, maybe the Directoire. World War I, Burma,
Yucatan, to name some. (Should I ask her if she spoke
Mayathan? I didn't, but I don't think the question would
have fazed her; she seemed altogether sophisticated, a
real cosmopolite—she pronounced "Buster" as if it were
part of a curious, somewhat ridiculous jargon she was
using for shock purposes.)

From her left arm hung a black handbag that closed
with a drawstring and from which protruded the tip of
silvery object about which I found myself apprehensively .
curious.

Her right arm was raised and bent, the elbow touching
the door frame, the hand brushing back the very dark
bangs from her forehead to show me the sigil, as if that
had a bearing on her question.

The sigil was an eight-limbed asterisk made of fine
dark lines and about as big as a silver dollar. An X
superimposed on a plus sign. It looked permanent.

Except for the bangs she wore her hair pinned up. Her
ears were flat, thin-edged, and nicely shaped, with the
long lobes that in Chinese art mark the philosopher.
Small square silver fiats with rounded comers ornamented
them.

Her face might have been painted by Toulouse-Lautrec
or Degas. The skin was webbed with very fine lines;
the eyes were darkly shadowed and there was a touch of
green on the lids (Egyptian?—I asked myself); her mouth
was wide, tolerant, but realistic. Yes, beyond all else,
she seemed realistic.

And as I've indicated, I was ready for realism, so when
she asked, "Do you want to live?" I somehow managed
not to let slip any of the flippant answers that came
flocking into my mouth, I realized that this was the one
time in a million when a big question is really meant
and your answer really counts and there are no second
chances, I realized that the line of my life had come to
one of .those points where there's a kink in it and the
wrong (or maybe the right) tug can break it and that
as far as I was concerned at the present moment, she
knew all about everything.

So I thought for a bit, not long, and I answered, "Yes."

She nodded—not as if she approved my decision, or dis-
approved it for that matter, but merely as if she accepted
it as a basis for negotiations—and she let her bangs fall
back across her forehead. Then she gave me a quick
dry smile and she said, "In that case you and I have got
to get out of here and do some talking."

For me that smile was the first break in the shell—the
shell around my rancid consciousness or perhaps the dark,
star-pricked shell around the space-time continuum.

"Come on," she said. "No, just as you are. Don't stop
for anything and—" (She caught the direction of my im-
mediate natural movement) "—don't look behind you if
you meant that about wanting to live."

Ordinarily being told not to look behind you is a re-
markably silly piece of advice, it makes you think of
those "pursuing fiend" horror stories that scare children,
and you look around automatically—-if only to prove
you*re no child. Also in this present case there was my
very real and dreadful curiosity: I wanted terribly (yes,
terribly) to know whom it was I had just killed—a forgot-
ten third wife? a stray woman? a jealous husband or boy-
friend? (though I seemed too cracked up for love affairs)
the hotel clerk? a fellow derelict?

But somehow, as with her "want to live" question, I
bad the sense to realize that this was one of those times
when the usually silly statement is dead serious, that
she meant her warning quite literally.

If I looked behind me, I would die.

I looked straight ahead as I stepped past the scattered^
brown empty bottles and the thin fume mounting from
the tiny crater in the carpet where I'd dropped a live
cigarette.

As I followed her through the door I caught, from the
window behind me, the distant note of a police siren.

Before we reached the elevator the siren was nearer
and it sounded as if the fire department had been called
out too.

I saw a silvery flicker ahead. There was a big mirror
facing the elevators.

"What I told you about not looking behind you goes for
mirrors -too," my conductress informed me. "Until I tell
you differently."

The instant she said that, I knew that I had forgotten
what I looked like; I simply could not visualize that
dreadful witness (generally inhabiting a smeary bathroom
mirror) of so many foggy mornings: my own face. One
glance in the mirror ...

But I told myself: realism. I saw a blur of brown shoes
and black sandals in the big mirror, nothing more.

The cage of the right-hand elevator, dark and empty.
was stopped at this floor. A crosswise wooden bar held
the door open. My conductress removed the bar and We
stepped inside. The door closed and she touched the
controls. I wondered, "Which way will it go? Sideways?"

It began to sink normally. I started to touch my face,
but didn't I started to try to remember my name. but
stopped. It would be bad tactics, I thought, to let myself
become aware of any more gaps in my knowledge. I knew
I was alive. I would stick with that for a while.

The cage sank two and a half floors and stopped, its
doorway blocked by the drab purple wall of the shaft.
My conductress switched on the tiny dome light and
turned to me.

“Well?" she said.

I put my last thought into words.

"I'm alive." I said, "and I'm in your hands."

She laughed lightly. "You find it a compromising situa-
tion? But you're quite correct. You accepted life from
me, or through me, rather. Does that suggest anything
to you?" 

My memory may have been lousy, but another, long
unused section of my mind was clicking. "When you get
anything," I said, "you have to pay for it and sometimes
money isn't enough, though I've only once or twice been
in situations where money didn't help."

Three times now," she said. "Here is how it stacks
up; You've bought your way with something other than
money, into an organization of which I am an agent Or
perhaps you'd rather go back to die room where I re-
cruited you? We might Just be able to manage it."

Through the walls of the cage and shaft I could hear
the sirens going full blast, underlining her words.

I shook my head. I said, "I think I knew that—I mean.
that I was joining an organization—when I answered
your first question."

"It's a very big organization." she went on, as if warn-
ing me. "Call it an empire or a power if you like. So far
as. you, are concerned, it has always existed and always
will exist. It has agents everywhere, literally. Space and
time are no barriers to it. Its purpose, so far as you will
ever be able to know it, is to change, for its own ag-
grandizement, not only the present and future, but also
the past. It is a ruthlessly competitive organization and
1s merciless to its employees."

“I. G. Farben?" I asked grabbing nervously and clum-
sily at humour.

She didn't rebuke my flippancy, but said, "And it isn’t
the Communist Party or the Ku Klux Klan, or the Aveng-
ing Angels or the Black Hand, either, though its enemies
give it a nastier name."

"Which is?" I asked.

"The Spiders," she said.

That word gave me the shudders, coming so suddenly.
I expected the sigil to step off her forehead and scuttle
down her face and leap at me—something like that.

She watched me. "You might call it the Double Cross,"
she suggested, "if that seems better."

"Well, at least you don't try to prettify your organiza-
tion," was all I could think to say.

She shook her head. "With the really, big ones yon
don't have to. You never know if the side into which you
are born or reborn is 'right' or 'good’—you only know
that it's your side and you, try to learn about it and form
as opinion as you live and serve."

"You talk about sides," I said. "Is there another?"

"We won't go into that now," she said, "but if you
ever meet someone with an S on his forehead, he's not a
friend, no matter what else he may be to you. That S
stands for Snakes."

I don't know why that word coming just then, gave me'
so much worse a scare—crystallized all my fears, as it
were—but it old. Maybe it was only some little thing,
like Snakes meaning DTs. Whatever it was, I felt myself
turning to mush.

"Maybe we'd better go back to the room where you
found me," I heard myself saying. I don't think I meant
it. though I surely felt it. The sirens had stopped, but
I could hear a lot of general hubbub, outside the hotel
and inside it too, I thought—noise from the other elevator
shaft and it seemed to me, from the floor we'd just left—
hurrying footsteps, taut voices, something being dragged.
I knew terror here, in this stalled elevator, but the loud-
ness outside would be worse.

"It's too late now," my conductress informed me. She
slitted her eyes at me. "You see. Buster," she said.
you're still back in that room. You might be able to
handle the problem of rejoining yourself if you went back
done, but not with other people around."

"What did you do to me?" I said very softly.

*Tm a Resurrectionist," she said as quietly. "I dig
bodies out of the space-time continuum and give them the
freedom of the fourth dimension. When I Resurrected you,
I cut you out of your lifeline close to the point that you
think of as the Now."

“My lifeline?" I interrupted. "Something in my
palm?”

"All of you from your birth to your death," she said.

“A you-shaped rope embedded in the space-time con-
tinuum—I cut you out of it. Or I made a fork in your
lifeline, if you want to think of it that way, and you're in
the free branch. But the other you, the buried you, the
one people think of as the real you, is back in your room
with the other Zombies going through the motions."

-"But how can you cut people out of their lifelines?"
asked. "As a bun-session theory, perhaps. But to ac-
tually do it—"

"You can if you have the proper tool," she said flatly
swinging her handbag. "Any number of agents might have
done it. A Snake might have done it as easily as a Spider.
Might still—but we won't go into that."

"But if you've cut me out of my lifeline,' I said, "and
given me the freedom of the fourth dimension, why are
we in the same old space—time? That is, if this elevator
still is?"

"It is," she assured me. "We're still in the same space-,
time because I haven't led us out of it We're moving
through it at the same temporal speed as the you we
left behind, keeping pace with his Now. But we both have
an added mode of freedom, at present imperceptible and
inoperative. Don’t worry, I'll make a Door and get us out
of here soon enough—if you pass the test."

I stopped trying to understand her metaphysics. Maybe
I was between floors with a maniac. Maybe I was a
maniac myself. No matter—I would just go on clinging to
what felt like reality. "Look," I said, "that person t
murdered, or left to die, is he back in the room too? Did
you see him—or her?"

She looked at me and then nodded. She said carefully,
“The person you killed or doomed is still in the. room."

An aching impulse twisted me a little. "Maybe I should
try to go back—" I began. "Try to go back and unite the
selves ..."

"It's too late now," she repeated.

"But I want to," I persisted. "There’s something pull-
ing at me, like a chain hooked to my chest."

She smiled unpleasantly. "Of course there is," she said.
"It's the vampire in you—the same thing that drew me to
your room or would draw any Spider or Snake. The blood
scent of the person you killed or doomed."

I drew back from her. "Why do you keep saying 'or’?"
I blustered. "I didn't look but you must have seen. You
must know. Whom did I kill? And what is the Zombie
me doing back there in that room with the body?"

"There's no time for that now," she said, spreading the
mouth of her handbag. "Later you can go back and find
out, if you pass the test."

She drew from her handbag a pale grey gleaming im-
plement that looked by quick turns to me like a knife,
a gun, a slim sceptre, and a delicate branding iron—
especially when its tip sprouted an eight-limbed star of
silver wire.

"The test?" I faltered, staring at the thing.

"Yes, to determine whether you can live in the fourth
dimension or only die in it."

The star began to spin, slowly at first, then faster and
faster. Then it held still, but Something that was part of
it or created by it went on spinning like a Helmholtz
colour wheel—a fugitive, flashing rainbow spiral. It looked
like the brain's own circular scanning pattern become
visible and that frightened me because that is what you
see at the onset of alcoholic hallucinations.

"Close your eyes," she said,

I wanted to jerk away, I wanted to lunge at her, but
I didn't dare. Something might shake loose in my brain
if I did. The spiral flashed through the wiry fringe of
my eyebrows as she moved it closer. I closed my eyes.

Something stung my forehead icily, like ether, and I
instantly felt that I was moving forward with an easy
rise and fall, as if I were riding a very gentle roller"
coaster. There was a low pulsing roar in my ears.

I snapped my eyes open. The illusion vanished. I was
standing stock still in the elevator and the only sounds:
were the continuing hubbub that had succeeded the sirens.
My conductress was smiling at me, encouragingly.

I closed my eyes again. Instantly I was surging forward
through the dark on the gentle roller-coaster and the
hubbub was an almost musical roar that rose and fell.
Smoky lights showed ahead. I glided through a cobble-
stoned alleyway where cloaked and broad-hatted bravoes.
with rapiers swinging at their sides turned their heads to
stare at me knowingly, while women in gaudy dresses that
swept the dirt leered in a way that was half inviting, half
contemptuous.

Darkness swallowed them. An iron gate clanged behind
me. Bluer, cleaner lights sprang up. I passed a field
studded with tall silver ships. Tall, slender-limbed men
and women in blue and silver smocks broke off their
tasks or games to watch me—evenly but a little sadly, I
thought. They drifted out of sight behind me and another
gate clanged. For a moment the pulsing sound shaped
itself into words: "There's a road to travel It's a road
that’s wide ..."

I opened my-eyes again. I was back in the stalled
elevator, hearing the muted hubbub, facing my smiling
conductress. It was very strange—an illusion that could
be turned on or off by lowering or raising the eyelids. I
remembered fleetingly that the brain's alpha rhythm,
which may be the rhythm of its scanning pattern idling,
vanishes when you open your eyes and I wondered if the
roller-coaster was the alpha rhythm.

When I closed my eyes this time I plunged deeper into
the illusion. I burst through many scenes: a street of
flashing swords, the central aisle of a dark cavernous
factory filled with unknown untended machines, a Chinese
pavilion, a Harlem nightclub, a square filled with brightly-
painted statues and noisy white-togaed men, a humped
road across which a ragged muddy-footed throng fled in
terror from a porticoed temple which showed only as wide
bars of light rising in a mist from behind a low hill.

And always the half-music pulsed without cease. From
time to time I heard the "Road to Travel" song repeated
with two endings, now one, now another: "It leads around
the cosmos to the other side," and "It leads to insanity
or suicide."

I could have whichever ending I chose, it seemed to
me—I needed only to will it.

And then it burst on me that I could go wherever I
wanted, see whatever I wanted, just by willing it. I was
travelling along that dark mysterious avenue, swaying and
undulating in every dimension of freedom, that leads to
every hidden vista of the unconscious mind, to any and
every spot in space and time—the avenue of the adven-
turer freed from all limitations. -

I grudgingly opened my eyes again to the stalled el-
evator. "This is the test?" I asked my conductress quickly.
She nodded, watching me speculatively, no longer smiling.
I dove eagerly back into the darkness.

In the exultation of my newly realized power I skimmed
a universe of sensation, darting like a bird or bee from
scene to scene: a battle, a banquet, a pyramid a-building,
a tatter-sailed ship in a storm, beasts of all descriptions
a torture chamber, a death ward, a dance, an orgy, a
leprosary, a satellite launching, a stop at a dead star
between galaxies, a newly-created android rising from a
silver vat, a witch-burning, a cave birth, a crucifixion . . ,

Suddenly I was afraid. I had gone so far, seen so
much, so many gates had clanged behind me, and there
was no sign of my free flight stopping or even slowing
down. I could control where I went but not whether I
went—I had to keep on going. And going. And going.

My mind was tired. When your mind is tired and you
want to sleep you close your eyes. But if, whenever you
close your eyes, you start going again, you start travel-
ing the road ...

I opened mine. "How do I ever sleep?" I asked the
woman. My voice had gone hoarse.

She didn’t answer. Her expression told me nothing.
Suddenly I was very frightened. But at the same time
I was horribly tired, mind and body, I closed my eyes...

I was standing on a narrow ledge that gritted under
the soles of my shoes whenever I inched a step one way
or another to ease the cramps in my leg muscles. My
hands and the back of my head were flattened against
a gritty wall. Sweat stung my eyes and trickled inside
my collar. There was a medley of voices I was trying
not to hear. Voices far below.

I looked down at the toes of my shoes, which jutted
out a little over the edge of the ledge. The brown leather
was dusty and dull. I studied each gash in it, each rolled
,or loose peeling of tanned surface, each pale shallow pit

Around the toes of my shoes a crowd of people
clustered, but small, very small—tiny oval faces mounted
crosswise on oval bodies that were scarcely larger—navy
beans each mounted on a kidney bean. Among them were
red and black rectangles, proportionately small—-police
cars and fire trucks. Between the toes of my shoes was an
empty grey space.

In spirit or actuality, I was back in the body I had left
in the hotel bedroom, the body that had climbed through
the window and was threatening to jump.
I could see from the comer of my eye that someone in
black was standing beside- me, in spirit or actuality. I
tried to turn my head and see who it was, but that instant
the invisible roller-coaster seized me and I surged forward
and—this time down.

The faces started to swell. Slowly.

A great scream puffed up at me from them. I tried
to ride 11 but it wouldn't hold me. I plunged on down,
face first.

The faces below continued to swell. Faster. Much faster,
and then ...

One of them looked all matted hair except for the
forehead, which had an S on it.

My tall took me past that horror face and then checked
three feet from the grey pavement (I could see fine, dust-
drifted cracks and a trodden wad of chewing gun) and
without pause I shot upward again, like a high diver who
fetches bottom, or as if I'd hit an invisible sponge-rubber
cushion yards thick.

I soared upward in a great curve, losing speed all the
time, and landed without a jar on the ledge from which
I'd just fallen.

Beside me stood the woman in black. A gust of wind
ruffled her bangs and I saw the eight-limbed sigil on her
forehead.

I felt a surge of desire and I put my arms around her
and pulled her face toward mine.

She smiled but she dipped her head so that our fore-
heads touched instead of our lips.

Ether ice shocked my brain. 1 closed my eyes for an
instant

When 1 opened them we were back in the stalled ele-
vator and she was drawing away from me with a smile
and I felt a wonderful strength and freshness and power,
as if all avenues were open to me now without compul-
sion, as if all space and time were my private preserve,

I closed my eyes and there was only blackness quiet
as the grave and close as a caress. No roller-coaster,
no scanning pattern digging movement and faces from
the dark, no realms of the DT fringes. I laughed and I
opened my eyes.                              . .

My conductress was at the controls of the elevator and
we were dropping smoothly and her smile was sardonic
but comradely now, as if we were fellow professionals.

The elevator stopped and the door slid open on the
crowded lobby and we stepped out arm in ann. My
partner checked a moment in her stride and I saw her lift
an "Out of Order" sign off the door and drop it behind
the sand vase.

We strode toward the entrance. 'I knew what Zombies
were now—the people around me, hotel folk, public, cops,
firemen. They were all staring toward the entrance, where
the revolving doors were pinned open, as if they were
waiting (an eternity, if necessary) for something to hap-
pen. They didn't see us at all—except that one or two
trembled uneasily, like folk touched by nightmares, as
we brushed past them.

As we went through the doorway my partner said to
me rapidly, "When we get outside do whatever you have
to, but when I touch your shoulder come with me. There’ll
be a Door behind you."

Once more she drew the grey implement from her
handbag and there was a silver spinning beside me. I did
net-took at it.

I walked out into empty sidewalk and a scream that
came from dozens of throats. Hot sunlight struck my
face. We were the only souls for ten yards around, then
came a line of policemen and the screaming mob. Every-
One of them was looking straight up, except for a man
is dirty shirtsleeves who was pushing his way, head
down, between two cops.

You know the sound when a butcher slams a chunk of
beef down on the chopping block? I heard that now,
Only much bigger.-I blinked my eyes and there was a
body on its back in the middle of the empty space and the
finest spray of blood was misting down on the grey side-
walk.

I sprang forward and knelt beside the body, vaguely
aware that the man who had pushed between the cops was
doing the same from the other side. I studied the face of
the man who had leaped to his death.

The face was unmarred, though it was rather closer to
the sidewalk than it would have been if the, back of the
head had been intact. It was a face with a week's beard
on it that rose higher than the cheekbones—the big fore-
head was the only sizable space on it dear of hair. It was
the tormented face of a drunk, but now at peace. It was a
face I knew, in fact had always known. It was simply
the face my conductress had not let me see, (he face of
the person I had doomed to die: myself.

I lifted my hand and this time I let it touch the weeks
growth of beard matting my face. Well, I thought, I had
given the crowd an exciting half hour.

I lifted my eyes and there on the other side of the
body was &e dirty-sleeved man. It was the same beard-
matted face as that on the ground between us, the same
beard-matted face as my own.

On the forehead was a black S that looked permanent.

He was staring at my face—and then at my forehead—
with a surprise* and then a horror, that I knew my own
features were registering too as I stared at him. A hand
touched my shoulder.

My conductress bad told me that you never know
whether the side into which you are born or reborn is
"right" or "good." Now, as I turned and saw the shim-
mering silver man-high Door behind me, and her hand
vanishing into it, and as I stepped through, past a rim
of velvet blackness and stars, I clung to that memory, for
I knew that I would be fighting on both sides forever.