Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Jeannie Howse and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net * * * * * +-----------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Inconsistent hyphenation in the original document has | | been preserved. | | | | Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. For | | a complete list, please see the end of this document. | | | | This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction, | | December 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any | | evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication | | was renewed. | | | +-----------------------------------------------------------+ * * * * * [Illustration] NO GREAT MAGIC by FRITZ LEIBER ILLUSTRATED BY NODEL The troupers of the Big Time lack no art to sway a crowd-- or to change all history! I To bring the dead to life Is no great magic. Few are wholly dead: Blow on a dead man's embers And a live flame will start. --Graves I dipped through the filmy curtain into the boys' half of the dressing room and there was Sid sitting at the star's dressing table in his threadbare yellowed undershirt, the lucky one, not making up yet but staring sternly at himself in the bulb-framed mirror and experimentally working his features a little, as actors will, and kneading the stubble on his fat chin. I said to him quietly, "Siddy, what are we putting on tonight? Maxwell Anderson's _Elizabeth the Queen_ or Shakespeare's _Macbeth_? It says _Macbeth_ on the callboard, but Miss Nefer's getting ready for Elizabeth. She just had me go and fetch the red wig." He tried out a few eyebrow rears--right, left, both together--then turned to me, sucking in his big gut a little, as he always does when a gal heaves into hailing distance, and said, "Your pardon, sweetling, what sayest thou?" Sid always uses that kook antique patter backstage, until I sometimes wonder whether I'm in Central Park, New York City, nineteen hundred and three quarters, or somewhere in Southwark, Merry England, fifteen hundred and same. The truth is that although he loves every last fat part in Shakespeare and will play the skinniest one with loyal and inspired affection, he thinks Willy S. penned Falstaff with nobody else in mind but Sidney J. Lessingham. (And no accent on the ham, please.) I closed my eyes and counted to eight, then repeated my question.