The Golden Globe

Legends? Our time doesn't produce a lot of them. It's a lot easier to become a legend if you die, close the book, and let the legend makers get to work. Mere stardom can be conveyed willy-nilly and last no longer than a soap bubble. So no one is going to chisel your name in stone until everyone's sure you're not coming back to be an embarrassment.

About half the theaters on The Rialto had achieved landmark status. You might buy and sell the structures, but you couldn't tear them down and the names were there forever. The rest were up for grabs. I wasn't familiar with this "Golden Globe" house and I had forgotten the address as the months went by, but I recalled thinking it couldn't be far from the site of my last appearance as Sparky: the late lamented John Valentine Theater.

I was right. It was in the neighborhood. Like everything else, the neighborhood had changed, but I knew approximately where I was.

I walked up and down in front of it. It had been so long since I'd played in a real Rialto theater I just wanted to get a feel for the place again. I liked what I saw. Something called Two Problems in Logic was playing, a title I wasn't familiar with, though the writer and director were both known to me. Only two players were listed, one with her name above the title, and I had never heard of either of them. That was depressing.

Pushing one of the brass-and-glass doors, I entered a long, thick-carpeted lobby in lavender and ecru. Spaced along the walls were posters from past productions at the Golden Globe. I gathered the house specialized in new works by established playwrights, though there was the occasional old war-horse guaranteed to put butts in seats, and a few revivals of faded stars who'd only had the one hit, reprising the role for the ninety-ninth time.

Finally I came to the back of the theater itself, and looked down a long aisle to the stage.

There was something oddly familiar about it.

I walked down a few rows and looked around. Even more familiar.

I hurried back to the lobby, paused to get my bearings, and followed a branching corridor that led to the rest rooms. Just beyond them was a bank of fire exit doors. My heart was hammering as I banged through one of them, setting off a distant alarm. I found myself outside on a side street, around the corner from the main entrance. It was a narrow way, not quite an alley, and just off to my left was a small park with a gazebo that, other than a fresh coat of paint, had not changed in seventy years.

The Golden Globe was the John Valentine Theater.

I staggered into the park and collapsed on a bench.

Memories.

"En garde!" Valentine shouted, and slashed at his son's face.

It was a backhand stroke, and the tip of the blade drew a red line on Ke

"I said en garde, sir," Valentine said. "Raise your weapon."

Ke

"Are you ready this time?"

He nodded.

"Then fight, damn you." Valentine slashed again, not quite as quickly. Ke

"Again." And once more the sword was flashing in his face. He got the blade up just in time. But no sooner had he fended off the first thrust than another was coming at him. And another, and another.

Parry, riposte. Sixte, seconde. The words flew around in his mind, mocking him. I'll bet you wish you'd studied now, they said. Frantically, he tried to remember, but it just wasn't there. If you had to think about it, you were already too late. Your body must simply respond. Thinking was for the attack, and it would be a long time before young Ke

He felt pain again. This time it was his hip. A thrusting wound, this one hurt more than all the others put together. Others... how many were there now? Five? Six? He had lost count.

He was blinded by sweat. He stopped, turned his back, wiped his face with his sleeve. Then he turned around and tried to smile.

"I yield!" he shouted. "The first lesson has gone badly for me, I admit it. But I'll work all night, and you'll see a new man for lesson number two." He dropped his sword. "Now, do you want to do some blocking on that scene? Maybe we should get Tybalt in here to help."

"Pick up your weapon, sir."

"Father, I—"

"Your weapon, sir!"

Slowly, Ke

"En garde." And once more the blade flashed.

As usual, his father was right. This was the perfect way to teach swordsmanship. If the pupil survived it.

Within an hour Ke

—and that was much better. No pain. Try it again. No pain. Again.

Now, try this....

The pain in Spain is mainly for the slain.

Again.

With a spiraling motion worthy of Errol Fly

"Father, could we have a break?"

"Ten more minutes. Go."

Ke

Patched up.

Tomorrow. What a frightening thought.

"Now go get your weapon."

Ke

And then a strange thing happened. Ke

—and Sparky picked it up.

It was invigorating, just being Sparky again. He was still hurting, badly, and he was still weak, but in the ways that mattered Sparky was strong. He didn't really know who this Ke

And he knew John Valentine was weak, in the ways that mattered.

So Sparky forced himself to stand erect, stiffen his spine. He lifted his chin and he strode back to center stage. Holding the saber with both hands, he raised it high, and plunged it down into the stage. He let it go and it quivered there, the point buried in two inches of wood.

"I quit," he said.

Valentine cocked his head slightly, as if not sure of what he had heard. Then he shrugged good-naturedly.