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Jherek looked about for his mother and Lord Jagged, but both had slipped away. Only Brannart Morphail was left, slowly rising from the floor.
"No," said Jherek. "A machine from some other age must have brought him. A temporal accident no doubt. Some poor time-traveller plunged into the past, dragged back to his present without his machine. The primitive gets in, pushes a button or two and — heigh-ho — here he is!"
"He told you this, juicy Jherek?"
"Speculation. He is, of course, not intelligent, as we understand it. An interesting mixture of human and animal though."
"Can he speak?"
"In grunts," said Jherek, nodding furiously for no real reason. "He can communicate in grunts." He looked hard at the alien, warning him not to speak. The alien was a fool. He could easily ruin the whole thing. But Yusharisp remained silent.
"What a shame. Well, it's a start to a collection, I suppose, dear," she added kindly.
Brannart Morphail was now on his feet. He hobbled over to join them. He did not need to have a hump-back and a club-foot, but he was a traditionalist in almost everything and he knew that once all true scientists had looked as he did now. He was touchily proud of his appearance and had not changed it for centuries.
"What machine did he come in?" queried Brannart Morphail. "I ask because it could not be one of the four or five basic kinds which have been invented and re-invented through the course of our history."
"And why could it not be?" Jherek was beginning to feel disturbed. Morphail knew everything there was to know about time. Perhaps he should have concocted a slightly better story. Still, it was too late now to change it.
"Because I should have detected it in my laboratories. My scanners are constantly checking the chronowaves. Any object such as a time machine is immediately registered on its arrival in our time."
"Ah." Jherek was at a loss for an explanation.
"So I should like to see the time machine in which your specimen arrived," said Brannart Morphail. "It must be a new type. To us, that is."
"Tomorrow," said Jherek Carnelian wildly, guiding his charge forward and away from My Lady Charlotina and Brannart Morphail. "You must visit me tomorrow."
"I will."
"Jherek. Are you leaving my party?" My Lady Charlotina seemed offended. "After all, weren't you one of the people who thought of it? Really, my tulip, you should stay a little longer."
"I am sorry." Jherek felt trapped. He adjusted the animal skin to cover as much of Yusharisp's body as possible. He had not had time to adjust the skin colour, which was still pretty much the same, a muddy brown with green flecks in it. "You see, my specimen must be, um, fed."
"Fed? We can feed him here."
"Special food," said Jherek. "Only I know the recipe."
"But we pride ourselves on our cuisine at my menagerie," said My Lady Charlotina. "Let me know what he eats and it shall be prepared instantly."
"Oh," said Jherek.
My Lady Charlotina laughed and her embroidery went through a sudden and starting series of colours. "Jherek. You are looking positively shifty . What on earth are you planning?"
"Planning? Nothing." He felt miserable and wished deeply that he had not embarked upon this scheme.
"Your time-traveller. Did you really acquire him as you said, or is there some secret? Have you been back in time yourself?"
"No. No." His lips were dry. He adjusted his body moisture. It didn't seem to make much difference.
"Or did you make the time-traveller yourself, as I suspected? Could he be a fake?"
She was getting altogether too close. Jherek fixed his eye on the exit and murmured to Yusharisp. "That is the way to freedom. We must…"
My Lady Charlotina drifted closer, bent forward to peer at the disguised alien. Her perfume was so strong that Jherek felt faint. She addressed Yusharisp, her eyes narrowing:
"What's your name?" she said.
"He doesn't speak —" Jherek's voice cracked.
"Skree," said Yusharisp.
"His name is Skree," said Jherek, pushing the space-traveller forward with the flat of his hand. The space-traveller fell forward and, upon all fours, began to skitter in the direction of one of several tunnels leading from the cavern. His club lay gleaming on the floor behind him.
Lady Charlotina's brows drew closer together as an expression of dawning suspicion gradually spread over her embroidered face.
"I'll see you tomorrow, then," said Brannart Morphail briskly, unaware of any other level of conversation taking place. "About the time machine." He turned to My Lady Charlotina, who had risen on one elbow in her force-hammock and was staring, open-mouthed, as Jherek sped away after the alien.
"Exciting," said Brannart Morphail. "A new form of time-travel, evidently."
"Or a new form of affectation," said My Lady Charlotina grimly. However, her voice was more melodramatic than sincere as she called, on a fading note: "Jherek! Jherek!"
Jherek kept running. But he turned, shouting: "My alien — I mean my time-traveller — he's escaping. Must catch him. Wonderful party. Farewell, coruscating Charlotina, for now!"
"Oh, oh, Jherek!"
And he fled after Yusharisp, through the tunnels to the Gateway in the Water — a tube of energy pushed up from the bottom of the lake to the surface — and thence to where his little locomotive hovered, awaiting him.
Jherek shot into the sky, dragging the alien (who had no antigravity ring) with him.
"Into the aircar!" Jherek panted, floating towards the locomotive.
Together they tumbled in and collapsed on the plush and ermine couch.
Jherek pulled the whistle cord.
"Mongrove's," he said, watching the lake for signs of pursuit, "and speedily."
With a wild hoot, the locomotive chugged rapidly towards the East, letting out great clouds of scarlet steam.
Looking back and down Jherek saw My Lady Charlotina emerge with a gush from the shimmering lake and, still in her force-hammock, still raised on one elbow, shout after him as he disappeared into the evening sky.
Jherek strained to catch the words, for she was using no form of projection. He hoped, too, she would be sporting enough not to use any kind of tracer on his aircar, or a traction beam to haul him back to Below-the-Lake. Possibly she still didn't realise what he had done.
But he heard the words clearly enough. "Stop," she called theatrically, languidly. "Stop thief!"
And Jherek felt his legs grow weak. He experienced one of the most exquisite thrills of his entire life. Even certain experiences of his adolescence hadn't done this for him. He sighed with pleasure.
"Stop," he murmured to himself as the locomotive moved rapidly towards Mongrove's. "Stop thief! Oh! Ah! Thief, thief, thief! " His breathing became heavier. He felt dizzy. "Stop thief!"
Yusharisp, who had been practising how to sit on the couch, gave up and sat on the floor. "Will there be trouble?" he said.
"I expect so," said Jherek, hugging himself. "Yes. Trouble ." His eyes were glassy. He stared through the alien.
Yusharisp was touched by what he interpreted as Jherek's nobility. "Why are you risking so much, then, for a stranger like myself?"
"For love!" whispered Jherek, and another shudder of pleasure ran through him. "For love! "
"You are a great-hearted, skree, creature," said Yusharisp tenderly. He rose on his hands and knees and looked up at Jherek, his eyes shining. "Greater, skree, skree, skree, love, as we (roar) say on my planet, hath skree, skree, no man skree, ryof chio lar, oof." He stopped in embarrassment. "It must skree, be untranslatable."
"I'd better change you back into your proper shape before we get to Mongrove's," said Jherek, his tone becoming business-like.
8. A Promise from Mrs. Amelia Underwood: A Mystery
9. Something of an Idyll: Something of a Tragedy
"No," said Jherek. "A machine from some other age must have brought him. A temporal accident no doubt. Some poor time-traveller plunged into the past, dragged back to his present without his machine. The primitive gets in, pushes a button or two and — heigh-ho — here he is!"
"He told you this, juicy Jherek?"
"Speculation. He is, of course, not intelligent, as we understand it. An interesting mixture of human and animal though."
"Can he speak?"
"In grunts," said Jherek, nodding furiously for no real reason. "He can communicate in grunts." He looked hard at the alien, warning him not to speak. The alien was a fool. He could easily ruin the whole thing. But Yusharisp remained silent.
"What a shame. Well, it's a start to a collection, I suppose, dear," she added kindly.
Brannart Morphail was now on his feet. He hobbled over to join them. He did not need to have a hump-back and a club-foot, but he was a traditionalist in almost everything and he knew that once all true scientists had looked as he did now. He was touchily proud of his appearance and had not changed it for centuries.
"What machine did he come in?" queried Brannart Morphail. "I ask because it could not be one of the four or five basic kinds which have been invented and re-invented through the course of our history."
"And why could it not be?" Jherek was beginning to feel disturbed. Morphail knew everything there was to know about time. Perhaps he should have concocted a slightly better story. Still, it was too late now to change it.
"Because I should have detected it in my laboratories. My scanners are constantly checking the chronowaves. Any object such as a time machine is immediately registered on its arrival in our time."
"Ah." Jherek was at a loss for an explanation.
"So I should like to see the time machine in which your specimen arrived," said Brannart Morphail. "It must be a new type. To us, that is."
"Tomorrow," said Jherek Carnelian wildly, guiding his charge forward and away from My Lady Charlotina and Brannart Morphail. "You must visit me tomorrow."
"I will."
"Jherek. Are you leaving my party?" My Lady Charlotina seemed offended. "After all, weren't you one of the people who thought of it? Really, my tulip, you should stay a little longer."
"I am sorry." Jherek felt trapped. He adjusted the animal skin to cover as much of Yusharisp's body as possible. He had not had time to adjust the skin colour, which was still pretty much the same, a muddy brown with green flecks in it. "You see, my specimen must be, um, fed."
"Fed? We can feed him here."
"Special food," said Jherek. "Only I know the recipe."
"But we pride ourselves on our cuisine at my menagerie," said My Lady Charlotina. "Let me know what he eats and it shall be prepared instantly."
"Oh," said Jherek.
My Lady Charlotina laughed and her embroidery went through a sudden and starting series of colours. "Jherek. You are looking positively shifty . What on earth are you planning?"
"Planning? Nothing." He felt miserable and wished deeply that he had not embarked upon this scheme.
"Your time-traveller. Did you really acquire him as you said, or is there some secret? Have you been back in time yourself?"
"No. No." His lips were dry. He adjusted his body moisture. It didn't seem to make much difference.
"Or did you make the time-traveller yourself, as I suspected? Could he be a fake?"
She was getting altogether too close. Jherek fixed his eye on the exit and murmured to Yusharisp. "That is the way to freedom. We must…"
My Lady Charlotina drifted closer, bent forward to peer at the disguised alien. Her perfume was so strong that Jherek felt faint. She addressed Yusharisp, her eyes narrowing:
"What's your name?" she said.
"He doesn't speak —" Jherek's voice cracked.
"Skree," said Yusharisp.
"His name is Skree," said Jherek, pushing the space-traveller forward with the flat of his hand. The space-traveller fell forward and, upon all fours, began to skitter in the direction of one of several tunnels leading from the cavern. His club lay gleaming on the floor behind him.
Lady Charlotina's brows drew closer together as an expression of dawning suspicion gradually spread over her embroidered face.
"I'll see you tomorrow, then," said Brannart Morphail briskly, unaware of any other level of conversation taking place. "About the time machine." He turned to My Lady Charlotina, who had risen on one elbow in her force-hammock and was staring, open-mouthed, as Jherek sped away after the alien.
"Exciting," said Brannart Morphail. "A new form of time-travel, evidently."
"Or a new form of affectation," said My Lady Charlotina grimly. However, her voice was more melodramatic than sincere as she called, on a fading note: "Jherek! Jherek!"
Jherek kept running. But he turned, shouting: "My alien — I mean my time-traveller — he's escaping. Must catch him. Wonderful party. Farewell, coruscating Charlotina, for now!"
"Oh, oh, Jherek!"
And he fled after Yusharisp, through the tunnels to the Gateway in the Water — a tube of energy pushed up from the bottom of the lake to the surface — and thence to where his little locomotive hovered, awaiting him.
Jherek shot into the sky, dragging the alien (who had no antigravity ring) with him.
"Into the aircar!" Jherek panted, floating towards the locomotive.
Together they tumbled in and collapsed on the plush and ermine couch.
Jherek pulled the whistle cord.
"Mongrove's," he said, watching the lake for signs of pursuit, "and speedily."
With a wild hoot, the locomotive chugged rapidly towards the East, letting out great clouds of scarlet steam.
Looking back and down Jherek saw My Lady Charlotina emerge with a gush from the shimmering lake and, still in her force-hammock, still raised on one elbow, shout after him as he disappeared into the evening sky.
Jherek strained to catch the words, for she was using no form of projection. He hoped, too, she would be sporting enough not to use any kind of tracer on his aircar, or a traction beam to haul him back to Below-the-Lake. Possibly she still didn't realise what he had done.
But he heard the words clearly enough. "Stop," she called theatrically, languidly. "Stop thief!"
And Jherek felt his legs grow weak. He experienced one of the most exquisite thrills of his entire life. Even certain experiences of his adolescence hadn't done this for him. He sighed with pleasure.
"Stop," he murmured to himself as the locomotive moved rapidly towards Mongrove's. "Stop thief! Oh! Ah! Thief, thief, thief! " His breathing became heavier. He felt dizzy. "Stop thief!"
Yusharisp, who had been practising how to sit on the couch, gave up and sat on the floor. "Will there be trouble?" he said.
"I expect so," said Jherek, hugging himself. "Yes. Trouble ." His eyes were glassy. He stared through the alien.
Yusharisp was touched by what he interpreted as Jherek's nobility. "Why are you risking so much, then, for a stranger like myself?"
"For love!" whispered Jherek, and another shudder of pleasure ran through him. "For love! "
"You are a great-hearted, skree, creature," said Yusharisp tenderly. He rose on his hands and knees and looked up at Jherek, his eyes shining. "Greater, skree, skree, skree, love, as we (roar) say on my planet, hath skree, skree, no man skree, ryof chio lar, oof." He stopped in embarrassment. "It must skree, be untranslatable."
"I'd better change you back into your proper shape before we get to Mongrove's," said Jherek, his tone becoming business-like.
8. A Promise from Mrs. Amelia Underwood: A Mystery
Mongrove had been delighted to receive Yusharisp. He had embraced, and almost smothered, the little round space-traveller, beginning immediately to question him on all aspects of his message of doom.
The space-traveller had been pleased by the reception, though he was still under the impression that he was soon to be helped to leave the planet. That was why Jherek Carnelian had made the transaction as quickly as possible and left with his new treasure while Mongrove and Yusharisp were still deep in conversation.
Mrs. Amelia Underwood had been stiffened for easy transportation (without her realising that she was to belong to Jherek now) and shipped aboard the locomotive.
Jherek had lost no time in returning to his ranch and there depositing Mrs. Underwood in what in ancient times had always been the most important section of the house, the cellar. The cellar was immediately above his bedroom and contained towering transparent tanks of carnelian- and pearl-coloured wine. It was also the prettiest room in the house and he felt Mrs. Underwood would be pleased to wake up in such lovely surroundings.
Laying her upon an ottoman bed in the exact centre of the room, Jherek adjusted Mrs. Underwood so that she would sleep and awake slowly and naturally the following morning.
He then went to his own bedroom, impatient to prepare himself for when he next encountered her, determined that he should this time make a good impression. Though it was still many hours until morning, he began to make his plans. He intended to wear something ordinary and give up trying to please her by imitation, since she had made no comment on his earlier costume. He made a solid holograph of himself and dressed it in several different styles, making the holograph move about the room wearing the styles until he was satisfied and had selected the one he wanted.
He would wear everything — robes, shoes, hair, eyebrows and lips — in white. He would blend in well with the main decor of the cellar, particularly if he wore only one ring, the rich, red garnet, which clung to the third finger of his right hand like a drop of fresh blood.
Jherek wondered if Mrs. Underwood would like to change into something different. The grey suit, the white blouse and the straw hat were beginning to look rather crumpled and faded. He decided to construct some clothes for her and take them with him as one of his courting gifts. He had seen enough of the literature of the period to know that the offering of such a gift was a necessary part of the courting ritual and would surely be welcome.
He must think of another gift, too. Something traditional. And music. There must be music playing in the background…
When he had made his plans, there were still several hours left and they gave him time to review recent events. He felt a little nervous. My Lady Charlotina was bound to want to repay him for his trick, his theft of her alien. At present he did not want to be interrupted in his courtship and if My Lady Charlotina decided to act at once it could prove inconvenient. He had hoped, of course, to have more time before she discovered his deception. However, it could not be helped. He could only hope now that her vengeance would not take too complicated or prolonged a form.
He lounged in his eight-poster, his body sunk in white cushions, and waited impatiently for morning, refusing to speed up the period of time by a second, for he knew that time-travellers were often thrown out by such things.
He contemplated his situation. He did find Mrs. Underwood most attractive. She had a beautiful skin. Her face was lovely. And she seemed quite intelligent, which was pleasant. If she fell in love with him tomorrow (which was pretty inevitable, really) there were all sorts of games they could play — separations, suicides, melancholy walks, bitter-sweet partings and so on. It really depended on her and how her imagination worked with his. The important thing at present was to get the groundwork done.
He slept for a little while, a relaxed, seraphic smile upon his handsome lips.
Then, in the morning, Jherek Carnelian went a-courting.
In his translucent white robes, with his milk-white hair all coiffed and curled, with his white lips smiling, a bunch of little chocolates on long leafy stalks in one hand, a silver "suitcase" full of clothing in the other, he paused outside the cellar door (of genuine silk stretched on a frame of plaited gold) and stamped twice on the floor in lieu of a knock (how had they managed to knock on the doors? One of many such mysteries). The stamping also had the effect of making the music begin to play. It was a piece by a composer who was a close contemporary of Mrs. Underwood's. His name was Charles St. Ives, the Cornish Caruso, and his pleasant counter-melodies, though unsophisticated, were probably just the sort of thing that Mrs. Underwood would enjoy.
Jherek made the music soft, virtually unhearable at first.
"Mrs. Amelia Underwood," he said. "Did you hear me knock? Or stamp?"
"I would be grateful if you went away," said her voice from the other side of the door. "I know who you are and I can guess why I have been abducted — and to where. If you intend to soften my resolve by inducing madness in me, you shall not have that satisfaction. I will destroy myself first! Monster."
"My servo brought you breakfast, did it not? I trust it was to your taste."
Her tone was mocking, a little strained. "I have never been overfond of raw beef, sir. Neither is neat whisky my idea of a suitable breakfast drink. At least in my other prison I received the food I requested."
"Request, then. I'm sorry, Mrs. Amelia Underwood. I was sure I had it right. Perhaps in your region of the world at that time the customs were dissimilar… Still, you must tell me —"
"If I am to be a prisoner here, sir," she said firmly, "I shall require for breakfast two slices of lightly toasted bread, unsalted butter, Chetwynd's Cheshire Marmalade, cafe au lait and, occasionally, two medium boiled eggs."
He made a gesture with his red ring. "It is done. Programmed."
Her voice continued:
"For luncheon — well, that will vary. But, since the climate is constantly far too warm, salads of various varieties shall form the basis of the meals. No tomatoes. They are bad for the complexion. I will specify the varieties later. On Sundays — roast beef, mutton, pork or veal. Venison from time to time, in season (though it's inclined to heat the blood, I know) and game when suitable. Mutton cutlets. Stewed ox-cheek and so forth. I'll make you a list. And Yorkshire pudding with the beef, and horseradish sauce, of course, et cetera. Mint sauce with the mutton. Apple sauce with the pork. Peppercorns or sage and onion with the veal, perhaps, though I have certain preferences regarding veal which I will also list. For dinner…"
"Mrs. Amelia Underwood!" cried Jherek Carnelian in confusion. "You shall have every food you wish, any dish which delights you. You shall eat turkeys and turtles, heads, hearts and haunches, gravies and gateaux, fish, fowl and beast shall be created and shall die for the pleasure of your palate! I swear to you that you shall never breakfast off beef and whisky again. And now, Mrs. Underwood, may I please come in?"
There was a note of surprise in her voice. "You are the gaoler, sir. You may do as you please, I am sure!"
The music of Charles St. Ives ( Three New Places in England ) grew louder and Jherek stepped backward and then plunged through the silk, catching his foot in a trailing fragment of the stuff and hopping forward without much style, noticing that she was covering her ears and crying:
"Awful! Awful!"
"You are not pleased with the music? It is of your time."
"It is cacophony."
"Ah, well." He snapped his fingers and the music died. He turned and reformed the silk in its frame. Then, with a sweeping bow which rivalled one of Lord Jagged's, he presented himself in all his whiteness to her.
She was dressed in her usual costume, although her hat lay on the neatly made twelve foot long ottoman. She stood framed against a tank of sparkling champagne, her hands folded together under her breasts, her lips pursed. She really was the most beautiful human being apart from himself that Jherek had ever seen. He could have imagined and created nothing better. Little strands of chestnut hair fell over her face. Her grey-green eyes were bright and steady. Her shoulders were straight, her back stiff, her little booted feet together.
"Well, sir?" she said. Her voice was sharp, even cold. "I see you have abducted me. If you have my body, I guarantee that you shall not have my soul!"
He hardly heard her as he drank in her beauty. He offered her the bunch of chocolates. She did not accept them. "Drugs," she said, "shall not willingly pass my lips."
"Chocolates," he explained. He indicated the blue ribbon bound around their stalks. "See? Blue ribbon."
"Chocolates." She peered at them more closely. For a moment she seemed almost amused, but then her face resumed its set, stern expression. She would not take them. At last he was forced to make the chocolates drift over to the ottoman and settle beside her hat. They went well together. He disseminated the suitcase so that the contents tumbled to the floral floor.
"And what is this?"
"Clothes," he said, "for you to wear. Aren't they pretty?"
She looked down at the profusion of colours, the variety of materials. They scintillated. Their beauty was undeniable and all the colours suited her. Her lips parted, her cheeks flushed. And then she spurned the clothes with her buttoned boot. "These are not suitable clothes for a well-bred lady," she said. "You may take them away."
He was disappointed. He was almost hurt . "But —? Away?"
"My own clothes are perfectly satisfactory. I would like the opportunity to wash them, that is all. I have found nowhere in this — this cell — that offers — washing facilities."
"You are not bored, Mrs. Amelia Underwood, with what you are wearing?"
"I am not. As I was saying. Regarding the facilities…"
"Well." He made a gesture with his ring. The clothes at her feet rose into the air, altering shape and colour until they, too, drifted to the ottoman. Beside the chocolates and the straw hat there now lay neatly side by side six identical outfits (complete with straw boaters) each exactly the same as the one she presently wore.
"Thank you." She seemed just a fraction less cool in manner. "That is much better." She frowned. "I wonder if, after all, you are not…"
Grateful that at last he had done something to meet with her approval, he decided to make his announcement. Gathering his robes around him, he went carefully down on one knee upon the curtains of fresh flowers which covered the floor. He placed his two hands upon his heart. He raised his eyes to heaven in a gaze of adoration.
"Mrs. Amelia Underwood!"
She took a startled step backward and bumped against a wine tank. It made a faint sloshing.
"I am Jherek Carnelian," he continued. "I was born. I love you!"
"Good heavens!"
"I love you more than I love life, dignity, or deities," he went on. "I shall love you until the cows come home, until the pigs cease to fly. I, Jherek Carnelian…"
"Mr. Carnelian!" She was stunned, it seemed, by his devotion. But why should she be stunned? After all, everyone was always declaring their love to everyone else in her time! "Get up, sir, please. I am a respectable woman. I believe that perhaps you are under some misunderstanding considering the position I hold in society. That is, Mr. Carnelian — I am a housewife. A housewife from, in fact, Bromley, in Kent, near London. I have no — no other occupation, sir."
"Housewife?"
He looked imploringly at her for an explanation. "Misunderstanding?"
"I have, I emphasise — no — other — calling."
He was puzzled. "You must explain."
"Mr. Carnelian. Earlier I was trying to hint — to touch upon a rather delicate matter concerning the, ah, appointments. I cannot find them."
"Appointments?" Still on one knee he glanced around the cellar, at the great tanks of wine, the jacaranda trees, the sarcophagi, the stuffed alligators and bears, the mangles, the wurlitzer. "I'm afraid I do not follow…"
"Mr. Carnelian." She coughed and lowered her eyes to the floor, murmuring: "The bathroom ."
"But Mrs. Amelia Underwood, if you wish to bathe, there are the tanks of wine. Or I can bring aphid's milk, if you prefer."
Evidently in some embarrassment, but with her manner becoming increasingly insistent, she said: "I do not wish to bathe, Mr. Carnelian. I am referring" — she took a deep breath — "to the water closet."
Realisation dawned. How obtuse he was. He smiled helpfully. "I suppose it could be arranged. I can easily fill a closet with water. And we can make love. Oh, in water. Liquid!"
Her lip trembled. She was plainly in distress. Had he again misinterpreted her? Helplessly he stared up at her. "I love you," he said.
Her hands leapt to her face. Her shoulders began to heave. "You must hate me dreadfully." Her voice was muffled. "I cannot believe that you do not understand me. As another human being … Oh, how you must hate me!"
"No!" He rose with a cry. "No! I love you. Your every desire will be met by me. Whatever is in my power to do I shall do. It is simply, Mrs. Amelia Underwood, that you have not made your request explicit. I do not understand you." He spread his arms to indicate everything in the room. "I have carefully reconstructed a whole house in the fashion of your own time. I have done everything, I hope, to suit you. If you will only explain further, I will be happy to make what you ask." He paused. She was lowering her hands from her face and offering him a peculiar, searching look. "Perhaps a sketch?" he suggested.
She covered her face again. Again her shoulders began to heave.
It took some time before he could discover from her what she wanted. She told him in halting, nervous tones. She blushed deep scarlet.
He laughed delightedly when he understood.
"Such functions have long since been dispensed with by our people. I could restructure your body slightly and you would not need…"
"I will not be interfered with!"
"If that is your desire."
At last he had manufactured her "bathroom," according to her instructions and put it in one corner of the cellar. Then, at her further request, he boxed it in, adding a touch or two of his own, the vermilion marble, the green baize.
The moment it was finished, she ran inside and closed the door with a slam. He was reminded of a small, nervous animal. He wondered if the box offered her a sense of security which the cellar could not. How long would she remain in the appointment? Forever, like a menagerie specimen which refused to leave its environment? How long could she stay there, hidden behind the marble door, refusing to see him? After all, she must fall in love with him soon.
He waited for what seemed to him to be a very long time indeed. Then he weakened and called:
"Mrs. Amelia Underwood?"
Her voice came sharply from the other side of the door. "Mr. Carnelian, you have no tact! I may have mistaken your intentions, but I cannot ignore the fact that your manners are abominable!"
"Oh!" He was offended. "Mrs. Amelia Underwood! I am known for my tact. I am famous for it. I was born!"
"So was I, Mr. Carnelian. I cannot understand why you keep harping on the fact. I am reminded of some tribesmen we had the misfortune to meet when my father, my mother and myself were in South America. They had some similar phrase…"
"They were impolite?"
"It does not matter. Let us say that yours is not the kind of tact an English gentlewoman recognises. One moment."
There came a gurgling noise and at last she emerged. She looked a little fresher, but she gave him a glance of puzzled displeasure.
Jherek Carnelian had never experienced anything particularly close to misery before, but he was beginning to understand the meaning of the word as he sighed with frustration at his inability to communicate with Mrs. Underwood. She was forever misunderstanding his intentions. According to his original calculations they should at this moment be together in the ottoman exchanging kisses and so forth and pledging eternal love to each other. It was all extremely upsetting. He determined to try again.
"I want to make love to you," he said reasonably. "Does that mean nothing? I am sure that people constantly made love to each other in your age. I know they did. Everything I have studied shows that it was one of the chief obsessions of the time!"
"It is not something we speak about, Mr. Carnelian."
"I want to — to — What do you say instead?"
"There is, Mr. Carnelian, such a thing as the institution of Christian marriage." Her tone, while softening, also became rather patronising. "Such love as you speak of is sanctioned by society only if the two people involved are married. I believe you might not be the monster I thought you. You have, in your fashion, behaved in an almost gentlemanly way. I must conclude, therefore, that you are merely misguided. If you wish to learn proper behaviour, then I shall not stand in the way of your learning it. I will do my best to teach you all I can of civilised comportment."
"Yes?" He brightened. "This marriage. Shall we do that, then?"
"You wish to marry me?" She gave a tiny, icy laugh.
"Yes." He began to lower himself to his knees again.
"I am already married," she explained. "To Mr. Underwood."
"I have married, too," he said, unable to interpret the significance of her last statement.
"Then we cannot marry, Mr. Carnelian." She laughed again. "People who are already married must remain married to those people to whom they are — ah — already married. To whom are you married?"
"Oh," he smiled and shrugged, "I have been married to many people. To my mother, of course, the Iron Orchid. She was the first, I think, being the closest to hand at the time. And then (second, if not first) Mistress Christia, the Everlasting Concubine. And My Lady Charlotina. And to Werther de Goethe, but that came to very little as I recall. And most recently to Lord Jagged of Canaria, my old friend. And perhaps a hundred others in between."
"A — a hundred others?" She sat down suddenly upon the ottoman. "A hundred?" She gave him a queer look. "Do you understand me correctly, Mr. Carnelian, when I speak of marriage. Your mother? A male friend? Oh dear!"
"I do not understand you, I am sure. Marriage means making love, does it not." He paused, trying to think of a more direct phrase. "Sexual love," he said.
She leaned back on the ottoman, one delicate hand against her perfect brow. She spoke in a whisper. "Please, Mr. Carnelian! Stop at once. I wish to hear no more. Leave me, I beg you."
"You do not wish to marry me now?"
"Leave…" She pointed a trembling finger at the door. "Leave…"
But he continued patiently: "I love you, Mrs. Amelia Underwood. I brought chocolates — clothes. I made the — the appointments — for you. I declared my everlasting affection. I have stolen for you, cheated and lied for you." He paused, apologetically. "I admit I have not yet lost the respect of my friends, but I am trying to think of a way to accomplish that. What else must I do, Mrs. Amelia Underwood?"
She rallied a little. She sat upright on the couch and took a very deep breath. "It is not your fault," she said, staring fixedly into the middle distance. "And it is my duty to help. You have asked for my help. I must give it. It would be wicked and un-Christian of me to do otherwise. But, frankly, it will be a herculean task. I have lived in India. I have visited Africa. There are few areas of the Empire I have not, in my time, seen. My father was a missionary. He devoted his life to teaching savages the Christian virtues. Therefore…"
"Virtue." Eagerly he shuffled forward on his knees. "Virtue? That is it. Will you teach me Virtue, Mrs. Amelia Underwood?"
She sighed. She had a dazed look on her face now as she looked down at him. It seemed as if she were about to faint. "How can a Christian refuse? But now you must leave, Mr. Carnelian, while I consider the full implications of this situation."
Again he got to his feet.
"If you say so. I think we're making progress, aren't we? When I have learned virtue — may I then become your lover?"
She made a weary gesture. "If only you had a bottle of sal volatile, I think it could make all the difference at this moment."
"Yes? You shall have it. Describe it."
"No, no. Leave me now. I must proceed, I suppose, as if you were not trying to make a joke of my situation, though I have my suspicions. So, until I have complete evidence to the contrary … Oh, dear." She fell back on the ottoman again, having just enough strength to adjust her grey skirt so that its hem did not reveal her ankle.
"I will return later," he promised. "To begin my lessons."
"Later," she gasped. "Yes…"
He stepped, with a rippling of silk, through the door. He turned and bowed a low, gallant bow.
She stared at him glassily, shaking her head from side to side and running her hand through her chestnut curls.
"My own dear heart," he murmured.
She felt for the pendant watch lying on her shirt front. She opened the case and looked at the time.
"I shall expect lunch," she said, "at exactly one o'clock."
Almost cheerfully Jherek returned to his bedroom and flung himself upon his cushions.
The courtship was, he had to admit, proving more difficult, more complicated, than he had at first imagined. At least, though, he was soon to learn the secret of that mysterious Virtue. So he had gained something by his acquisition of Mrs. Underwood.
His reverie was interrupted by Lord Jagged of Canaria's voice murmuring in his ear:
"May I speak to you, my tasty Jherek, if you are not otherwise engaged? I am below. In your main compartment."
"Of course." Jherek got up. "I'll join you directly."
Jherek was pleased that Jagged had come. He needed to tell his friend all that had so far taken place between himself and his lady love. Also he wished to seek Lord Jagged's advice on his next moves. Because really, when he thought about it, this was all Lord Jagged's idea…
He slipped down into the main room and found Lord Jagged leaning against the bole of the aspidistra, a fruit in his hand. He was nibbling the fruit with a certain clinical interest but no great pleasure. He was dressed in ice blue fog which followed the contours of his body and rose around his pale face in a kind of hood. His limbs were entirely hidden. "Good morning, Jherek," he said. He disseminated the fruit. "And how is your new guest?"
"At first she was unresponsive," Jherek told him. "She seemed to think I was unsympathetic. But I think I have broken down her reserve at last. It will not be long before the curtain rises on the main act."
"She loves you as you love her?"
"She is beginning to love me, I think. She is taking an interest in me, at any rate."
"So you have not made love?"
"Not yet. There are more rituals involved than you and I guessed. All kinds of things. But it is extremely interesting."
"You remain in love with her, of course?"
"Oh, of course, Desperately. I'm not one to back out of an affectation just like that, Lord Jagged. You know me better, I hope."
"I do. I apologise," murmured the Lord of Canaria, displaying his sharp, golden teeth.
"But, if the story is to assume true dramatic , even tragic , dimensions, she must, of course, learn to love me. Otherwise the thing becomes a farce, a low comedy, and barely worth pursuing at all!"
"Agreed — oh, agreed! " said Jagged. And his smile was strange.
"She is to teach me the customs of her people. She is to prepare me for the main ritual which is called 'marriage'. Then, doubtless, she will pledge her own love and the thing can begin in earnest."
"And how long will all this take?"
"Oh, at least a day or two," said Jherek seriously. "Perhaps a week." He remembered another matter. "And how did My Lady Charlotina take my, um, crime? "
"Extremely well." Lord Jagged strode about the room, leaving little clouds of blue fog behind him. "She has vowed — let me see — everlasting vengeance upon you. She is even now contemplating the most exquisite form of revenge. The possibilities! You should have been there last night. You would never guess some of them. Retribution, my darling Jherek, will strike at the best possible dramatic moment for you, rest assured. And it will be cruel! It will be apt. It will be witty!"
Jherek was hardly listening. "She is very imaginative," he said.
"Highly."
"But she plans nothing immediate?"
"I think not."
"Good. I would rather have time to establish the ritual between Mrs. Amelia Underwood and myself before I have to think of My Lady Charlotina's vengeance."
"I understand." Lord Jagged lifted his fine head and looked through the wall. "You're neglecting the scenery a bit, aren't you? Your herds of buffalo haven't moved for quite a while. And your parrots seem to have disappeared altogether. Still, I suppose that is in keeping with someone who is nurturing an obsession."
"I must, however, extinguish that sunset." Jherek removed the sunset and the scenery was suddenly flooded with ordinary sunlight, from the sun. It clashed a little, but he didn't mind. "I'm becoming bored with all the peripheral stuff, I think."
"And why shouldn't you be? And who is this come to see you?"
An ornithopter, awkward and heavy, came lumbering through the sky, its huge metal wings clashing as they flapped unevenly earthward. It slumped into the corral near Jherek's locomotive. A small figure emerged from the machine.
"Why!" exclaimed Lord Jagged of Canaria. "It's Brannart Morphail himself. On an errand from My Lady Charlotina perhaps? The opening sally?"
"I hope not."
Jherek watched the hunchbacked scientist limp slowly up the steps to the verands. When he did not use a vehicle, Brannart Morphail insisted on limping everywhere. It was another of his idiosyncracies. He came through the door and greeted the two friends.
"Good morning, Brannart," said Lord Jagged, moving forward and clapping the scientist upon his hump. "What brings you from your laboratories?"
"You remember, I hope, Jherek," said the chronologist, "that you agreed to let me see that time-machine today. The new one?"
Jherek had forgotten entirely his hasty — and lying — conversation with Morphail the previous evening.
"The time machine?" he echoed. He tried to remember what he had said. "Oh, yes." He decided to make a clean breast of it. "I'm sorry to say that that was a joke, my dear Morphail. A joke with My Lady Charlotina. Did you not hear about it?"
"No. She seemed pensive when she returned, but I left soon afterward on account of her losing interest in me. What a pity." Brannart ran his fingers through his streaky, multi-hued beard and hair, but he had accepted the news philosophically enough. "I had hoped…"
"Of course you had, my crusty," said Lord Jagged, tactfully stepping in. "Of course, of course, my twisted, tattered love. But Jherek does have a time-traveller here."
"The Piltdown Man?"
"Not exactly. A slightly later specimen. 19th century isn't it, Jherek?" said Lord Jagged. "A lady."
"19th century England," said Jherek, a trifle pedantically, for he was proud of his thorough knowledge of the period.
But Brannart was disappointed. "Came in a conventional machine, eh? Did she? 19th — 20th — 21st century or thereabouts. The kind with the big wheels, was it?"
"I suppose so." Jherek had not thought to ask her. "I didn't see the machine. Have you seen it, Lord Jagged?"
Lord Jagged shrugged and shook his head.
"When did she arrive?" old Morphail asked.
"Two or three days ago."
"No time-machine has been recorded arriving then," Morphail said decisively. "None. We haven't had one through for more than a score of days. And even the last few barely stayed long enough to register on my chronographs. You must find out from your time-traveller, Jherek, what sort of machine she used. It could be important. You could help me, after all! A new kind of machine. Possibly not a machine at all. A mystery, eh?" His eyes were bright.
"If I can help, I'll be pleased to. I feel I have already brought you here on a fool's errand, Brannart," Jherek assured the scientist. "I will find out as soon as possible."
"You are very kind, Jherek." Brannart Morphail paused. "Well, I suppose…"
"You'll stay to lunch?"
"Ah. I don't lunch, really. And my experiments await. Await. Await." He waved a thin hand. "Good-bye for now, my dears."
They saw him to his ornithopter. It began to clank skyward after a few false starts. Jherek waved to it, but Lord Jagged was looking back at the house and frowning. "A mystery, eh?" said Jagged.
"A mystery?" Jherek turned.
"A mystery, too ," said Lord Jagged. He winked at Jherek.
Wearily, Jherek returned the wink.
The space-traveller had been pleased by the reception, though he was still under the impression that he was soon to be helped to leave the planet. That was why Jherek Carnelian had made the transaction as quickly as possible and left with his new treasure while Mongrove and Yusharisp were still deep in conversation.
Mrs. Amelia Underwood had been stiffened for easy transportation (without her realising that she was to belong to Jherek now) and shipped aboard the locomotive.
Jherek had lost no time in returning to his ranch and there depositing Mrs. Underwood in what in ancient times had always been the most important section of the house, the cellar. The cellar was immediately above his bedroom and contained towering transparent tanks of carnelian- and pearl-coloured wine. It was also the prettiest room in the house and he felt Mrs. Underwood would be pleased to wake up in such lovely surroundings.
Laying her upon an ottoman bed in the exact centre of the room, Jherek adjusted Mrs. Underwood so that she would sleep and awake slowly and naturally the following morning.
He then went to his own bedroom, impatient to prepare himself for when he next encountered her, determined that he should this time make a good impression. Though it was still many hours until morning, he began to make his plans. He intended to wear something ordinary and give up trying to please her by imitation, since she had made no comment on his earlier costume. He made a solid holograph of himself and dressed it in several different styles, making the holograph move about the room wearing the styles until he was satisfied and had selected the one he wanted.
He would wear everything — robes, shoes, hair, eyebrows and lips — in white. He would blend in well with the main decor of the cellar, particularly if he wore only one ring, the rich, red garnet, which clung to the third finger of his right hand like a drop of fresh blood.
Jherek wondered if Mrs. Underwood would like to change into something different. The grey suit, the white blouse and the straw hat were beginning to look rather crumpled and faded. He decided to construct some clothes for her and take them with him as one of his courting gifts. He had seen enough of the literature of the period to know that the offering of such a gift was a necessary part of the courting ritual and would surely be welcome.
He must think of another gift, too. Something traditional. And music. There must be music playing in the background…
When he had made his plans, there were still several hours left and they gave him time to review recent events. He felt a little nervous. My Lady Charlotina was bound to want to repay him for his trick, his theft of her alien. At present he did not want to be interrupted in his courtship and if My Lady Charlotina decided to act at once it could prove inconvenient. He had hoped, of course, to have more time before she discovered his deception. However, it could not be helped. He could only hope now that her vengeance would not take too complicated or prolonged a form.
He lounged in his eight-poster, his body sunk in white cushions, and waited impatiently for morning, refusing to speed up the period of time by a second, for he knew that time-travellers were often thrown out by such things.
He contemplated his situation. He did find Mrs. Underwood most attractive. She had a beautiful skin. Her face was lovely. And she seemed quite intelligent, which was pleasant. If she fell in love with him tomorrow (which was pretty inevitable, really) there were all sorts of games they could play — separations, suicides, melancholy walks, bitter-sweet partings and so on. It really depended on her and how her imagination worked with his. The important thing at present was to get the groundwork done.
He slept for a little while, a relaxed, seraphic smile upon his handsome lips.
Then, in the morning, Jherek Carnelian went a-courting.
In his translucent white robes, with his milk-white hair all coiffed and curled, with his white lips smiling, a bunch of little chocolates on long leafy stalks in one hand, a silver "suitcase" full of clothing in the other, he paused outside the cellar door (of genuine silk stretched on a frame of plaited gold) and stamped twice on the floor in lieu of a knock (how had they managed to knock on the doors? One of many such mysteries). The stamping also had the effect of making the music begin to play. It was a piece by a composer who was a close contemporary of Mrs. Underwood's. His name was Charles St. Ives, the Cornish Caruso, and his pleasant counter-melodies, though unsophisticated, were probably just the sort of thing that Mrs. Underwood would enjoy.
Jherek made the music soft, virtually unhearable at first.
"Mrs. Amelia Underwood," he said. "Did you hear me knock? Or stamp?"
"I would be grateful if you went away," said her voice from the other side of the door. "I know who you are and I can guess why I have been abducted — and to where. If you intend to soften my resolve by inducing madness in me, you shall not have that satisfaction. I will destroy myself first! Monster."
"My servo brought you breakfast, did it not? I trust it was to your taste."
Her tone was mocking, a little strained. "I have never been overfond of raw beef, sir. Neither is neat whisky my idea of a suitable breakfast drink. At least in my other prison I received the food I requested."
"Request, then. I'm sorry, Mrs. Amelia Underwood. I was sure I had it right. Perhaps in your region of the world at that time the customs were dissimilar… Still, you must tell me —"
"If I am to be a prisoner here, sir," she said firmly, "I shall require for breakfast two slices of lightly toasted bread, unsalted butter, Chetwynd's Cheshire Marmalade, cafe au lait and, occasionally, two medium boiled eggs."
He made a gesture with his red ring. "It is done. Programmed."
Her voice continued:
"For luncheon — well, that will vary. But, since the climate is constantly far too warm, salads of various varieties shall form the basis of the meals. No tomatoes. They are bad for the complexion. I will specify the varieties later. On Sundays — roast beef, mutton, pork or veal. Venison from time to time, in season (though it's inclined to heat the blood, I know) and game when suitable. Mutton cutlets. Stewed ox-cheek and so forth. I'll make you a list. And Yorkshire pudding with the beef, and horseradish sauce, of course, et cetera. Mint sauce with the mutton. Apple sauce with the pork. Peppercorns or sage and onion with the veal, perhaps, though I have certain preferences regarding veal which I will also list. For dinner…"
"Mrs. Amelia Underwood!" cried Jherek Carnelian in confusion. "You shall have every food you wish, any dish which delights you. You shall eat turkeys and turtles, heads, hearts and haunches, gravies and gateaux, fish, fowl and beast shall be created and shall die for the pleasure of your palate! I swear to you that you shall never breakfast off beef and whisky again. And now, Mrs. Underwood, may I please come in?"
There was a note of surprise in her voice. "You are the gaoler, sir. You may do as you please, I am sure!"
The music of Charles St. Ives ( Three New Places in England ) grew louder and Jherek stepped backward and then plunged through the silk, catching his foot in a trailing fragment of the stuff and hopping forward without much style, noticing that she was covering her ears and crying:
"Awful! Awful!"
"You are not pleased with the music? It is of your time."
"It is cacophony."
"Ah, well." He snapped his fingers and the music died. He turned and reformed the silk in its frame. Then, with a sweeping bow which rivalled one of Lord Jagged's, he presented himself in all his whiteness to her.
She was dressed in her usual costume, although her hat lay on the neatly made twelve foot long ottoman. She stood framed against a tank of sparkling champagne, her hands folded together under her breasts, her lips pursed. She really was the most beautiful human being apart from himself that Jherek had ever seen. He could have imagined and created nothing better. Little strands of chestnut hair fell over her face. Her grey-green eyes were bright and steady. Her shoulders were straight, her back stiff, her little booted feet together.
"Well, sir?" she said. Her voice was sharp, even cold. "I see you have abducted me. If you have my body, I guarantee that you shall not have my soul!"
He hardly heard her as he drank in her beauty. He offered her the bunch of chocolates. She did not accept them. "Drugs," she said, "shall not willingly pass my lips."
"Chocolates," he explained. He indicated the blue ribbon bound around their stalks. "See? Blue ribbon."
"Chocolates." She peered at them more closely. For a moment she seemed almost amused, but then her face resumed its set, stern expression. She would not take them. At last he was forced to make the chocolates drift over to the ottoman and settle beside her hat. They went well together. He disseminated the suitcase so that the contents tumbled to the floral floor.
"And what is this?"
"Clothes," he said, "for you to wear. Aren't they pretty?"
She looked down at the profusion of colours, the variety of materials. They scintillated. Their beauty was undeniable and all the colours suited her. Her lips parted, her cheeks flushed. And then she spurned the clothes with her buttoned boot. "These are not suitable clothes for a well-bred lady," she said. "You may take them away."
He was disappointed. He was almost hurt . "But —? Away?"
"My own clothes are perfectly satisfactory. I would like the opportunity to wash them, that is all. I have found nowhere in this — this cell — that offers — washing facilities."
"You are not bored, Mrs. Amelia Underwood, with what you are wearing?"
"I am not. As I was saying. Regarding the facilities…"
"Well." He made a gesture with his ring. The clothes at her feet rose into the air, altering shape and colour until they, too, drifted to the ottoman. Beside the chocolates and the straw hat there now lay neatly side by side six identical outfits (complete with straw boaters) each exactly the same as the one she presently wore.
"Thank you." She seemed just a fraction less cool in manner. "That is much better." She frowned. "I wonder if, after all, you are not…"
Grateful that at last he had done something to meet with her approval, he decided to make his announcement. Gathering his robes around him, he went carefully down on one knee upon the curtains of fresh flowers which covered the floor. He placed his two hands upon his heart. He raised his eyes to heaven in a gaze of adoration.
"Mrs. Amelia Underwood!"
She took a startled step backward and bumped against a wine tank. It made a faint sloshing.
"I am Jherek Carnelian," he continued. "I was born. I love you!"
"Good heavens!"
"I love you more than I love life, dignity, or deities," he went on. "I shall love you until the cows come home, until the pigs cease to fly. I, Jherek Carnelian…"
"Mr. Carnelian!" She was stunned, it seemed, by his devotion. But why should she be stunned? After all, everyone was always declaring their love to everyone else in her time! "Get up, sir, please. I am a respectable woman. I believe that perhaps you are under some misunderstanding considering the position I hold in society. That is, Mr. Carnelian — I am a housewife. A housewife from, in fact, Bromley, in Kent, near London. I have no — no other occupation, sir."
"Housewife?"
He looked imploringly at her for an explanation. "Misunderstanding?"
"I have, I emphasise — no — other — calling."
He was puzzled. "You must explain."
"Mr. Carnelian. Earlier I was trying to hint — to touch upon a rather delicate matter concerning the, ah, appointments. I cannot find them."
"Appointments?" Still on one knee he glanced around the cellar, at the great tanks of wine, the jacaranda trees, the sarcophagi, the stuffed alligators and bears, the mangles, the wurlitzer. "I'm afraid I do not follow…"
"Mr. Carnelian." She coughed and lowered her eyes to the floor, murmuring: "The bathroom ."
"But Mrs. Amelia Underwood, if you wish to bathe, there are the tanks of wine. Or I can bring aphid's milk, if you prefer."
Evidently in some embarrassment, but with her manner becoming increasingly insistent, she said: "I do not wish to bathe, Mr. Carnelian. I am referring" — she took a deep breath — "to the water closet."
Realisation dawned. How obtuse he was. He smiled helpfully. "I suppose it could be arranged. I can easily fill a closet with water. And we can make love. Oh, in water. Liquid!"
Her lip trembled. She was plainly in distress. Had he again misinterpreted her? Helplessly he stared up at her. "I love you," he said.
Her hands leapt to her face. Her shoulders began to heave. "You must hate me dreadfully." Her voice was muffled. "I cannot believe that you do not understand me. As another human being … Oh, how you must hate me!"
"No!" He rose with a cry. "No! I love you. Your every desire will be met by me. Whatever is in my power to do I shall do. It is simply, Mrs. Amelia Underwood, that you have not made your request explicit. I do not understand you." He spread his arms to indicate everything in the room. "I have carefully reconstructed a whole house in the fashion of your own time. I have done everything, I hope, to suit you. If you will only explain further, I will be happy to make what you ask." He paused. She was lowering her hands from her face and offering him a peculiar, searching look. "Perhaps a sketch?" he suggested.
She covered her face again. Again her shoulders began to heave.
It took some time before he could discover from her what she wanted. She told him in halting, nervous tones. She blushed deep scarlet.
He laughed delightedly when he understood.
"Such functions have long since been dispensed with by our people. I could restructure your body slightly and you would not need…"
"I will not be interfered with!"
"If that is your desire."
At last he had manufactured her "bathroom," according to her instructions and put it in one corner of the cellar. Then, at her further request, he boxed it in, adding a touch or two of his own, the vermilion marble, the green baize.
The moment it was finished, she ran inside and closed the door with a slam. He was reminded of a small, nervous animal. He wondered if the box offered her a sense of security which the cellar could not. How long would she remain in the appointment? Forever, like a menagerie specimen which refused to leave its environment? How long could she stay there, hidden behind the marble door, refusing to see him? After all, she must fall in love with him soon.
He waited for what seemed to him to be a very long time indeed. Then he weakened and called:
"Mrs. Amelia Underwood?"
Her voice came sharply from the other side of the door. "Mr. Carnelian, you have no tact! I may have mistaken your intentions, but I cannot ignore the fact that your manners are abominable!"
"Oh!" He was offended. "Mrs. Amelia Underwood! I am known for my tact. I am famous for it. I was born!"
"So was I, Mr. Carnelian. I cannot understand why you keep harping on the fact. I am reminded of some tribesmen we had the misfortune to meet when my father, my mother and myself were in South America. They had some similar phrase…"
"They were impolite?"
"It does not matter. Let us say that yours is not the kind of tact an English gentlewoman recognises. One moment."
There came a gurgling noise and at last she emerged. She looked a little fresher, but she gave him a glance of puzzled displeasure.
Jherek Carnelian had never experienced anything particularly close to misery before, but he was beginning to understand the meaning of the word as he sighed with frustration at his inability to communicate with Mrs. Underwood. She was forever misunderstanding his intentions. According to his original calculations they should at this moment be together in the ottoman exchanging kisses and so forth and pledging eternal love to each other. It was all extremely upsetting. He determined to try again.
"I want to make love to you," he said reasonably. "Does that mean nothing? I am sure that people constantly made love to each other in your age. I know they did. Everything I have studied shows that it was one of the chief obsessions of the time!"
"It is not something we speak about, Mr. Carnelian."
"I want to — to — What do you say instead?"
"There is, Mr. Carnelian, such a thing as the institution of Christian marriage." Her tone, while softening, also became rather patronising. "Such love as you speak of is sanctioned by society only if the two people involved are married. I believe you might not be the monster I thought you. You have, in your fashion, behaved in an almost gentlemanly way. I must conclude, therefore, that you are merely misguided. If you wish to learn proper behaviour, then I shall not stand in the way of your learning it. I will do my best to teach you all I can of civilised comportment."
"Yes?" He brightened. "This marriage. Shall we do that, then?"
"You wish to marry me?" She gave a tiny, icy laugh.
"Yes." He began to lower himself to his knees again.
"I am already married," she explained. "To Mr. Underwood."
"I have married, too," he said, unable to interpret the significance of her last statement.
"Then we cannot marry, Mr. Carnelian." She laughed again. "People who are already married must remain married to those people to whom they are — ah — already married. To whom are you married?"
"Oh," he smiled and shrugged, "I have been married to many people. To my mother, of course, the Iron Orchid. She was the first, I think, being the closest to hand at the time. And then (second, if not first) Mistress Christia, the Everlasting Concubine. And My Lady Charlotina. And to Werther de Goethe, but that came to very little as I recall. And most recently to Lord Jagged of Canaria, my old friend. And perhaps a hundred others in between."
"A — a hundred others?" She sat down suddenly upon the ottoman. "A hundred?" She gave him a queer look. "Do you understand me correctly, Mr. Carnelian, when I speak of marriage. Your mother? A male friend? Oh dear!"
"I do not understand you, I am sure. Marriage means making love, does it not." He paused, trying to think of a more direct phrase. "Sexual love," he said.
She leaned back on the ottoman, one delicate hand against her perfect brow. She spoke in a whisper. "Please, Mr. Carnelian! Stop at once. I wish to hear no more. Leave me, I beg you."
"You do not wish to marry me now?"
"Leave…" She pointed a trembling finger at the door. "Leave…"
But he continued patiently: "I love you, Mrs. Amelia Underwood. I brought chocolates — clothes. I made the — the appointments — for you. I declared my everlasting affection. I have stolen for you, cheated and lied for you." He paused, apologetically. "I admit I have not yet lost the respect of my friends, but I am trying to think of a way to accomplish that. What else must I do, Mrs. Amelia Underwood?"
She rallied a little. She sat upright on the couch and took a very deep breath. "It is not your fault," she said, staring fixedly into the middle distance. "And it is my duty to help. You have asked for my help. I must give it. It would be wicked and un-Christian of me to do otherwise. But, frankly, it will be a herculean task. I have lived in India. I have visited Africa. There are few areas of the Empire I have not, in my time, seen. My father was a missionary. He devoted his life to teaching savages the Christian virtues. Therefore…"
"Virtue." Eagerly he shuffled forward on his knees. "Virtue? That is it. Will you teach me Virtue, Mrs. Amelia Underwood?"
She sighed. She had a dazed look on her face now as she looked down at him. It seemed as if she were about to faint. "How can a Christian refuse? But now you must leave, Mr. Carnelian, while I consider the full implications of this situation."
Again he got to his feet.
"If you say so. I think we're making progress, aren't we? When I have learned virtue — may I then become your lover?"
She made a weary gesture. "If only you had a bottle of sal volatile, I think it could make all the difference at this moment."
"Yes? You shall have it. Describe it."
"No, no. Leave me now. I must proceed, I suppose, as if you were not trying to make a joke of my situation, though I have my suspicions. So, until I have complete evidence to the contrary … Oh, dear." She fell back on the ottoman again, having just enough strength to adjust her grey skirt so that its hem did not reveal her ankle.
"I will return later," he promised. "To begin my lessons."
"Later," she gasped. "Yes…"
He stepped, with a rippling of silk, through the door. He turned and bowed a low, gallant bow.
She stared at him glassily, shaking her head from side to side and running her hand through her chestnut curls.
"My own dear heart," he murmured.
She felt for the pendant watch lying on her shirt front. She opened the case and looked at the time.
"I shall expect lunch," she said, "at exactly one o'clock."
Almost cheerfully Jherek returned to his bedroom and flung himself upon his cushions.
The courtship was, he had to admit, proving more difficult, more complicated, than he had at first imagined. At least, though, he was soon to learn the secret of that mysterious Virtue. So he had gained something by his acquisition of Mrs. Underwood.
His reverie was interrupted by Lord Jagged of Canaria's voice murmuring in his ear:
"May I speak to you, my tasty Jherek, if you are not otherwise engaged? I am below. In your main compartment."
"Of course." Jherek got up. "I'll join you directly."
Jherek was pleased that Jagged had come. He needed to tell his friend all that had so far taken place between himself and his lady love. Also he wished to seek Lord Jagged's advice on his next moves. Because really, when he thought about it, this was all Lord Jagged's idea…
He slipped down into the main room and found Lord Jagged leaning against the bole of the aspidistra, a fruit in his hand. He was nibbling the fruit with a certain clinical interest but no great pleasure. He was dressed in ice blue fog which followed the contours of his body and rose around his pale face in a kind of hood. His limbs were entirely hidden. "Good morning, Jherek," he said. He disseminated the fruit. "And how is your new guest?"
"At first she was unresponsive," Jherek told him. "She seemed to think I was unsympathetic. But I think I have broken down her reserve at last. It will not be long before the curtain rises on the main act."
"She loves you as you love her?"
"She is beginning to love me, I think. She is taking an interest in me, at any rate."
"So you have not made love?"
"Not yet. There are more rituals involved than you and I guessed. All kinds of things. But it is extremely interesting."
"You remain in love with her, of course?"
"Oh, of course, Desperately. I'm not one to back out of an affectation just like that, Lord Jagged. You know me better, I hope."
"I do. I apologise," murmured the Lord of Canaria, displaying his sharp, golden teeth.
"But, if the story is to assume true dramatic , even tragic , dimensions, she must, of course, learn to love me. Otherwise the thing becomes a farce, a low comedy, and barely worth pursuing at all!"
"Agreed — oh, agreed! " said Jagged. And his smile was strange.
"She is to teach me the customs of her people. She is to prepare me for the main ritual which is called 'marriage'. Then, doubtless, she will pledge her own love and the thing can begin in earnest."
"And how long will all this take?"
"Oh, at least a day or two," said Jherek seriously. "Perhaps a week." He remembered another matter. "And how did My Lady Charlotina take my, um, crime? "
"Extremely well." Lord Jagged strode about the room, leaving little clouds of blue fog behind him. "She has vowed — let me see — everlasting vengeance upon you. She is even now contemplating the most exquisite form of revenge. The possibilities! You should have been there last night. You would never guess some of them. Retribution, my darling Jherek, will strike at the best possible dramatic moment for you, rest assured. And it will be cruel! It will be apt. It will be witty!"
Jherek was hardly listening. "She is very imaginative," he said.
"Highly."
"But she plans nothing immediate?"
"I think not."
"Good. I would rather have time to establish the ritual between Mrs. Amelia Underwood and myself before I have to think of My Lady Charlotina's vengeance."
"I understand." Lord Jagged lifted his fine head and looked through the wall. "You're neglecting the scenery a bit, aren't you? Your herds of buffalo haven't moved for quite a while. And your parrots seem to have disappeared altogether. Still, I suppose that is in keeping with someone who is nurturing an obsession."
"I must, however, extinguish that sunset." Jherek removed the sunset and the scenery was suddenly flooded with ordinary sunlight, from the sun. It clashed a little, but he didn't mind. "I'm becoming bored with all the peripheral stuff, I think."
"And why shouldn't you be? And who is this come to see you?"
An ornithopter, awkward and heavy, came lumbering through the sky, its huge metal wings clashing as they flapped unevenly earthward. It slumped into the corral near Jherek's locomotive. A small figure emerged from the machine.
"Why!" exclaimed Lord Jagged of Canaria. "It's Brannart Morphail himself. On an errand from My Lady Charlotina perhaps? The opening sally?"
"I hope not."
Jherek watched the hunchbacked scientist limp slowly up the steps to the verands. When he did not use a vehicle, Brannart Morphail insisted on limping everywhere. It was another of his idiosyncracies. He came through the door and greeted the two friends.
"Good morning, Brannart," said Lord Jagged, moving forward and clapping the scientist upon his hump. "What brings you from your laboratories?"
"You remember, I hope, Jherek," said the chronologist, "that you agreed to let me see that time-machine today. The new one?"
Jherek had forgotten entirely his hasty — and lying — conversation with Morphail the previous evening.
"The time machine?" he echoed. He tried to remember what he had said. "Oh, yes." He decided to make a clean breast of it. "I'm sorry to say that that was a joke, my dear Morphail. A joke with My Lady Charlotina. Did you not hear about it?"
"No. She seemed pensive when she returned, but I left soon afterward on account of her losing interest in me. What a pity." Brannart ran his fingers through his streaky, multi-hued beard and hair, but he had accepted the news philosophically enough. "I had hoped…"
"Of course you had, my crusty," said Lord Jagged, tactfully stepping in. "Of course, of course, my twisted, tattered love. But Jherek does have a time-traveller here."
"The Piltdown Man?"
"Not exactly. A slightly later specimen. 19th century isn't it, Jherek?" said Lord Jagged. "A lady."
"19th century England," said Jherek, a trifle pedantically, for he was proud of his thorough knowledge of the period.
But Brannart was disappointed. "Came in a conventional machine, eh? Did she? 19th — 20th — 21st century or thereabouts. The kind with the big wheels, was it?"
"I suppose so." Jherek had not thought to ask her. "I didn't see the machine. Have you seen it, Lord Jagged?"
Lord Jagged shrugged and shook his head.
"When did she arrive?" old Morphail asked.
"Two or three days ago."
"No time-machine has been recorded arriving then," Morphail said decisively. "None. We haven't had one through for more than a score of days. And even the last few barely stayed long enough to register on my chronographs. You must find out from your time-traveller, Jherek, what sort of machine she used. It could be important. You could help me, after all! A new kind of machine. Possibly not a machine at all. A mystery, eh?" His eyes were bright.
"If I can help, I'll be pleased to. I feel I have already brought you here on a fool's errand, Brannart," Jherek assured the scientist. "I will find out as soon as possible."
"You are very kind, Jherek." Brannart Morphail paused. "Well, I suppose…"
"You'll stay to lunch?"
"Ah. I don't lunch, really. And my experiments await. Await. Await." He waved a thin hand. "Good-bye for now, my dears."
They saw him to his ornithopter. It began to clank skyward after a few false starts. Jherek waved to it, but Lord Jagged was looking back at the house and frowning. "A mystery, eh?" said Jagged.
"A mystery?" Jherek turned.
"A mystery, too ," said Lord Jagged. He winked at Jherek.
Wearily, Jherek returned the wink.
9. Something of an Idyll: Something of a Tragedy
The days passed.
My Lady Charlotina took no vengeance.
Lord Jagged of Canaria disappeared upon an errand of his own and no longer visited Jherek.
Mongrove and Yusharisp became enormously good friends and Mongrove was determined to help Yusharisp (who was no engineer) build a new spaceship.
The Iron Orchid became involved with Werther de Goethe and took to wearing nothing but black. She even turned her blood a deep black. They slept together in a big black coffin in a huge tomb of black marble and ebony.
It was, it seemed, to be a season of gloom, of tragedy, of despair. For everyone had by now heard of Jherek's having fallen in love, of his hopeless passion for Mrs. Amelia Underwood, of his misery. He had set another fashion into which the world was plunging with even more enthusiasm than it had plunged into Flags.
Ironically, only Jherek Carnelian and Mrs. Amelia Underwood were largely untouched by the fashion. They were having a reasonably pleasant time together, as soon as Jherek realised that he was not to consummate his love for a while, and Mrs. Underwood understood that he was, in her expression, "more like a misguided nabob than a consciously evil Caesar." He did not really really know what she was talking about, but he was content to let the subject go since it meant she agreed to share his company during most of her waking hours.
They explored the world in his locomotive. They went for drives in a horse-drawn carriage. They punted on a river which Jherek made for her. She taught him the art of riding the bicycle and they cycled through lovely broadleaf woods which he built according to her instructions, taking packed lunches, a thermos of tea, the occasional bottle of hock. She relaxed (to a large extent) and consented to change her costume from time to time (though remaining faithful to the fashions of her own age). He made her a piano, after some false starts and peculiar mutations, and she sang hymns to him, or sometimes patriotic songs like Drake's Drum or There'll Always Be An England . At very rare moments she would sing a sentimental song, such as Come Into the Garden, Maud or If Those Lips Could Only Speak . For a short time he took up the banjo in order to accompany her, but she disapproved of the instrument, it seemed, so he abandoned it.
With a sunshade on her shoulder, with a wide-brimmed Gainsborough hat on her chestnut curls, wearing a frothy summer frock of white cotton trimmed with green lace, she would allow him to take a punt into the air and soar over the world, looking at Mongrove's mountains or the hot-springs of the Duke of Queens, Werther de Goethe's brooding black tomb, Mistress Christia's scented ocean. On the whole they tended to avoid Lake Billy the Kid and the territory of My Lady Charlotina. There was no point, said Mrs. Amelia Underwood, in tempting providence.
She described the English Lake District to him and he built her fells and lakes to her specifications, but she was never really happy with the environment.
"You are always inclined to overdo things. Mr. Carnelian," she explained, studying a copy of Lake Thirlmere which stretched for fifty miles in all directions. "Though you have got the peculiar shifting light right," she said consolingly. She sighed. "No. It won't do. I'm sorry."
And he destroyed it.
This was one of her few disappointments, however, although she had still to get him to understand the meaning of Virtue. She had given up the direct approach and hoped that he would learn by example and through conversations they had concerning various aspects of her own world.
Once, remembering Brannart Morphail's request, he asked her how she had been brought to his world.
"I was abducted," she told him simply.
"Abducted? By some passing time-traveller who fell in love with you?"
"I never discovered his feelings towards me. I was asleep in my own bed one night when this hooded figure appeared in my room. I tried to scream, but my vocal cords were frozen. He told me to dress. I refused. He told me again, insisting that I wear clothes 'typical of my period'. I refused and suddenly my clothes were on and I was standing up. He seized me. I fainted. The world spun and then I was in your world, wandering about and trying to find someone in authority, preferably the British Consul. I realise now, of course, that you don't have a British Consul here. That, naturally, is why I am inclined to despair of ever returning to 23 Collins Avenue, Bromley."
"It sounds very romantic," said Jherek. "I can see why you regret leaving."
"Romantic? Bromley? Well…" She let the subject go. She sat with her back straight and her knees together on the plush and ermine seat of his locomotive, peering out at the scenery floating past below. "However, I should very much like to go back, Mr. Carnelian."
"I fear that's not possible," he said.
"For technical reasons?" She had never pursued this subject very far before. He had always managed to give her the impression that it was totally impossible rather than simply very difficult to move backward in Time.
"Yes," he said. "Technical reasons."
"Couldn't we visit this scientist you mention? Brannart Morphail? And ask him?"
He didn't want to lose her. His love for her had grown profound (or, at least, he thought it had, not being absolutely sure what "profound" meant). He shook his head emphatically. Also there were indications that she was beginning to warm towards him. It might be quite soon that she would agree to become his lover. He didn't want her sidetracked.
"Not possible," he said. "Particularly since, it seems, you didn't come in a time machine. I've never heard of that before. I thought a machine was always required. Who did you think it was abducted you? Nobody from my age, surely?"
"He wore a hood."
"Yes."
"His whole body was hidden by his garments. It might not even have been a man. It could have been a woman. Or a beast from some other planet, such as those kept in your menageries."
"It really is very strange. Perhaps," said Jherek fancifully," it was a Messenger of Fate — Spanning the Centuries to bring Two Immortal Lovers Together Again." He leaned towards her, taking her hand. "And here at last —"
She snatched her hand away.
"Mr. Carnelian! I thought we had agreed to stop such nonsense!"
He sighed. "I can hide my feelings from you, Mrs. Amelia Underwood, but I cannot banish them altogether. They remain with me night and day."
She offered him a kind smile. "It is just infatuation, I am sure, Mr. Carnelian. I must admit I would find you quite attractive — in a Bohemian sort of way, of course — if I were not already married to Mr. Underwood."
"But Mr. Underwood is a million years away!"
"That makes no difference."
"It must. He is dead. You are a widow!" He had not wasted his time. He had questioned her closely on such matters. "And a widow may marry again!" he added cunningly.
"I am only technically a widow, Mr. Carnelian, as well you know." She looked primly up at him as he stalked moodily about the footplate. Once he almost fell from the locomotive so great was his agitation. "It is my duty to bear in mind always the possibility that I might find a means of returning to my own age."
My Lady Charlotina took no vengeance.
Lord Jagged of Canaria disappeared upon an errand of his own and no longer visited Jherek.
Mongrove and Yusharisp became enormously good friends and Mongrove was determined to help Yusharisp (who was no engineer) build a new spaceship.
The Iron Orchid became involved with Werther de Goethe and took to wearing nothing but black. She even turned her blood a deep black. They slept together in a big black coffin in a huge tomb of black marble and ebony.
It was, it seemed, to be a season of gloom, of tragedy, of despair. For everyone had by now heard of Jherek's having fallen in love, of his hopeless passion for Mrs. Amelia Underwood, of his misery. He had set another fashion into which the world was plunging with even more enthusiasm than it had plunged into Flags.
Ironically, only Jherek Carnelian and Mrs. Amelia Underwood were largely untouched by the fashion. They were having a reasonably pleasant time together, as soon as Jherek realised that he was not to consummate his love for a while, and Mrs. Underwood understood that he was, in her expression, "more like a misguided nabob than a consciously evil Caesar." He did not really really know what she was talking about, but he was content to let the subject go since it meant she agreed to share his company during most of her waking hours.
They explored the world in his locomotive. They went for drives in a horse-drawn carriage. They punted on a river which Jherek made for her. She taught him the art of riding the bicycle and they cycled through lovely broadleaf woods which he built according to her instructions, taking packed lunches, a thermos of tea, the occasional bottle of hock. She relaxed (to a large extent) and consented to change her costume from time to time (though remaining faithful to the fashions of her own age). He made her a piano, after some false starts and peculiar mutations, and she sang hymns to him, or sometimes patriotic songs like Drake's Drum or There'll Always Be An England . At very rare moments she would sing a sentimental song, such as Come Into the Garden, Maud or If Those Lips Could Only Speak . For a short time he took up the banjo in order to accompany her, but she disapproved of the instrument, it seemed, so he abandoned it.
With a sunshade on her shoulder, with a wide-brimmed Gainsborough hat on her chestnut curls, wearing a frothy summer frock of white cotton trimmed with green lace, she would allow him to take a punt into the air and soar over the world, looking at Mongrove's mountains or the hot-springs of the Duke of Queens, Werther de Goethe's brooding black tomb, Mistress Christia's scented ocean. On the whole they tended to avoid Lake Billy the Kid and the territory of My Lady Charlotina. There was no point, said Mrs. Amelia Underwood, in tempting providence.
She described the English Lake District to him and he built her fells and lakes to her specifications, but she was never really happy with the environment.
"You are always inclined to overdo things. Mr. Carnelian," she explained, studying a copy of Lake Thirlmere which stretched for fifty miles in all directions. "Though you have got the peculiar shifting light right," she said consolingly. She sighed. "No. It won't do. I'm sorry."
And he destroyed it.
This was one of her few disappointments, however, although she had still to get him to understand the meaning of Virtue. She had given up the direct approach and hoped that he would learn by example and through conversations they had concerning various aspects of her own world.
Once, remembering Brannart Morphail's request, he asked her how she had been brought to his world.
"I was abducted," she told him simply.
"Abducted? By some passing time-traveller who fell in love with you?"
"I never discovered his feelings towards me. I was asleep in my own bed one night when this hooded figure appeared in my room. I tried to scream, but my vocal cords were frozen. He told me to dress. I refused. He told me again, insisting that I wear clothes 'typical of my period'. I refused and suddenly my clothes were on and I was standing up. He seized me. I fainted. The world spun and then I was in your world, wandering about and trying to find someone in authority, preferably the British Consul. I realise now, of course, that you don't have a British Consul here. That, naturally, is why I am inclined to despair of ever returning to 23 Collins Avenue, Bromley."
"It sounds very romantic," said Jherek. "I can see why you regret leaving."
"Romantic? Bromley? Well…" She let the subject go. She sat with her back straight and her knees together on the plush and ermine seat of his locomotive, peering out at the scenery floating past below. "However, I should very much like to go back, Mr. Carnelian."
"I fear that's not possible," he said.
"For technical reasons?" She had never pursued this subject very far before. He had always managed to give her the impression that it was totally impossible rather than simply very difficult to move backward in Time.
"Yes," he said. "Technical reasons."
"Couldn't we visit this scientist you mention? Brannart Morphail? And ask him?"
He didn't want to lose her. His love for her had grown profound (or, at least, he thought it had, not being absolutely sure what "profound" meant). He shook his head emphatically. Also there were indications that she was beginning to warm towards him. It might be quite soon that she would agree to become his lover. He didn't want her sidetracked.
"Not possible," he said. "Particularly since, it seems, you didn't come in a time machine. I've never heard of that before. I thought a machine was always required. Who did you think it was abducted you? Nobody from my age, surely?"
"He wore a hood."
"Yes."
"His whole body was hidden by his garments. It might not even have been a man. It could have been a woman. Or a beast from some other planet, such as those kept in your menageries."
"It really is very strange. Perhaps," said Jherek fancifully," it was a Messenger of Fate — Spanning the Centuries to bring Two Immortal Lovers Together Again." He leaned towards her, taking her hand. "And here at last —"
She snatched her hand away.
"Mr. Carnelian! I thought we had agreed to stop such nonsense!"
He sighed. "I can hide my feelings from you, Mrs. Amelia Underwood, but I cannot banish them altogether. They remain with me night and day."
She offered him a kind smile. "It is just infatuation, I am sure, Mr. Carnelian. I must admit I would find you quite attractive — in a Bohemian sort of way, of course — if I were not already married to Mr. Underwood."
"But Mr. Underwood is a million years away!"
"That makes no difference."
"It must. He is dead. You are a widow!" He had not wasted his time. He had questioned her closely on such matters. "And a widow may marry again!" he added cunningly.
"I am only technically a widow, Mr. Carnelian, as well you know." She looked primly up at him as he stalked moodily about the footplate. Once he almost fell from the locomotive so great was his agitation. "It is my duty to bear in mind always the possibility that I might find a means of returning to my own age."