Moorcock Michael. The End of All Songs

   "Mr. Carnelian, we should try to make them listen to Lord Mongrove, surely!"
   Jherek shook his head. "He has nothing very interesting to say, Amelia. Has he not said it before? Is not Yusharisp's information identical to that which he first brought, during the Duke's African party. It means little…"
   "It means much to me."
   "How so?"
   "It strikes a chord. Lord Mongrove is like the prophet to whom none would listen. In the end his words were vindicated. The Bible is full of such stories."
   "Then surely, we have no need for more?"
   "You are deliberately obtuse!"
   "I assure you that I am not."
   "Then help Mongrove."
   "His temperament and mine are too dissimilar. Brannart will comfort him, and Werther de Goethe, too. And Li Pao. He has many friends, many who will listen. They will gather together and agree that all but themselves are fools, that only they have the truth, the right to control events and so on. It will cheer them up and they'll doubtless do little to spoil the pleasure of anyone else. For all we know, their antics will prove entertaining."
   "Is 'entertainment' your only criterion?"
   "Amelia, if it pleases you, I'll go this moment to Mongrove and groan in tune with him. But my heart will not be in it, love of my life, joy of my existence."
   She sighed. "I would not have you live a lie, Mr. Carnelian. To encourage you towards hypocrisy would be a sin, I know."
   "You have become somewhat sober again, dearest Amelia."
   "I apologize. Evidently, there is nothing to be done, in reality. You think Mongrove postures?"
   "As do we all, according to his temperament. It is not that he is insincere, it is merely that he chooses one particular role, though he knows many other opinions are as interesting and as valuable as his own."
   "A few short years are left…" came Mongrove's boom, more distant now.
   "He does not wholly believe in what he says?"
   "Yes and no. He chooses wholly to believe. It is a conscious decision. Tomorrow, he could make an entirely different decision, if he became bored with this role (and I suspect he will become bored, as he realizes how much he bores others)."
   "But Yusharisp is sincere."
   "So he is, poor thing."
   "Then there is no hope for the world."
   "Yusharisp believes that."
   "You do not?"
   "I believe everything and nothing."
   "I never quite understood before … is that the philosophy of the End of Time?"
   "I suppose it is." He looked about him. "I do not think we shall see Lord Jagged here, after all. Lord Jagged could explain these things to you, for he enjoys discussing abstract matters. I have never much had the penchant. I have always preferred to make things rather than to talk. I am a man of action, you see. Doubtless it is something to do with being the product of natural childbirth."
   Her eyes, when next she looked at him, were full of warmth.

13. The Honour of an Underwood

   "I am still uncertain. Perhaps if we began again?"
   Amiably, Jherek disintegrated the west wing.
   They were rebuilding his ranch. The Bromley-Gothic redbrick villa had vanished. In its place stood something altogether larger, considerably lighter, having more in common with the true Gothic of medieval France and Belgium, with fluted towers and delicately fashioned windows.
   "It is all, I think, a trifle too magnificent," she said. She fingered her fine chin. "And yet, it would only seem grandiose in Bromley, as it were. Here, it is almost simple."
   "If you will try your own amethyst power-ring…" he murmured.
   "I have still to trust these things…" But she twisted and thought at the same time.
   A fairy-tale tower, the ideal of her girlhood, stood there. She could not bring herself to disseminate it.
   He was delighted, admiring its slender hundred-and twenty-feet, topped by twin turrets with red conical roofs. It glittered. It was white. There were tiny windows.
   "Such an elegant example of typical Dawn Age architecture!" he complimented her.
   "You do not find it too fanciful?" She was shy of her achievement, but pleased.
   "A model of utility!"
   "Scarcely that…" She blushed. Her own imagination, made concrete, astonished her.
   "More! You must make more!"
   The ring was turned again and another tower sprang up, connected to its fellow by a little marble bridge. With some hesitation she disseminated the original building he had made at her request, replacing it with a main hall and living apartments above. She gave her attention to the landscape around. A moat appeared, fed by a sparkling river. Formal gardens, geometric, filled with her favourite flowers, stretched into the distance, giving place to rose bowers and undulating lawns, a lake, with cypresses and poplars and willows. The sky was changed to a pale blue and the small clouds in it were never whiter; then she added subtle colours, pinks and yellows, as of the beginnings of a sunset. All was as she had once dreamed of, not as a respectable Bromley housewife, but as a little girl, who had read fairy stories with a sense that she consulted forbidden texts. Her face shone as she contemplated her handiwork. A new innocence bloomed there. Jherek watched, and revelled in her pleasure.
   "Oh, I should not…"
   A unicorn now grazed upon the lawn. It looked up, its eyes mild and intelligent. Its golden horn caught the sunlight.
   "It is everything I was told could never be. My mother admonished me, I remember, for entertaining silly fancies. She said no good would come of them."
   "And so you still think, do you not?"
   She glanced his way. "So I should think, I suppose."
   He said nothing.
   "My mother argued that little girls who believed in fairy tales grew up to be shallow, vain and, ultimately, disappointed, Mr. Carnelian. The world, I was told, was harsh and terrible and we were put into it in order that we should be tested for our worthiness to dwell in Heaven."
   "It is a reasonable belief. Though unrewarding, I should have thought, in the long run. Limiting, at least."
   "Limitations were regarded as being good for one. I have expressed that opinion myself."
   "So you have."
   "Yet there are no more cruelties here than there were in my world."
   "Cruelties?"
   "Your menageries."
   "Of course."
   "But you do not, I now understand, realize that you are cruel. You are not hypocrites in that particular way."
   He was euphoric. He was enjoying listening to her voice as he might enjoy the peaceful buzz of an insect. He spoke only to encourage her to continue.
   "We keep more prisoners in my society, when you think of it," she said. "How many wives are prisoners of their homes, their husbands?" She paused. "I should not dare think such radical ideas at home, much less utter them!"
   "Why not?"
   "Because I would offend others. Disturb my friends. There are social checks to one's behaviour, far greater than any legal or moral ones. Have you learned that, yet, from my world, Mr. Carnelian?"
   "I have learned something, but not a great deal. You must continue to teach me."
   "I saw the prisons, when you were incarcerated. How many prisoners are there through no fault of their own? Victims of poverty. And poverty enslaves so many more millions than you could ever contain in your menageries. Oh, I know. I know. You could have argued that, and I should not have been able to deny it."
   "Ah?"
   "You are kind to humour me, Mr. Carnelian." Her voice grew vague as she looked again upon her first creation. "Oh, it is so beautiful!"
   He came to stand beside her and when he put an arm about her shoulder, she did not resist.
   Some time went by. She furnished their palace with simple, comfortable furniture, refusing to clutter the rooms. She made tapestries and brocades for floors and walls. She re-introduced a strict pattern of day and night. She created two large, long-haired black and white cats, and the parklands around the palace became populated with deer, as well as unicorns. She longed for books, but he could find her none, so in the end she began to write one for herself and found this almost as satisfactory as reading. Yet, still, he must court her. Still she refused the fullest expression of her affections. When he proposed marriage, as he continued to do, frequently, she would reply that she had given an oath in a ceremony to remain loyal to Mr. Underwood until death should part them.
   He returned, time after time, to the reasonable logic that indeed Mr. Underwood was dead, had been dead for many millennia, that she was free. He began to suspect that she did not care a fig for her vows to Mr. Underwood, that she played a game with him, or, failing that, waited for him to take some action. But as to what the action should be, she gave him no clue.
   This idyll, pleasurable though it was, was marred not only by his frustration, but also by his concerns for his friend, Lord Jagged of Canaria. He had begun to realize to what extent he had relied on Jagged to guide him in his actions, to explain the world to him, to help him shape his own destiny. His friend's humour, his advice, indeed, his very wisdom, were much missed. Every morning, upon awaking, he hoped to see Lord Jagged's air-car upon the horizon, and every morning he was disappointed.
   One morning, however, as he lounged alone upon a balcony, while Mrs. Underwood worked at her book, he saw a visitor arrive, in some kind of Egyptianate vessel of bony and gold, and it was Bishop Castle, his high crown nodding on his handsome head, a tall staff in his left hand, his three golden orbs bobbing at his belt, stepping gracefully from air-car to balcony and kissing him lightly upon the forehead, complimenting him on the white linen suit made for him by Mrs. Underwood.
   "Things have settled, since the Duke's party," the bishop informed him. "We return to our old lives with some relief. A great disappointment, Mongrove, didn't you think?"
   "The Duke of Queens sets great store by his entertainment value. I cannot think why."
   "He is out of touch with everyone else's taste. Scarcely a recommendation in one who desires to be the most popular of hosts."
   "It is not," Jherek added, "as if he were himself interested in this alien's prophecies. He probably hoped that Mongrove would have had some adventures on his trip through the universe — something with a reasonable amount of sensation in it. Yet Mongrove may be relied upon to ruin even the best anecdote."
   "It is why we love him."
   "To be sure."
   Mrs. Underwood, in rose-pink and yellow, entered the room behind the balcony. She extended a hand. "Dear Bishop Castle. How pleasant to see you. You will stay for lunch?"
   "If I do not inconvenience you, Mrs. Underwood." It was plain that he had done much research.
   "Of course not."
   "And what of my mother, the Iron Orchid?" asked Jherek. "Have you seen her of late?"
   Bishop Castle scratched his nose with his crook. "You had not heard, then? She seeks to rival you, Jherek, I am sure. She somehow inveigled Brannart Morphail into allowing her the use of one of his precious time-craft. She has gone!"
   "Through time?"
   "No less. She told Brannart that she would return with proof of his theories, evidence that you manufactured the tales you told him! I am surprised no one has yet informed you." Bishop Castle laughed. "She is so original, your beautiful mother!"
   "But she may be killed," said Mrs. Underwood. "Is she aware of the risks?"
   "Fully, I gather."
   "Oh!" cried Jherek. "Mother!" He put his hand to his lips; he bit the lower one. "It is you, Amelia, she seeks to rival. She thinks she is outdone by you!"
   "She spoke of a time for her return?" Mrs. Underwood asked Bishop Castle.
   "Not really. Brannart might know. He controls the experiment."
   "Controls! Ha!" Jherek put his head in his hands.
   "We may only pray — excuse me — hope — that she returns safely," said Mrs. Underwood.
   "Time cannot defeat the Iron Orchid!" Bishop Castle laughed. "You are too gloomy. She will be back soon — doubtless with news of exploits to rival yours — which is what she hopes for, I am sure."
   "It was luck, only, that saved us both from death," Mrs. Underwood told him.
   "Then the same luck will come to her aid."
   "You are probably right," said Jherek. He was despondent. First his best friend gone, and now his mother. He looked at Mrs. Underwood, as if she would once again vanish before his eyes, as she had done before, when he had first tried to kiss her, so long ago.
   Mrs. Underwood spoke rather more cheerfully, in Jherek's view, than the situation demanded. "Your mother is not one to perish, Mr. Carnelian. For all you know, it was merely a facsimile that was sent through time. The original could still be here."
   "I am not sure that is possible," he said. "There is something to do with the life essence. I have never properly understood the theory concerning transmigration. But I do not think you can send a doppelganger through time, not without accompanying it."
   "She'll be back," said Bishop Castle with a smile.
   But Jherek, worrying for Lord Jagged, becoming convinced that he had perished, lapsed into silence and was a poor host during lunch.
   Several more days passed, without incident, with the occasional visit from My Lady Charlotina or the Duke of Queens or Bishop Castle, again. The conversation turned often to speculation as to the fate of the Iron Orchid, as was inevitable, but if Brannart Morphail had news of her he had passed none of it on, even to My Lady Charlotina who still chose to play patron to him and give him his laboratories in her own vast domicile at Below-the-Lake. Neither would Brannart tell anyone the Iron Orchid's original destination.
   In the meanwhile, Jherek continued to pay court to Amelia Underwood. He learned the poems of Wheldrake (or at least, those she could remember) from her and found that they could be interpreted in reference to their own situation — " So close these lovers were, yet was their union sundered by the world " — " Cruel Fortune did dictate that they / Should ever singly pass that way ", and so on — until she professed a lack of interest in he who had been her favourite poet. But it seemed to Jherek Carnelian that Amelia Underwood began to warm to him a little more. The occasional sisterly kiss became more frequent, the pressure of a hand, the quality of a smile, all spoke of a thaw in her resolve. He took heart. Indeed, so settled had become their domestic routine, that it was almost as if they were married. He hoped that she might slip, almost accidentally, into consummation, given time.
   Life flowed smooth and, save for the nagging fear at the back of his mind that his mother and Lord Jagged might never return, he experienced a tranquillity he had not enjoyed since he and Mrs. Underwood had first shared a house together; and he refused to remember that whenever he had come to accept such peace, it had always been interrupted by some new drama. But, as the uneventful days continued, his sense of inevitable expectation increased, until he began to wish that whatever it was that was going to happen would happen as soon as possible. He even identified the source of the next blow — it would be delivered by the Iron Orchid, returning with sensational information, or else by Jagged, to tell them that they must go back to the Palaeozoic to complete some overlooked task.
   The blow did come. It came one morning, about three weeks after they had settled in their new home. It came as a loud and repetitive knocking on the main door. Jherek stumbled from his bed and went to stand on his balcony, leaning over to see who was disturbing them in this peculiar manner (no one he knew ever used that door). On the bijou drawbridge was grouped a party of men all of whom were familiar. The person knocking on the main door was Inspector Springer, wearing a new suit of clothes and a new bowler hat indistinguishable from his previous ones; gathered around him was a party of burly police officers, some ten or twelve; behind the police officers, looking self-important but a little wild-eyed, stood none other than Mr. Harold Underwood, his pince-nez on his nose, his hay-coloured hair neatly parted in the middle, wearing a suit of good, dark worsted, an extremely stiff, white collar and cuffs, a tightly knotted tie and black, polished boots. In his hand he held a hat, similar to Inspector Springer's. Behind this party, a short distance away, in the ornamental garden, there buzzed a huge contraption consisting of a number of inter-connected wheels, ratchets, crystalline rods and what seemed to be padded benches — an open, box-like structure, but bearing a close similarity to the machine Jherek had first seen in the Palaeozoic. At the controls sat the bearded man in plus-fours and Norfolk jacket who had given them his hamper. He was the first to see Jherek. He waved a greeting.
   From a nearby balcony there came a stifled shriek: "Harold!"
   Mr. Underwood looked up and fixed a cold eye upon his wife, in negligee and slippers of a sort not normally associated with a Bromley housewife.
   "Ha!" he said, his worst fears confirmed. Now he saw Jherek, peering down at him. "Ha!"
   "Why are you here?" croaked Jherek, before he realized he would not be understood.
   Inspector Springer began to clear his throat, but Harold Underwood spoke first.
   "Igrie gazer," he seemed to say. "Rijika batterob honour!"
   "We had better let them in, Mr. Carnelian," said Mrs. Underwood in a faint voice.

14. Various Alarums, a Good Deal of Confusion, a Hasty Excursion

   "I 'ave, sir," said Inspector Springer with heavy satisfaction, "been invested with Special Powers. The 'Ome Secretary 'imself 'as ordered me to look into this case."
   "The new machine — my, um, Chronomnibus — was requisitioned," said the time-traveller apologetically from the background. "As a patriot, though strictly speaking not from this universe…"
   "Under conditions of utmost secrecy," continued the Inspector, "we embarked upon our Mission…"
   Jherek and Mrs. Underwood stood on their threshold and contemplated their visitors.
   "Which is?" Mrs. Underwood was frowning pensively at her husband.
   "To place the ringleaders of this plot under arrest and return forthwith to our own century so that they — that's you, of course, among 'em — may be questioned as to their motives and intentions." Inspector Springer was evidently quoting specifically from his orders.
   "And Mr. Underwood?" Jherek asked politely. "Why is he here?"
   " 'E's one o' the few 'oo can identify the people we're after. Anyway, 'e volunteered."
   She said, bemusedly: "Have you come to take me back, Harold?"
   "Ha!" said her husband.
   Sergeant Sherwood, sweating and, it seemed, only barely in control of himself, fingering his tight, dark blue collar, emerged from the ranks of his constables (who, like him, seemed to be suffering from shock) and, saluting, stood beside his leader.
   "Shall we place these two under arrest, sir?"
   Inspector Springer licked his lips contemplatively. " 'Ang on a mo, sergeant, before putting 'em in the van." He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a document, turning to Jherek. "Are you the owner of these premises?"
   "Not exactly," said Jherek, wondering if the translation pills he and Amelia had taken were doing their job properly. "That is to say, if you could explain the meaning of the term, perhaps I could…"
   "Are you or are you not the owner…"
   "Do you mean did I create this house?"
   "If you built it, too, fair enough. All I want to know…"
   "Mrs. Underwood created it, didn't you, Amelia?"
   "Ha!" said Mr. Underwood, as if his worst suspicions were confirmed. He glared coldly at the fairy-tale palace.
   "This lady built it?" Inspector Springer became pettish. "Now, listen 'ere…"
   "I gather you are unfamiliar with the methods of building houses at the End of Time, Inspector," said Mrs. Underwood, making some effort to save the situation. "One has power-rings. They enable one —"
   Inspector Springer raised a stern hand. "Let me put it another way. I 'ave 'ere a warrant to search your premises or, indeed, any premises I might regard as 'avin' upon them evidence in this matter, or 'arbourin' suspected criminals. So, if you will kindly allow me and my men to pass…"
   "Certainly." Jherek and Amelia stepped aside as Inspector Springer led his men into the hall. Harold Underwood hesitated a moment, but at last crossed the threshold, as if into the netherworld, while the time-traveller hung back, his cap in his hands, murmuring disconnected phrases. "Awfully embarrassing … had no idea … a bit of a joke, really … regret the inconvenience … Home Secretary assured me … can see no reason for intrusion … would never have agreed…" But at Jherek's welcoming gesture, he joined the others. "Delightful house … very similar to those structures one finds in the, um … fifty-eighth century, is it? … Glad to find you arrived back safely … am still a trifle at sea, myself…"
   "I have never seen such a large time-machine," said Jherek, hoping to put him at ease.
   "Have you not?" The time-traveller beamed. "It is unusual, isn't it? Of course, the commercial possibilities have not escaped me, though since the Government took an interest, everything has been shrouded in secrecy, as you can imagine. This was my first opportunity to test it under proper conditions."
   "It would be best, sir, I think," cautioned Inspector Springer, "to say no more to these people. They are, after all, suspected alien agents."
   "Oh, but we have met before. I had no idea, when I agreed to help, that these were the people you meant. Believe me, Inspector, they are almost undoubtedly innocent of any crime."
   "That's for me to decide, sir," reproved the policeman. "The evidence I was able to place before the 'Ome Secretary upon my return was sufficient to convince 'im of a plot against the Crown."
   "He seemed somewhat bewildered by the whole affair. His questions to me were not exactly explicit…"
   "Oh, it's bewildering , right enough. Cases of this kind often are. But I'll get to the bottom of it, given time." Inspector Springer fingered his watch-chain. "That's why there is a police force, sir. To solve bewildering cases."
   "Are you certain that you are within your jurisdiction, Inspector…" began Mrs. Underwood.
   "I 'ave ascertained from the gentleman 'ere," Inspector Springer indicated the time-traveller, "that we are still on English soil. Therefore…"
   "Is it really?" cried Jherek. "How wonderful!"
   "Thought you'd get away with it, eh?" murmured Sergeant Sherwood, eyeing him maliciously. "Made a bit of a mistake, didn't you, my lad?"
   " 'Ow many others staying 'ere?" Inspector Springer enquired as he and his men tramped into the main hall. He looked with disgust upon the baskets of flowers which hung everywhere, upon the tapestries and the carpets and the furniture, which was of the most decadent sort of design.
   "Only ourselves." Mrs. Underwood glanced away from the grim eye of her husband.
   "Ha!" said Mr. Underwood.
   "We have separate apartments," she explained to the inspector, upon whose ruddy features there had spread the suggestion of a leer.
   "Well, sir," said Sergeant Sherwood, "shall we take this pair back first?"
   "To the nineteenth century?" Jherek asked.
   "That is what he means," the time-traveller replied on the sergeant's behalf.
   "This would be your opportunity, Amelia." Jherek's voice was small. "You said that you wished, still, to return…"
   "It is true…" she began.
   "Then…?"
   "The circumstances…"
   "You two 'ad better stay 'ere," Inspector Springer was telling two of the constables, "to keep an eye on 'em. We'll search the premises." He led his men off towards a staircase. Jherek and Amelia sat down on a padded bench.
   "Would you care for some tea?" Amelia asked her husband, the time-traveller and the two constables.
   "Well…" said one of the constables.
   "I think that'd be all right, ma'am," said the other.
   Jherek was eager to oblige. He turned a power-ring and produced a silver tea-pot, six china cups and saucers, a milk-jug and a hot-water jug, a silver tea-strainer, six silver spoons and a primus stove.
   "Sugar, I think," she murmured, "but not the stove."
   He corrected his error.
   The two police constables sat down together quite suddenly, goggling at the tea. Mr. Underwood remained standing, but seemed rather more stiff than he had been. He muttered to himself. Only the time-traveller reacted in a normal fashion.
   Mrs. Underwood seemed to be suppressing amusement as she poured the tea and handed out the cups. The constables accepted the tea, but only one of them drank any. The other merely said, "Gord!" and put his cup on the table, while his companion grinned weakly and said: "Very good, very good," over and over again.
   From above there came a sudden loud cracking sound and a yell. Puzzled, Jherek and Amelia looked up.
   "I do hope they are not damaging…" began the time-traveller.
   There was a thunder of boots and Inspector Springer, Sergeant Sherwood and their men came tumbling, breathless, back into the hall.
   "They're attacking!" cried Sergeant Sherwood to the other two policemen.
   " 'Oo?"
   "The enemy, of course!" Inspector Springer answered, running to peer cautiously out of the window. "They must know we've occupied these premises. They're a cunning lot, I'll grant you that."
   "What happened up there, Inspector?" asked Jherek, carrying forward a cup of tea for his guest.
   "Something took the top off the tower, that's all!" Automatically the inspector accepted the tea. "Clean off. Some kind of 'igh-powered naval gun, I'd say. 'Ave you got any sea near 'ere?"
   "None, I fear. I wonder who could have done that." Jherek looked enquiringly at Amelia. She shrugged.
   "The Wrath of God!" announced Mr. Underwood helpfully, but nobody took much notice of his suggestion.
   "I remember once, some flying machine of the Duke of Queens' crashed into my ranch," Jherek said. "Did you notice a flying machine, Inspector?"
   Inspector Springer continued to peer through the window. "It was like a bolt from the blue," he said.
   "One minute the roof was there," added Sergeant Sherwood, "the next it was gone. There was this explosion — then — bang! — gone. It got very 'ot for a second, too."
   "Sounds like some sort of ray," said the time-traveller, helping himself to another cup of tea.
   Inspector Springer proved himself a reader of the popular weeklies by the swiftness with which he accepted the notion. "You mean a Death Ray?"
   "If you like."
   Inspector Springer fingered his moustache. "We were fools not to come armed," he reflected.
   "Ah!" Jherek remembered his first encounter with the brigand-musicians in the forest. "That's probably the Lat returned. They had weapons. They demonstrated one. Very powerful they were, too."
   "Those Latvians. I might 'ave guessed!" Inspector Springer crouched lower. " 'Ave you any means of telling 'em you're our prisoners?"
   "None at all, I fear. I could go and find them, but they could be hundreds of miles away."
   " 'undreds? Oh, Lor!" exclaimed Sergeant Sherwood. He looked at the ceiling, as if he expected it to fall in on him. "You're right, Inspector. We should've put in for some pistols."
   "The Day of Doom is here!" intoned Harold Underwood, raising a finger.
   "We must introduce him to Lord Mongrove," Jherek said, inspired. "They would get on very well, don't you think, Amelia?"
   But she did not reply. She was staring with a mixture of sympathy and resignation at her poor, mad husband. "I am to blame," she said. "It is all my doing. Oh, Harold, Harold."
   There came another loud report. Cracks began to appear in the walls and ceiling. Jherek turned a power-ring and re-formed the palace. "I think you'll find the roof's back on, Inspector, should you wish to continue your tour."
   "I'll receive a medal for this, if I ever get back," said Inspector Springer to himself. He sighed.
   "I'd suggest, sir," said his sergeant, "that we make the most of what we've got and return with these two."
   "You're probably right. We'll do a dash for it. Better put the gyves on 'em, eh?"
   Two constables produced their handcuffs and advanced towards Jherek and Amelia.
   At that moment an apparition appeared at the window and drifted through. It was Bishop Castle, completely out of breath, looking extremely excited, his huge mitre askew. "Oh, the adventures, my dears! The Lat have returned and are laying waste to everything! Murder, pillage, rape! It's marvellous! Ah, you have company…"
   "I believe you've met most of them," Jherek said. "This is Inspector Springer, Sergeant Sherwood…"
   Bishop Castle subsided slowly to the floor, nodding and smiling. Blinking, the constables backed away.
   "They have taken prisoners , too. Just as they took us prisoner, that time. Ah, boredom is banished, at last! And there has been a battle — the Duke of Queens magnificent, in charge of our aerial fleet (it did not last more than a few seconds, unfortunately, but it did look pretty), and My Lady Charlotina as an amazon, in a chariot . Amusement returns to our dull world! Dozens, at least, are dead !" He waved his crook apologetically at the company. "You must forgive the interruption. I am so sorry. I forget my manners."
   "I know you," said Inspector Springer significantly. "I arrested you before, at the Cafe Royal."
   "So pleased to see you again, Inspector." It was plain that Bishop Castle had not understood a word that Inspector Springer had said. He popped a translation pill into his mouth. "You decided to continue your party, then, at the End of Time?"
   "End of Time?" said Harold Underwood, showing fresh interest. "Armageddon?"
   Amelia Underwood went to him. She tried to sooth him. He shook her off.
   "Ha!" he said.
   "Harold. You're being childish."
   "Ha!"
   Despondently, she remained where she was, staring at him.
   "You should see the destruction ," continued Bishop Castle. He laughed. "Nothing at all is left of Below-the-Lake, unless Brannart's laboratories are still there. But the menagerie is completely gone, and all My Lady Charlotina's apartments — the lake itself — all gone! It'll take her hours to replace them." He tugged at Jherek's sleeve. "You must return with me and see the spectacle, Jherek. That's why I came away, to make sure you did not miss it all."
   "Your friends aren't going anywhere, sir. And neither, I might add, are you." Inspector Springer signalled his constables forward.
   "How wonderful! You'd take us prisoners, too! Have you any weapons, like the Lats? You must produce something, Inspector, to rival their effects, unless you wish to be absolutely outshone!"
   "I thought these Latvians were on your side," said Sergeant Sherwood.
   "Indeed, no! What would be the fun of that?"
   "You say they're destroying everything. Rape, pillage, murder?"
   "Exactly."
   "Well, I never…" Inspector Springer scratched his head. "So you're merely the foils of these people, instead o' the other way about?"
   "I think there's a misunderstanding, Inspector," said Mrs. Underwood. "You see…"
   "Misunderstanding!" Suddenly Harold Underwood lurched towards her. "Jezebel!"
   "Harold!"
   "Ha!"
   There came another boom, louder than the previous ones, and the ceiling vanished to reveal the sky.
   "It can only be the Lat," said Bishop Castle, with the air of an expert. "You really must come with me. Jherek and Amelia, unless you want to be destroyed before you have enjoyed any of the fun." He began to lead them towards his air-car at the window. "There'll be nothing left of our world, at this rate!"
   "Do they really mean to destroy you all?" asked the time-traveller, as they went by.
   "I gather not. They originally came for prisoners. Mistress Christia, of course," this to Jherek, "is now a captive. I think it's their habit to go about the galaxy killing the males and abducting the females."
   "You'll let them?" Mrs. Underwood enquired.
   "What do you mean?"
   "You won't stop this?"
   "Oh, eventually, I suppose we'll have to. Mistress Christia wouldn't be happy in space. Particularly if it has become as bleak as Mongrove reports."
   "What do you say, Amelia? Shall we go and watch? Join in?" Jherek wanted to know.
   "Of course not."
   He suppressed his disappointment.
   "Perhaps you wish me to be abducted by those creatures?" she said.
   "Indeed, no!"
   "Perhaps it would be better to return in my Chronomnibus," suggested the time-traveller, "at least until —"
   "Amelia?"
   She shook her head. "The circumstances are too shameful for me. Respectable society would be closed to me now."
   "Then you will stay, dearest Amelia?"
   "Mr. Carnelian, this is no time to continue with your pesterings. I will accept that I am an outcast, but I still have certain standards of behaviour. Besides, I am concerned for Harold. He is not himself. And for that, we are to blame. Well, perhaps not you, really — but I must accept a large share of guilt. I should have been firmer. I should not have admitted my love —" and she burst into tears.
   "You do admit it, then, Amelia!"
   "You are heartless, Mr. Carnelian," she sobbed, "and scarcely tactful…"
   "Ha!" said Harold Underwood. "It is just as well that I have already begun divorce proceedings…"
   "Excellent!" cried Jherek.
   Another boom.
   "My machine!" exclaimed the time-traveller, and ran outside.
   "Take cover, men." Inspector Springer called. They all lay down.
   Bishop Castle was already in his air-car, surrounded by a cloud of dust. "Are you coming, Jherek?"
   "I think not. I hope you enjoy yourself, Bishop Castle."
   "I shall. I shall." The air-car began to rise, Charon's barge, into the upper atmosphere.
   Only Mr. and Mrs. Underwood and Jherek Carnelian remained standing, in the ruins of the palace. "Come," said Jherek to them both, "I think I know where we can find safety." He turned a power-ring. His old air-car, the locomotive, materialized. It was in gleaming red and black now, but lime-coloured smoke still puffed from its stack. "Forgive the lack of invention," he said to them, "but as we are in haste…"
   "You would save Harold, too?" she said, as Jherek helped her husband aboard.
   "Why not? You say you are concerned for him." He grinned cheerfully, while overhead a searing, scarlet bolt of pure energy went roaring by, "Besides, I wish to hear the details of this divorce he plans. Is that not the ceremony that must take place before we can be married?"
   She made no reply to this, as she joined him on the footplate. "Where are we going, Mr. Carnelian?"
   The locomotive began to puff skyward. "I'm full of old smokies," he sang, "I'm covered in dough. I've eaten blue plovers and I'm snorting up coke!" Mr. Underwood clutched the rail and stared down at the ruins they left behind. His knees were shaking. "It's a railroad song, from your own time," Jherek explained. "Would you like to be the fireman?"
   He offered Mr. Underwood the platinum shovel. Mr. Underwood accepted the shovel without a word and, mechanically, began to stoke coal into the fire-chamber.
   "Mr. Carnelian! Where are we going?"
   "To certain safety, dearest Amelia. To certain safety, I assure you."

15. In Which Jherek Carnelian and Mrs. Underwood find Sanctuary of Sorts, and Mr. Underwood Makes a New Friend

   "You are not disturbed, dearest Amelia, by this city?"
   "I find the place improbable. I failed to realize, listening only to talk of such settlements, how vast and how, well, how unlike cities they were!"
   Mr. Underwood stood some distance away, on the other side of the little plaza. Green globes of fuzzy light, about the size of tennis balls, ran up and down his outstretched arms; he watched them with childlike delight; behind him the air was black, purple, dark green shot with crimson, as chemicals expanded and contracted in a kind of simulation of breathing, giving off their vapours; bronze sparks showered nearby, pinkish energy arced from one tower to another; steel sang. The city murmured to itself, almost asleep, certainly drowsy. Even the narrow rivulets of mercury, criss-crossing the ground at their feet, seemed to be running slowly.
   "The cities protect themselves," Jherek explained. "I have seen it before. No weapon can operate within them, no weapon can harm them from without, because they can always command more energy than any weapon brought against them, you see. It was part of their original design."
   "This resembles a manufactory more than it does a township," she remarked.
   "It is actually," he told her, "more in the nature of a museum. There are several such cities on the planet; they contain what remains of our knowledge."
   "These fumes — are they not poisonous?"
   "Not to Man. They could not be."
   She accepted his assurance, but continued wary, as he led them from the plaza, through an arcade of lurid yellow and mauve metallic fronds, faintly reminiscent of those they had seen in the Palaeozoic; a strange greyish light fell through the fronds and distorted their shadows. Mr. Underwood wandered some distance behind them, softly singing.
   "We must consider," she whispered, "how Harold is to be saved."
   "Saved for what?"
   "From his insanity."
   "He seems happier in the city."
   "He believes himself in Hell, no doubt. Just as I once believed. Inspector Springer should never have brought him."
   "I am not altogether sure that the inspector is quite himself."
   "I agree, Mr. Carnelian. All this smacks of political panic at home. There is thought to be considerable interest in Spiritualism and Freemasonry among certain members of the Cabinet, at the present time. There is even some talk that the Prince of Wales…"
   She continued in this vein for a while, mystifying him entirely. Her information, he gathered, was gleaned from a broadsheet which Mr. Underwood had once acquired.
   The arcade gave way to a chasm running between high, featureless buildings, their walls covered with chemical stains and peculiar semi-biological growths, some of which palpitated; ahead of them was something globular, glowing and dark, which rolled away from them as they advanced and, as they reached the end of the chasm, vanished. Here the vista widened and they could see across a plain littered with half-rotted metal relics to where, in the distance, angry flames spread themselves against an invisible wall.
   "There!" he said. "That must be the Lat's weapons at work. The city throws up its defences. See, I told you that we should be safe, dear Amelia."
   She glanced over her shoulder to where her husband sat upon a structure that seemed part of stone and part of some kind of hardened resin. "I wish you would try to be more tactful, Mr. Carnelian. Remember that my husband is within earshot. Consider his feelings, if you will not consider mine!"
   "But he has relinquished you to me. He said as much. By your customs that is sufficient, is it not?"
   "He divorces me, that is all. I have a right to choose or reject any husband I please."
   "Of course. But you choose me. I know."
   "I have not told you that."
   "You have, Amelia. You forget. You have mentioned more than once that you love me."
   "That does not mean — would not mean — that I would necessarily marry you, Mr. Carnelian. There is still every chance that I may return to Bromley — or at least to my own time."
   "Where you will be an outcast. You said so."
   "In Bromley. Not everywhere." But she frowned. "I can imagine the scandal. The newspapers will have published something, to be sure. Oh, dear."
   "You seemed to be enjoying life at the End of Time."
   "Perhaps I would continue to do so, Mr. Carnelian, were I not haunted, very definitely, by the Past." Another glance over her shoulder. "How is one ever to relax?"
   "This is a fluke. It is the first time anything like it has ever occurred here."
   "Besides, I would remind you that, according to Bishop Castle (not to mention the evidence of our own eyes) your world is being destroyed about your ears."
   "For the moment, only. It can soon be replaced."
   "Lord Mongrove and Yusharisp would have us believe otherwise."
   "It is hard to take them seriously."
   "For you, perhaps. Not for me, Mr. Carnelian. What they say makes considerable sense."
   " Opportunities for redemption must therefore be few in such an ambience as you describe ," said quite another voice, a low, mellow, slightly sleepy voice.
   "There are none," said Mr. Underwood, "at least that I know of."
   " That is interesting. I seem to recall something of the theory, but most of the information I would require was stored elsewhere, in a sister city, whose co-ordinates I cannot quite recollect. I am of a mind to believe, however, that you are either a manifestation of this city's delusions (which proliferate notoriously, these days) or else that you are deluded yourself, a victim of too much morbid fascination with ancient mythologies. I could be mistaken — there was a time when I was infallible, I think. I am not sure that your description of this city tallies with the facts which remain at my command. You could argue, I know, that I myself am deluded as to the truth, yet my evidence would seem to tally with my instincts, whereas you, yourself, make intellectual rather than instinctive assumptions; that at least is what I gather from the illogicalities so far expressed in your analysis. You have contradicted yourself at least three times since you sat down on my shell ."
   It was the compound of rock and resin that spoke. "One form of memory bank," murmured Jherek. "There are so many kinds, not always immediately recognizable."
   " I think ," continued the bank, " that you are still confused and have not yet ordered your thoughts sufficiently to communicate properly with me. I assure you that I will function much more satisfactorily if you phrase your remarks better ."
   Mr. Underwood did not seem offended by this criticism. "I think you are right," he said. "I am confused. Well, I am mad, to be blunt."
   " Madness may only be the expression of ordinary emotional confusion. Fear of madness can cause, I believe, a retreat into the very madness one fears. This is only superficially a paradox. Madness may be said to be a tendency to simplify, into easily grasped metaphors, the nature of the world. In your own case, you have plainly been confounded by unexpected complexities, therefore you are inclined to retreat into simplification — this talk of Damnation and Hell, for instance — to create a world whose values are unambivalent, unequivocal. It is a pity that so few of my own ancestors survive for they, by their very nature, would have responded better to your views. On the other hand it may be that you are not content with this madness, that you would rather face the complexities, feel at ease with them. If so, I am sure that I can help, in a small way ."
   "You are very kind," said Mr. Underwood.
   " Nonsense. I am glad to be of service. I have had nothing to do for the best part of a million years. I was in danger of growing 'rusty'. Luckily, having no mechanical parts, I can remain dormant for a long time without any especially deleterious effects. Though, as part of a very complex system, there is much information I can no longer call upon ."
   "Then you are of the opinion that this is not the afterlife, that I am not here as punishment for my sins, that I shall not be here for eternity, that I am not, as it were, dead."
   " You are certainly not dead, for you can still converse, feel, think and experience physical needs and discomforts… "
   The bank had a penchant for abstract conversation which seemed to suit Mr. Underwood, though Jherek and Amelia became quickly bored listening to it. "It reminds me of an old schoolmaster I once had," she whispered, and she grinned. "It is just what Harold needs really, at present."