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"Until Mr. Harris has time to talk to a few people he knows and to take down our story," said Jherek, repeating what Mr. Harris had told them. "There is a great sense of safety about this apartment, Mrs. Underwood. Don't you feel it?"
"It has been designed to avoid ordinary public scrutiny," she said, and she sniffed again. Then she stared into one of the long gilt mirrors and tried, as she had tried before, to tidy her hair.
"Aren't you tired?" Jherek walked into the bedroom. "We could lie down. We could sleep."
"So we could," she said sharply. "I suspect that there is more lying down than standing up goes on here, as a rule. Art nouveau everywhere! Purple plumes and incense. This is where Mr. Harris entertains his actresses."
"Oh," said Jherek, having given up trying to understand her. He accepted, however, that there was something wrong with the rooms. He wished that Mrs. Underwood had been able to complete his moral education; if she had, he felt, he, too, might be able to enjoy sniffing and pursing his lips, for there was not much doubt that she was taking a certain pleasure in her activities: her cheeks were quite flushed, there was a light in her eyes. "Actresses?"
"So-called."
"There does not seem much in the way of food here," he told her, "but there are lots of bottles. Would you like something to drink?"
"No thank you, Mr. Carnelian. Unless there is some mineral water."
"You had better look for yourself, Mrs. Underwood. I don't know which is which."
Hesitantly, she entered the bedroom and surveyed the wide selection on a small sideboard set against the wall. "Mrs. Harris appears to have a distaste for Adam's Ale," she said. Her head lifted as there came a knocking upon the outer door. "Who could that be?"
"Mr. Harris returning earlier than expected?"
"Possibly. Open the door, Mr. Carnelian, but have a care. I do not entirely trust your journalist friend."
Jherek had some difficulty with the catch and the light knocking sounded again before he had the door open. When he saw who stood there, he grinned with relief and pleasure. "Oh, Jagged, dear Jagged! At last! It is you!"
The handsome man in the doorway removed his hat. "The name," he said, "is Jackson. I believe I saw you briefly last night at the Cafe Royale? You would be Mr. Carnelian."
"Come in, devious Jagged!"
With a slight bow to Mrs. Underwood, who stood now in the centre of the sitting room, Lord Jagged of Canaria entered. "You would be Mrs. Underwood? My name is Jackson. I work for the Saturday Review . Mr. Harris sent me to take some shorthand notes. He will join us later."
"You are the judge!" she exclaimed. "You are Lord Jagger, who sentenced Mr. Carnelian to death!"
The man who claimed to be Mr. Jackson raised his eyebrows as, with a delicate movement, he divested himself of his top-coat and laid it, together with his hat, gloves and stick, upon the table. "Mr. Harris warned me that you would still be a little agitated. It is understandable, madam, in the circumstances. I assure you that I am neither of the two men so far mentioned. I am merely Jackson — a journalist. My job is to put some basic questions to you. Mr. Harris sent his regards and said that he is doing everything in his power to contact someone in high places — who must for the moment be nameless — in the hope that they will be able to assist you."
"You bear a remarkable resemblance to the Lord Chief Justice," she said.
"So I have been told. But I am neither as eminent nor as talented as that gentleman to my regret."
Jherek was laughing. "Listen to him! Isn't he perfect!"
"Mr. Carnelian," she said, "I think you are making a mistake. You will embarrass Mr. Jackson."
"No, no!" Mr. Jackson dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his slender hand. "We journalists are pretty hardy fellows, you know."
Jherek shrugged. "If you are not Jagged — and Jagged was not Jagger — then I must assume there are a number of Jaggeds, each playing different roles, perhaps throughout history…"
Mr. Jackson smiled and produced a notebook and a pencil. "That's the stuff," he said. "We seem to have a rival to your friend Mr. Wells, eh, Mrs. Underwood?"
"Mr. Wells is not my friend," she said.
"You know him, however, don't you — Mr. Jackson?" asked Jherek.
"Only slightly. We've had the odd conversation in the past. I've read a good many of his books, however. If your story is up to The Wonderful Visit and can be presented in the right way, then our circulation's assured!" He settled himself comfortably in a deep armchair. Jherek and Mrs. Underwood sat on the edge of the ottoman opposite him. "Now, I gather you're claiming to be the Mayfair Killer returned from the dead…"
"Not at all!" exclaimed Mrs. Underwood. "Mr. Carnelian would not kill anyone."
"Unfairly accused, then? Returned to vindicate the claim? Oh, this is splendid stuff!"
"I haven't been dead," said Jherek. "Not recently at any rate. And I don't understand about the rest."
"You are on the wrong tack, I fear, Mr. Jackson," said Mrs. Underwood primly.
"Where have you been, then, Mr. Carnelian?"
"In my own time — in Jagged's time — in the distant future, of course. I am a time traveller, just as Mrs. Underwood is." He touched her hand, but she removed it quickly. "That is how we met."
"You honestly believe that you have travelled through time, Mr. Carnelian?"
"Of course. Oh, Jagged, is there any point to this? You've already played this game once before!"
Mr. Jackson turned his attention to Mrs. Underwood. "And you say that you visited the future? That you met Mr. Carnelian there? You fell in love?"
"Mr. Carnelian was kind to me. He rescued me from imprisonment."
"Aha! And you were able to do the same for him here?"
"No. I am still not sure how he escaped death on the gallows, but escape he did — went back to his own time — then returned. Was it only last night? To Bromley."
"Your husband then called the police."
"Inadvertently, the police must have been called, yes. My husband was overexcited. Have you heard how he is, by the way?"
"I have only read the papers. He is quoted, in the more sensational sheets, as claiming that you have been leading a double-life — by day a respectable, God-fearing Bromley housewife — by night, an accomplice of thieves — 'A Female Charlie Peace' I believe you were termed in today's Police Gazette ."
"Oh, no! Then my reputation is gone for good."
Mr. Jackson inspected the cuff of his shirt. "It would seem that it would take much, Mrs. Underwood, to restore it. You know how the odour of scandal clings, long after the scandal itself is proved unfounded."
She straightened her shoulders. "It remains my duty to try to convince Harold that I am not the wanton creature he now believes me to be. It will cause him much grief if he thinks that I have been deceiving him over a period of time. I can still attempt to put his mind at rest on the issue."
"Doubtless…" murmured Mr. Jackson, and his pencil moved rapidly across the page of his notebook. "Now, could we have a description of the future?" He returned his attention to Jherek. "An Anarchist Utopia, is it, perhaps? You are an anarchist, are you not, sir?"
"I don't know what one is," said Jherek.
"He certainly is not!" cried Mrs. Underwood. "A degree of anarchy might have resulted from his actions…"
"A Socialist Utopia, then?"
"I think I follow your meaning now, Mr. Jackson," said Mrs. Underwood. "You believe Mr. Carnelian to be some kind of mad political assassin, claiming to be from an ideal future in the hope of propagating his message?"
"Well, I wondered…"
"Was this idea original to you?"
"Mr. Harris suggested —"
"I suspected as much. He did not believe a word of our story!"
"He considered it a trifle over-coloured, Mrs. Underwood. Would you not think so, if you heard it, say, from my lips!"
"I wouldn't!" smiled Jherek. "Because I know who you are."
"Do be quiet, please, Mr. Carnelian," said Mrs. Underwood. "You are in danger of confusing matters again."
"You are beginning to confuse me , I fear," said Mr. Jackson equably.
"Then we are only reciprocating, joking Jagged, the confusion you have created in us!" Jherek Carnelian got up and strode across the room. "You know that the Morphail Effect is supposed to apply in all cases of time travel to the past, whether by travellers who are returning to their own time, or those merely visiting the past from some future age."
"I'm afraid that I have not heard of this 'Morphail Effect'? Some new theory?"
Ignoring him, Jherek continued. "I now suspect that the Morphail Effect only applies in the case of those who produce a sufficient number of paradoxes to 'register' as it were upon the fabric of Time. Those who are careful to disguise their origins, to do little to make use of any information they might have of the future, are allowed to exist in the past for as long as they wish!"
"I'm not sure I entirely follow you, Mr. Carnelian. However, please go on." Mr. Jackson continued to take notes.
"If you publish all this, Mr. Carnelian will be judged thoroughly mad," said Mrs. Underwood quietly.
"If you tell enough people what I have told you — it will send us off into the future again, probably." Jherek offered Mr. Jackson an intelligent stare. "Wouldn't it, Jagged?"
Mr. Jackson said apologetically. "I'm still not quite with you. However, just keep talking and I'll keep taking notes."
"I don't think I'll say anything for a while," said Jherek. "I must think this over."
"Mr. Jackson could help us, if he would accept the truth," said Mrs. Underwood. "But if he is of the same opinion as Mr. Harris…"
"I am a reporter," said Mr. Jackson. "I keep my theories to myself, Mrs. Underwood. All I wish to do is my job. If you had some proof, for instance…"
"Show him that odd-looking gun you have, Mr. Carnelian."
Jherek felt in the pocket of his coat and pulled the deceptor-gun out. "It's hardly proof," he said.
"It is certainly a very bizarre design," said Mr. Jackson, inspecting it.
He was holding it in his hands when there came a knocking on the door and a voice bellowed:
"Open this door! Open in the name of the Law!"
"The police!" Mrs. Underwood's hand went to her mouth. "Mr. Harris has betrayed us!"
The door shook as heavy bodies flung themselves against it.
Mr. Jackson got up slowly, handing back the gun to Jherek. "I think we had better let them in," he said.
"You knew they were coming!" cried Mrs. Underwood accusingly. "Oh, we have been deceived on all sides."
"I doubt if Mr. Harris knew. On the other hand, you were brought here in an ordinary cab. The police could have discovered the address from the cabby. It's rather typical of Frank Harris to forget, as it were, those all-important details."
Mr. Jackson called out: "Wait one moment, please. We are about to unlock the door!" He smiled encouragingly at Mrs. Underwood as he undid the catch and flung the door wide. "Good afternoon, inspector."
A man in a heavy ulster, with a small bowler hat fixed rigidly upon the top of his rocklike head, walked with massive bovine dignity into the room. He looked about him, he sniffed rather as Mrs. Underwood had sniffed; pointedly, he looked neither at Jherek Carnelian nor at Mrs. Underwood. Then he said:
"Herr-um!"
He wheeled, a cunning rhino, his finger jutting forward like a menacing horn, until it was quite close to Jherek's nose. "You 'im?"
"Who?"
"Mayfair Killer?"
"No." Jherek inched backwards.
"Thought not." He fingered a thoroughly well-waxed moustache. "I'm Inspector Springer." He brought bushy brows down over deep, brooding eyes. "Of Scotland Yard," he said. " Heard of me, 'ave you?"
"I'm afraid not," said Jherek.
"I deal with politicals, with aliens, with disruptive forrin' elements — an' I deal with 'em extremely firm ."
"So you believe it, too!" Mrs. Underwood rose. "You are mistaken in your suspicions, inspector."
"We'll see," said Inspector Springer cryptically. He raised a finger and cocked it, ordering four or five uniformed men into the room. "I know my anarchists, lady. All three of yer have that particular look abart yer. We're going' to do some very thorough checkin' indeed. Very thorough."
"You're on the wrong track, I think," said Mr. Jackson. "I'm a journalist. I was interviewing these people and…"
"So you say, sir. Wrong track, eh? Well, we'll soon get on the right one, never fear." He looked at the deceptor-gun and stretched out his hand to receive it. "Give me that there weapon," he said. "It don't look English ter me ."
"I think you'd better fire it, Jherek," said Mr. Jackson softly. "There doesn't seem to be a lot of choice."
"Fire it, Jagged?"
Mr. Jackson shrugged. "I think so."
Jherek pulled the trigger. "There's only about one charge left in it…"
The room in Bloomsbury Square was suddenly occupied by fifteen warriors of the late Cannibal Empire period. Their triangular faces were painted green, their bodies blue, and they were naked save for bangles and necklaces of small skulls and finger-bones. In their hands were long spears with barbed, rusted points, and spiked clubs. They were female. As they grinned, they revealed yellow, filed teeth.
"I knew you was ruddy anarchists!" said Inspector Springer triumphantly.
His men had fallen back to the door, but Inspector Springer held his ground. "Arrest them!" he ordered severely.
The green and blue lady warriors gibbered and seemed to advance upon him. They licked calloused lips.
"This way," whispered Mr. Jackson, leading Jherek and Mrs. Underwood into the bedroom. He opened a window and climbed out onto a small balcony. They joined him as he balanced for a moment on one balustrade and then jumped gracefully to the next. A flight of steps had been built up to this adjoining balcony and it was an easy matter to descend by means of the steps to the ground. Mr. Jackson strolled through a small yard and opened a gate in a wall which led into a secluded, leafy street.
"Jagged — it must be you. You knew what the deceptor-gun would do!"
"My dear fellow," said Mr. Jackson coolly, "I merely realized that you possessed a weapon and that it could be useful to us in our predicament."
"Where do we go now?" Mrs. Underwood asked in a small, pathetic voice.
"Oh, Jagged will help us get back to the future," Jherek told her confidently. "Won't you, Jagged?"
Mr. Jackson seemed faintly amused. "Even if I were this friend of yours, there would be no reason to assume, surely, that I can skip back and forth through time at will, any more than can you!"
"I had not considered that," said Jherek. "You are merely an experimenter, then? An experimenter little further advanced in your investigations than am I?"
Mr. Jackson said nothing.
"And are we part of that experiment, Lord Jagged?" Jherek continued. "Are my experiences proving of help to you?"
Mr. Jackson shrugged. "I could enjoy our conversations better," he said, "if we were in a more secure position. Now we are, all three, 'on the run.' I suggest we repair to my rooms in Soho and there review our situation. I will contact Mr. Harris and get fresh instructions. This, of course, will prove embarrassing for him, too!" He led the way through the back streets. It was evening and the sun was beginning to set.
Mrs. Underwood fell back a step or two, tugging at Jherek's sleeve. "I believe that we are being duped," she whispered. "For some reason, we are being used to further the ends of either Mr. Harris or Mr. Jackson or both. We might stand a better chance on our own, since obviously the police do not believe, any longer, that you are an escaped murderer."
"They believe me an anarchist, instead. Isn't that worse?"
"Luckily, not in the eyes of the Law."
"Then where can we go?"
"Do you know where this Mr. Wells lives?"
"Yes, the Cafe Royale. I saw him there."
"Then we must try to get back to the Cafe Royale. He does not live there, exactly, Mr. Carnelian — but we can hope that he spends a great deal of his time there."
"You must explain the difference to me," he said.
Ahead of them Mr. Jackson was hailing a cab, but when he turned to tell them to get in, they were already in another street and running as fast as their weary legs would carry them.
17. A Particularly Memorable Night at the Cafe Royale
18. To the Time Machine, At Last!
"It has been designed to avoid ordinary public scrutiny," she said, and she sniffed again. Then she stared into one of the long gilt mirrors and tried, as she had tried before, to tidy her hair.
"Aren't you tired?" Jherek walked into the bedroom. "We could lie down. We could sleep."
"So we could," she said sharply. "I suspect that there is more lying down than standing up goes on here, as a rule. Art nouveau everywhere! Purple plumes and incense. This is where Mr. Harris entertains his actresses."
"Oh," said Jherek, having given up trying to understand her. He accepted, however, that there was something wrong with the rooms. He wished that Mrs. Underwood had been able to complete his moral education; if she had, he felt, he, too, might be able to enjoy sniffing and pursing his lips, for there was not much doubt that she was taking a certain pleasure in her activities: her cheeks were quite flushed, there was a light in her eyes. "Actresses?"
"So-called."
"There does not seem much in the way of food here," he told her, "but there are lots of bottles. Would you like something to drink?"
"No thank you, Mr. Carnelian. Unless there is some mineral water."
"You had better look for yourself, Mrs. Underwood. I don't know which is which."
Hesitantly, she entered the bedroom and surveyed the wide selection on a small sideboard set against the wall. "Mrs. Harris appears to have a distaste for Adam's Ale," she said. Her head lifted as there came a knocking upon the outer door. "Who could that be?"
"Mr. Harris returning earlier than expected?"
"Possibly. Open the door, Mr. Carnelian, but have a care. I do not entirely trust your journalist friend."
Jherek had some difficulty with the catch and the light knocking sounded again before he had the door open. When he saw who stood there, he grinned with relief and pleasure. "Oh, Jagged, dear Jagged! At last! It is you!"
The handsome man in the doorway removed his hat. "The name," he said, "is Jackson. I believe I saw you briefly last night at the Cafe Royale? You would be Mr. Carnelian."
"Come in, devious Jagged!"
With a slight bow to Mrs. Underwood, who stood now in the centre of the sitting room, Lord Jagged of Canaria entered. "You would be Mrs. Underwood? My name is Jackson. I work for the Saturday Review . Mr. Harris sent me to take some shorthand notes. He will join us later."
"You are the judge!" she exclaimed. "You are Lord Jagger, who sentenced Mr. Carnelian to death!"
The man who claimed to be Mr. Jackson raised his eyebrows as, with a delicate movement, he divested himself of his top-coat and laid it, together with his hat, gloves and stick, upon the table. "Mr. Harris warned me that you would still be a little agitated. It is understandable, madam, in the circumstances. I assure you that I am neither of the two men so far mentioned. I am merely Jackson — a journalist. My job is to put some basic questions to you. Mr. Harris sent his regards and said that he is doing everything in his power to contact someone in high places — who must for the moment be nameless — in the hope that they will be able to assist you."
"You bear a remarkable resemblance to the Lord Chief Justice," she said.
"So I have been told. But I am neither as eminent nor as talented as that gentleman to my regret."
Jherek was laughing. "Listen to him! Isn't he perfect!"
"Mr. Carnelian," she said, "I think you are making a mistake. You will embarrass Mr. Jackson."
"No, no!" Mr. Jackson dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his slender hand. "We journalists are pretty hardy fellows, you know."
Jherek shrugged. "If you are not Jagged — and Jagged was not Jagger — then I must assume there are a number of Jaggeds, each playing different roles, perhaps throughout history…"
Mr. Jackson smiled and produced a notebook and a pencil. "That's the stuff," he said. "We seem to have a rival to your friend Mr. Wells, eh, Mrs. Underwood?"
"Mr. Wells is not my friend," she said.
"You know him, however, don't you — Mr. Jackson?" asked Jherek.
"Only slightly. We've had the odd conversation in the past. I've read a good many of his books, however. If your story is up to The Wonderful Visit and can be presented in the right way, then our circulation's assured!" He settled himself comfortably in a deep armchair. Jherek and Mrs. Underwood sat on the edge of the ottoman opposite him. "Now, I gather you're claiming to be the Mayfair Killer returned from the dead…"
"Not at all!" exclaimed Mrs. Underwood. "Mr. Carnelian would not kill anyone."
"Unfairly accused, then? Returned to vindicate the claim? Oh, this is splendid stuff!"
"I haven't been dead," said Jherek. "Not recently at any rate. And I don't understand about the rest."
"You are on the wrong tack, I fear, Mr. Jackson," said Mrs. Underwood primly.
"Where have you been, then, Mr. Carnelian?"
"In my own time — in Jagged's time — in the distant future, of course. I am a time traveller, just as Mrs. Underwood is." He touched her hand, but she removed it quickly. "That is how we met."
"You honestly believe that you have travelled through time, Mr. Carnelian?"
"Of course. Oh, Jagged, is there any point to this? You've already played this game once before!"
Mr. Jackson turned his attention to Mrs. Underwood. "And you say that you visited the future? That you met Mr. Carnelian there? You fell in love?"
"Mr. Carnelian was kind to me. He rescued me from imprisonment."
"Aha! And you were able to do the same for him here?"
"No. I am still not sure how he escaped death on the gallows, but escape he did — went back to his own time — then returned. Was it only last night? To Bromley."
"Your husband then called the police."
"Inadvertently, the police must have been called, yes. My husband was overexcited. Have you heard how he is, by the way?"
"I have only read the papers. He is quoted, in the more sensational sheets, as claiming that you have been leading a double-life — by day a respectable, God-fearing Bromley housewife — by night, an accomplice of thieves — 'A Female Charlie Peace' I believe you were termed in today's Police Gazette ."
"Oh, no! Then my reputation is gone for good."
Mr. Jackson inspected the cuff of his shirt. "It would seem that it would take much, Mrs. Underwood, to restore it. You know how the odour of scandal clings, long after the scandal itself is proved unfounded."
She straightened her shoulders. "It remains my duty to try to convince Harold that I am not the wanton creature he now believes me to be. It will cause him much grief if he thinks that I have been deceiving him over a period of time. I can still attempt to put his mind at rest on the issue."
"Doubtless…" murmured Mr. Jackson, and his pencil moved rapidly across the page of his notebook. "Now, could we have a description of the future?" He returned his attention to Jherek. "An Anarchist Utopia, is it, perhaps? You are an anarchist, are you not, sir?"
"I don't know what one is," said Jherek.
"He certainly is not!" cried Mrs. Underwood. "A degree of anarchy might have resulted from his actions…"
"A Socialist Utopia, then?"
"I think I follow your meaning now, Mr. Jackson," said Mrs. Underwood. "You believe Mr. Carnelian to be some kind of mad political assassin, claiming to be from an ideal future in the hope of propagating his message?"
"Well, I wondered…"
"Was this idea original to you?"
"Mr. Harris suggested —"
"I suspected as much. He did not believe a word of our story!"
"He considered it a trifle over-coloured, Mrs. Underwood. Would you not think so, if you heard it, say, from my lips!"
"I wouldn't!" smiled Jherek. "Because I know who you are."
"Do be quiet, please, Mr. Carnelian," said Mrs. Underwood. "You are in danger of confusing matters again."
"You are beginning to confuse me , I fear," said Mr. Jackson equably.
"Then we are only reciprocating, joking Jagged, the confusion you have created in us!" Jherek Carnelian got up and strode across the room. "You know that the Morphail Effect is supposed to apply in all cases of time travel to the past, whether by travellers who are returning to their own time, or those merely visiting the past from some future age."
"I'm afraid that I have not heard of this 'Morphail Effect'? Some new theory?"
Ignoring him, Jherek continued. "I now suspect that the Morphail Effect only applies in the case of those who produce a sufficient number of paradoxes to 'register' as it were upon the fabric of Time. Those who are careful to disguise their origins, to do little to make use of any information they might have of the future, are allowed to exist in the past for as long as they wish!"
"I'm not sure I entirely follow you, Mr. Carnelian. However, please go on." Mr. Jackson continued to take notes.
"If you publish all this, Mr. Carnelian will be judged thoroughly mad," said Mrs. Underwood quietly.
"If you tell enough people what I have told you — it will send us off into the future again, probably." Jherek offered Mr. Jackson an intelligent stare. "Wouldn't it, Jagged?"
Mr. Jackson said apologetically. "I'm still not quite with you. However, just keep talking and I'll keep taking notes."
"I don't think I'll say anything for a while," said Jherek. "I must think this over."
"Mr. Jackson could help us, if he would accept the truth," said Mrs. Underwood. "But if he is of the same opinion as Mr. Harris…"
"I am a reporter," said Mr. Jackson. "I keep my theories to myself, Mrs. Underwood. All I wish to do is my job. If you had some proof, for instance…"
"Show him that odd-looking gun you have, Mr. Carnelian."
Jherek felt in the pocket of his coat and pulled the deceptor-gun out. "It's hardly proof," he said.
"It is certainly a very bizarre design," said Mr. Jackson, inspecting it.
He was holding it in his hands when there came a knocking on the door and a voice bellowed:
"Open this door! Open in the name of the Law!"
"The police!" Mrs. Underwood's hand went to her mouth. "Mr. Harris has betrayed us!"
The door shook as heavy bodies flung themselves against it.
Mr. Jackson got up slowly, handing back the gun to Jherek. "I think we had better let them in," he said.
"You knew they were coming!" cried Mrs. Underwood accusingly. "Oh, we have been deceived on all sides."
"I doubt if Mr. Harris knew. On the other hand, you were brought here in an ordinary cab. The police could have discovered the address from the cabby. It's rather typical of Frank Harris to forget, as it were, those all-important details."
Mr. Jackson called out: "Wait one moment, please. We are about to unlock the door!" He smiled encouragingly at Mrs. Underwood as he undid the catch and flung the door wide. "Good afternoon, inspector."
A man in a heavy ulster, with a small bowler hat fixed rigidly upon the top of his rocklike head, walked with massive bovine dignity into the room. He looked about him, he sniffed rather as Mrs. Underwood had sniffed; pointedly, he looked neither at Jherek Carnelian nor at Mrs. Underwood. Then he said:
"Herr-um!"
He wheeled, a cunning rhino, his finger jutting forward like a menacing horn, until it was quite close to Jherek's nose. "You 'im?"
"Who?"
"Mayfair Killer?"
"No." Jherek inched backwards.
"Thought not." He fingered a thoroughly well-waxed moustache. "I'm Inspector Springer." He brought bushy brows down over deep, brooding eyes. "Of Scotland Yard," he said. " Heard of me, 'ave you?"
"I'm afraid not," said Jherek.
"I deal with politicals, with aliens, with disruptive forrin' elements — an' I deal with 'em extremely firm ."
"So you believe it, too!" Mrs. Underwood rose. "You are mistaken in your suspicions, inspector."
"We'll see," said Inspector Springer cryptically. He raised a finger and cocked it, ordering four or five uniformed men into the room. "I know my anarchists, lady. All three of yer have that particular look abart yer. We're going' to do some very thorough checkin' indeed. Very thorough."
"You're on the wrong track, I think," said Mr. Jackson. "I'm a journalist. I was interviewing these people and…"
"So you say, sir. Wrong track, eh? Well, we'll soon get on the right one, never fear." He looked at the deceptor-gun and stretched out his hand to receive it. "Give me that there weapon," he said. "It don't look English ter me ."
"I think you'd better fire it, Jherek," said Mr. Jackson softly. "There doesn't seem to be a lot of choice."
"Fire it, Jagged?"
Mr. Jackson shrugged. "I think so."
Jherek pulled the trigger. "There's only about one charge left in it…"
The room in Bloomsbury Square was suddenly occupied by fifteen warriors of the late Cannibal Empire period. Their triangular faces were painted green, their bodies blue, and they were naked save for bangles and necklaces of small skulls and finger-bones. In their hands were long spears with barbed, rusted points, and spiked clubs. They were female. As they grinned, they revealed yellow, filed teeth.
"I knew you was ruddy anarchists!" said Inspector Springer triumphantly.
His men had fallen back to the door, but Inspector Springer held his ground. "Arrest them!" he ordered severely.
The green and blue lady warriors gibbered and seemed to advance upon him. They licked calloused lips.
"This way," whispered Mr. Jackson, leading Jherek and Mrs. Underwood into the bedroom. He opened a window and climbed out onto a small balcony. They joined him as he balanced for a moment on one balustrade and then jumped gracefully to the next. A flight of steps had been built up to this adjoining balcony and it was an easy matter to descend by means of the steps to the ground. Mr. Jackson strolled through a small yard and opened a gate in a wall which led into a secluded, leafy street.
"Jagged — it must be you. You knew what the deceptor-gun would do!"
"My dear fellow," said Mr. Jackson coolly, "I merely realized that you possessed a weapon and that it could be useful to us in our predicament."
"Where do we go now?" Mrs. Underwood asked in a small, pathetic voice.
"Oh, Jagged will help us get back to the future," Jherek told her confidently. "Won't you, Jagged?"
Mr. Jackson seemed faintly amused. "Even if I were this friend of yours, there would be no reason to assume, surely, that I can skip back and forth through time at will, any more than can you!"
"I had not considered that," said Jherek. "You are merely an experimenter, then? An experimenter little further advanced in your investigations than am I?"
Mr. Jackson said nothing.
"And are we part of that experiment, Lord Jagged?" Jherek continued. "Are my experiences proving of help to you?"
Mr. Jackson shrugged. "I could enjoy our conversations better," he said, "if we were in a more secure position. Now we are, all three, 'on the run.' I suggest we repair to my rooms in Soho and there review our situation. I will contact Mr. Harris and get fresh instructions. This, of course, will prove embarrassing for him, too!" He led the way through the back streets. It was evening and the sun was beginning to set.
Mrs. Underwood fell back a step or two, tugging at Jherek's sleeve. "I believe that we are being duped," she whispered. "For some reason, we are being used to further the ends of either Mr. Harris or Mr. Jackson or both. We might stand a better chance on our own, since obviously the police do not believe, any longer, that you are an escaped murderer."
"They believe me an anarchist, instead. Isn't that worse?"
"Luckily, not in the eyes of the Law."
"Then where can we go?"
"Do you know where this Mr. Wells lives?"
"Yes, the Cafe Royale. I saw him there."
"Then we must try to get back to the Cafe Royale. He does not live there, exactly, Mr. Carnelian — but we can hope that he spends a great deal of his time there."
"You must explain the difference to me," he said.
Ahead of them Mr. Jackson was hailing a cab, but when he turned to tell them to get in, they were already in another street and running as fast as their weary legs would carry them.
17. A Particularly Memorable Night at the Cafe Royale
It was dark by the time Mrs. Underwood had managed to find her way to the Cafe Royale. They had kept to the back streets after she had, in a second-hand clothing shop near the British Museum, purchased a large, tattered shawl for herself and a moth-eaten raglan to cover Jherek's ruined suit. Now, she had assured him, they looked like any other couple belonging to the London poor. It was true that they no longer attracted any attention. It was not until they tried to go through the doors of the Cafe Royale that they found themselves once again in difficulties. As they entered a waiter came rushing up. He spoke in a quiet, urgent and commanding voice. "Shove off, the pair of yer! My word, I never thought I'd see the day beggars got so bloomin' bold!"
There were not many customers in the restaurant, but those who were there had begun to comment.
"Shove off, will yer!" said the waiter in a louder voice. "I'll git the peelers on yer…" He had gone quite red in the face.
Jherek Carnelian ignored him, for he had seen Frank Harris sitting at a small table in the company of a lady of exotic appearance. She wore a bright carmine dress, trimmed with black lace, a black mantilla, and had several silver combs in her raven hair. She was laughing in a rather high-pitched, artificial way at something Mr. Harris had just said.
"Mr. Harris!" called Jherek Carnelian.
"Mr. Harris !" Mrs. Underwood said fiercely. Undaunted by the agitated waiters, she began to stalk towards the table. "I should appreciate a word with you, sir!"
"Oh, my God!" Mr. Harris groaned. "I thought you were still … How? Oh, my God!"
The lady in carmine turned to see what was happening. Her lips matched her dress. In a rather frigid tone she said: "This lady is a friend of yours, Mr. Harris?"
He clutched for his companion's hand. "Donna Isobella, I assure you — two people I gave my protection to — um…"
"Your protection , Mr. Harris, seems worth very little." Mrs. Underwood looked Donna Isobella up and down. "Is this, then, the highly placed person with whom I understood you to be in conference?"
There came a chorus of complaints from other tables. The waiter seized Jherek Carnelian by the arm. Jherek, mildly surprised, stared down at him. "Yes?"
"You must leave, sir. I can see now that you are a gentleman — but you are improperly dressed…"
"It is all I have," said Jherek. "My power rings, you see, are useless here."
"I don't understand…"
Kindly, Jherek showed the waiter his remaining rings. "They all have slightly different functions. This one is chiefly used for biological restructuring. This one…"
"Oh, my God!" said Mr. Harris again.
A new voice interrupted. It was excited and loud. "There they are! I told you we should find them in this sinkhole of iniquity!"
Mr. Underwood did not appear to have slept for some time. He still wore the suit Jherek had seen him in the previous night. His hay-coloured hair was still in disarray. His pince-nez clung lopsidedly to his nose.
Behind Mr. Underwood stood Inspector Springer and his men. They looked a little dazed.
Several customers got up and called for their hats and coats. Only Mr. Harris and Donna Isobella remained seated. Mr. Harris had his head in his hands. Donna Isobella was staring brightly around her smiling at everyone now. Silver flashed; carmine rustled. She seemed pleased by the interruption.
"Seize them!" demanded Mr. Underwood.
"Harold," began Mrs. Underwood, "there has been a terrible mistake! I am not the woman you believe me to be!"
"To be sure, madam! To be sure!"
"I mean that I am innocent of the sins with which you charge me, my dear!"
"Ha!"
Inspector Springer and his men began to weave their way somewhat warily towards the small group on the far side of the restaurant, while Harold Underwood brought up the rear.
Mr. Harris was trying to recover his position with Donna Isobella. "My connection with these people is only of the most slender, Donna Isobella."
"No matter how slender, I wish to meet them," she said. "Introduce us, please, Frank!"
It was when the Lat brigand-musicians materialized that many of the waiters left with the few customers who had remained.
Captain Mubbers, his instrument at the ready, stared distractedly around him. The pupils of his single eye began slowly to focus. "Ferkit!" he growled belligerently, at no one in particular. "Kroofrudi!"
Inspector Springer paused in his stride and stared thoughtfully down at the seven small aliens. With the air of a man who is on the brink of discovering a profound truth, he murmured: "Ho!"
"Smakfrub, glex mibix cue?" said one of Captain Mubbers' crewmembers. And with his instrument he feinted at Inspector Springer's legs. Evidently they had the same problem, in that their weapons could not work at this distance from their power source, or else the charges had run out.
The Lat's three pupils crossed alarmingly and then fell apart. He mumbled to himself, turning his back on Inspector Springer. His ears shrugged.
"The rest of your anarchist gang, eh?" said Inspector Springer. "And even more desperate-looking than the last lot. What's the lingo? Some kind a' Roossian, is it?"
"They are the Lat," said Jherek. "They must have got caught in the field Nurse set up. Now we do have a paradox. They're space-travellers," he explained to Mrs. Underwood, "from my own time…"
"Any of you speak English?" enquired Inspector Springer of Captain Mubbers.
"Hawtyard!" Captain Mubbers growled.
" 'Ere, I say, steady on!" expostulated Inspector Springer. "Ladies," he said, "at least of sorts, are in the company."
One of his men, indicating the striped flannel suits which each of the Lat wore, suggested that they might have escaped from prison — for all that the suits resembled pyjamas.
"Those are not their normal clothes," said Jherek. "Nurse put them into those when…"
"Nobody arsked you, sir, if you don't mind," said Inspector Springer haughtily. "We'll take your statement in a moment."
"Those are the ones you must arrest, officer!" insisted Harold Underwood, still shaking with rage. He indicated his wife and Jherek.
"It's astonishing," said Mrs. Underwood half to herself, "how you can live with someone for such a long time without realizing the heights of passion to which they are capable of rising."
Inspector Springer reached towards Captain Mubbers. The Lat's bulbous nose seemed to pulse with rage. Captain Mubbers looked up at Inspector Springer and glared. The policeman tried to lay his hand on Captain Mubber's shoulder. Then he withdrew the hand sharply.
"Eouw!" he exclaimed, nursing the injured limb. "Little beggar bit me!" He turned in desperation to Jherek. "Can you talk their lingo?"
"I'm afraid not," said Jherek. "Translation pills are only good for one language at a time and currently I am talking and hearing yours…"
Inspector Springer appeared to dismiss Jherek from his mind for the moment. "The others just vanished," he said, aggrievedly, convinced that someone had deliberately deceived him.
" They were illusions," Jherek told him. " These are real — space-travellers…"
Again Inspector Springer made a movement towards Captain Mubbers. "Jillip goff!" Captain Mubbers demanded. And he kicked Inspector Springer sharply in the shins with one of his hoof-like feet.
"Eouw!" said Inspector Springer again. "All right! Yer arsked fer it!" And his expression became ugly.
Captain Mubbers pushed aside a table. Silverware clattered to the floor. Two of his crew, their attention drawn to the knives and forks, fell upon their knees and began to gather the implements up, chattering excitedly as if they had just discovered buried treasure.
"Leave that cutlery alone!" bellowed Inspector Springer. "All right, men! Charge 'em!"
To a man, the constables produced their truncheons, and were upon the Lat, who fought back with the tableware as well as their powerless instrument-weapons.
Mr. Jackson came strolling in. There were now no waiters to be seen. He hung up his own hat and coat, taking only a mild interest in the melee at the centre of the restaurant, and crossed to where Frank Harris sat moaning softly to himself, Donna Isobella sat clapping her hands and giggling, and Jherek Carnelian and Mrs. Underwood stood wondering what to do. Harold Underwood was waving his fists, leaping around the periphery of the fight shouting at Inspector Springer to do his duty (he did not seem to believe that the inspector's duty had much to do with arresting three-foot-high brigand-musicians from a distant galaxy).
"Good evening to you," said Mr. Jackson affably. He opened a slender gold case and extracted an Egyptian cigarette. Inserting it into a holder, he lit it with a match and, leaning against a pillar, proceeded to watch the fight. "I thought I'd find you here," he added.
Jherek was quite enjoying himself. "And I might have guessed that you would come, Jagged. Who would want to miss this?"
It seemed that none of his friends wished to do so, for now, their costumes blazing and putting to shame the opulence of the Cafe Royale, the Iron Orchid, the Duke of Queens, Bishop Castle and My Lady Charlotina appeared.
The Iron Orchid, in particular, was delighted to see her son, but when she spoke he discovered that he could not understand her. Feeling in his pockets, he produced the rest of his translation pills and handed them to the four newcomers. They were quick to realize the situation and each swallowed a pill.
"I thought at first it was another illusion from your deceptor-gun," the Iron Orchid told him, "but actually we are back in the Dawn Age, are we not, with you?"
"You are, indeed, tenderest of blooms. You see, I am reunited with Mrs. Underwood."
"Good evening," said Mrs. Underwood to Jherek's mother in a tone which might have contained a hint of coolness.
"Good evening, my dear. Your costume is beautiful. It is contemporary, I suppose?" The Iron Orchid turned in a swirl of fiery drapery. "And Jagged is here, too! Greetings to you, languid Lord of Canaria!"
Mr. Jackson smiled faintly in acknowledgement.
Bishop Castle gathered his blue gown about him and sat down next to Mr. Harris and Donna Isobella. "I am glad to be out of that wood, at any rate," he said. "Are you residents of this age, or visitors like myself?"
Donna Isobella beamed at him. "I am from Spain," she said. "I dance. Exotically, you know."
"How delightful. Are the Lat causing you much trouble?"
"The little beast-men? Oh, no. They and the police are entertaining themselves quite cheerfully, I think."
With a shaking hand, Mr. Harris poured himself a large glass of champagne. He did not offer any to the others. He drank rapidly.
My Lady Charlotina kissed Mrs. Underwood upon the cheek. "Oh, you can scarcely know the excitement you have caused us all, pretty ancestress. But your own age seems not without its diversions!" She went to join Bishop Castle at the table.
The Duke of Queens was exclaiming with great pleasure about the plush and gilt decor of the restaurant. "I am determined to make one," he announced. "What did you say it was called, Jherek?"
"The Cafe Royale."
"It shall flourish again, five times the size, at the End of Time!" proclaimed the Duke.
From the middle of the room came muffled cries of "Ferkit!" and "Eouw!" Neither Inspector Springer's team, nor Captain Mubbers', seemed to be getting the upper hand. More tables were turned over.
The Duke of Queens took careful note of the police uniforms. "Does this happen every evening? Presumably the Lat are a new addition to the programme?"
"I think the best they've done in the past are drunken revels of the conventional sort," said Mr. Jackson. "Though they are not so very different in essence, I suppose."
"The Cafe is well known," Donna Isobella was explaining to an intensely interested Bishop Castle, "for its Bohemian clientele. It is rather less formal than most restaurants of its class."
There came a queer whizzing noise now and a flash of light which blinded them all, then Brannart Morphail was hanging near the ceiling in a harness of pulsing yellow, with what appeared to be two rapidly spinning discs upon his back, threatening to collide with a large crystal chandelier. His medical boot waved back and forth in an agitated way as he slapped at part of the harness near his shoulder, evidently finding difficulty in controlling the machine.
"I warned you! I warned you!" he cried from on high. His voice was crackling, improperly modulated, as if he were using an inferior translator. It rose and fell. "All this manipulation of time is creating havoc! No good will come of it! Beware! Beware!"
Even the police and the Lat paused in their battle to stare up at the apparition.
Brannart Morphail, with a yell, began to float upon his back, his arms waving, his feet kicking. "It's the damned spacial co-ordinates every time!" he complained. He slapped the harness again and flipped over so that he was staring down at them, floating on his stomach. From the discs, the loud whizzing noise grew higher and more erratic. "Only machine I could get working to come here. Some stupid 95th-century idea of economy! Argh!" And he was on his back again.
Mr. Underwood had become very suddenly calm. He stood regarding Brannart Morphail through his pince-nez, his face very white, his body rigid. Occasionally his lips moved.
"It's all your doing. Jherek Carnelian!" One of the discs stopped working altogether and Brannart Morphail began to drift lopsidedly across the ceiling, banging against the chandeliers and making them ring. "You can't make these uncontrolled jaunts here and there through time without causing the most appalling eddies in the megaflow! Look what's happened now. I came to stop you, to warn you — aaah!" The scientist kicked savagely, trying to extricate himself from a velvet pelmet near the window.
In a low, unsteady voice, Mr. Harris was talking to My Lady Charlotina who was stroking his head. "All my life," he was saying, "I've been accused of telling tall stories. Who's going to believe this one?"
"Brannart's right, of course," said Mr. Jackson, still leaning comfortably against the pillar. "I wonder if the risks will be worth it?"
"Risks?" said Jherek, watching as Mrs. Underwood went towards her husband.
"I can't understand why the Effect has not begun to take place!" complained Brannart Morphail, floating freely again, but still unable to get the second disc working. He noticed Mr. Jackson for the first time. "What's your part in this, Lord Jagged? Something whimsical and cunning, no doubt."
"My dear Brannart, I assure you…"
"Bah! Oof!" The disc began to whirl and the scientist was wrenched upwards and to one side. "Neither Jherek nor that woman should still be here — nor should you, Jagged! Go against the Logic of Time and you bring doom to all!"
"Doom…" murmured Mr. Underwood, unaware that his wife had reached him and was shaking his shoulder.
"Harold! Speak to me!"
He turned his head and he was smiling gently. "Doom," he said again. "I should have realized. It is the Apocalypse. Do not worry, my dear, for we shall be saved." He patted her hand. She burst into tears.
Mr. Jackson approached Jherek who was watching this scene with anxious interest. "I think, perhaps, it would be wise to leave now," said Mr. Jackson.
"Not without Mrs. Underwood," said Jherek firmly.
Mr. Jackson sighed and shrugged. "Of course not. Anyway, it is important that you remain together. You are so rare…"
"Rare?"
"A figure of speech."
Mr. Underwood began to sing, oblivious of his wife's tears. He sang in a surprisingly rich tenor voice. "Jesu, lover of my soul./ Let me to thy bosom fly./ While the nearer waters roll,/ While the tempest still is high;/ Hide me, O my Savior, hide,/ Till the storm of life is past;/ Safe into the haven guide/ O receive my soul at last."
"How lovely!" cried the Iron Orchid. "A primitive ritual, such as the rotted cities recall!"
"I suspect is it more of a sorcerous summoning," said Bishop Castle, who took a special interest in such ancient customs. "We might even say some sort of holey ghost." He explained kindly to a rapt Donna Isobella: "So-called because they could be seen only imperfectly. They were partly transparent, you know."
"Aren't we all on such occasions?" said Donna Isobella. She smiled winningly at Bishop Castle who leaned over and kissed her on the lips.
"Beware!" groaned Brannart Morphail, but they had all lost interest in him. The Lat and the constables had resumed their fight.
"I must say I like your little century," said the Duke of Queens to Jherek Carnelian. "I can see why you come here."
Jherek was flattered, in spite of his usual scepticism concerning the Duke's taste. "Thank you, darling Duke. I didn't make it, of course."
"You discovered it, however. I should like to come again. Is it all like this?"
"Oh, no, there's a great deal of variety." He spoke a little vaguely, his eyes on Mr. and Mrs. Underwood. Mrs. Underwood, still weeping, held her husband's hand and joined in the song. "Cover my defenceless head/ With the shadow of thy wing." Her descant was a perfect counter-part to his tenor. Jherek found himself oddly moved. He frowned. "There's leaves, and horses, and sewage farms."
"How do they grow sewage?"
"It's too complicated to explain." Jherek was reluctant to admit his ignorance, particularly to his old rival.
"Perhaps, if you have a moment, you could take me on a short tour of the main features?" suggested the Duke of Queens hesitantly. "I would be extremely grateful, Jherek." He spoke in his most ingratiating voice and Jherek realized that, at long last, the Duke of Queens was acknowledging his superior taste. He smiled condescendingly at the Duke. "Of course," he said, "when I have a moment."
Mr. Harris had fallen head down onto the tablecloth. He had begun to snore rather violently.
Jherek took a step or two towards Mrs. Underwood, but then thought better of it. He did not know why he hesitated. Bishop Castle looked up. "Join us, jaunty Jherek, please. After all, you are our host!"
"Not exactly," said Jherek, but he seated himself on the other side of Donna Isobella.
The Lat had been driven into the far corner of the Cafe Royale, but they were putting up a spirited resistance. Not a policeman taking part in the fray was short of at least one bitten hand and bruised shin.
Jherek found himself unable to pay any attention at all to the conversation at the table. He wondered why Mrs. Underwood wept so copiously as she sang. Mr. Underwood's face, in contrast, was full of joy.
Donna Isobella moved a fraction closer to Jherek and he caught the mingled scents of violets and Egyptian cigarettes. Bishop Castle had begun to kiss her hand, the nails of which were painted to match her dress.
The whizzing noise from overhead grew louder again and Brannart Morphail drifted in, chest once more towards the floor. "Get back to your own times, while you may!" he called. "You will be stranded — marooned — abandoned! Take heed! Take hee-ee-eeeed!" And he vanished. Jherek, for one, was glad to see him go.
Donna Isobella flung back her head and flashed a bright smile at Jherek, apparently replying to something Bishop Castle had said, but addressing Jherek. "Love love, my love," she announced, "but never commit the error of loving a person. The abstraction offers all the pleasure and nothing whatsoever of the pain. Being in love is so much preferable to loving someone ."
Jherek smiled. "You sound a bit like Lord Jagged over there. But I'm afraid I am already trapped."
"Besides," said Bishop Castle, insistently keeping his hold of the lady's hand, "who is to say which is sweeter — melancholia or mindless ecstasy?"
They both looked at him in mild astonishment.
"I have my own preferences," she said, "I know ." She returned her full attention to Jherek, saying huskily: "But there — you are so much younger than I."
"Is that so?" Jherek became interested. He had understood that, through no choice of their own, these people had extremely short life-spans. "Well, then, you must be at least five hundred years old."
Donna Isobella's eyes blazed. Her lip curled. She made to speak and then changed her mind. She turned her back on him. She laughed rather harshly at something Bishop Castle murmured.
He noticed, on the far side of the room, a shadowy figure whom he did not recognize. It was clad in some kind of armour, and stared about in consternation.
Lord Jagged had noticed it, too. He drew his fine brows together and puffed thoughtfully on his cigarette.
The figure disappeared almost immediately.
"Who was that, Jagged?" enquired Jherek.
"A warrior from a period six or seven centuries before this one," said Mr. Jackson. "I can't be mistaken. And look!"
A small child, the outline of her body flickering a little, stared about her in wonderment, but was there for only a matter of seconds before she had vanished.
"Seventeenth century," said Jagged. "I am beginning to take Brannart's warnings seriously. The whole fabric of Time is in danger of diffusing completely. I should have been more careful. Ah, well…"
"You seem concerned, Jagged."
"I have reason to be," said Lord Jagged. "You had better collect Mrs. Underwood immediately."
"She is singing, at present, with Mr. Underwood."
"So I see."
There came a chorus of whistlings from the street and into the restaurant burst a score of uniformed policemen, their truncheons drawn. The leader presented himself to Inspector Springer and saluted. "Sergeant Sherwood, sir."
"In the nick of time, sergeant." Inspector Springer rearranged his ulster and placed his battered bowler hard upon his head. "We're cleaning up a den of forrin' anarchists 'ere, as you can observe. Are the vans outside?"
"Plenty of vans for this little lot, inspector." Sergeant Sherwood cast a loathing eye upon the assembled company. "I allus knew wot they said abart this place was true!"
"An' worse. I mean, look at 'em." Inspector Springer indicated the Lat who had given up the fight and were sitting sulkily in a corner, nursing their bruises. "You'd 'ardly believe they was yuman, would yer?"
"Ugly customers, right enough. Not English, o' course."
"Nar! Latvians. Typical Eastern European political troublemakers. They breed 'em like that over there."
"Wot? special?"
"It's somefin' to do with the diet," said Inspector Springer. "Curds an' so forth."
"Oo-er. I wouldn't 'ave your job, inspector, for a million quid."
"It can be nasty," agreed Inspector Springer. "Right. Let's get 'em all rounded up."
"The — um — painted women, too?"
"By all means, sergeant. Every one of 'em. We'll sort out 'oo's 'oo at the Yard."
Mr. Jackson had been listening to this conversation and now he turned to Jherek with a shrug. "I fear there is little we can do for the moment," he said philosophically. "We are all about to be carried off to prison."
"Oh, really?" Jherek cheered up.
"It will be nice to be a prisoner again," he said nostalgically. He identified gaol with one of his happiest moments, when Mr. Griffiths, the lawyer, had read to him Mrs. Amelia Underwood's declaration of her love. "Perhaps they'll be able to furnish us with a time machine, too."
Lord Jagged did not seem quite as cheerful as Jherek. "We shall be needing one very much," he said, "if our problems are not to be further complicated. In more ways than one, I would say, time is running out."
There was a sudden click and Jherek Carnelian looked down at his wrists. A newly arrived constable had snapped a pair of handcuffs on them. " 'Ope you like the bracelets, sir," said the constable with a sardonic grin.
Jherek laughed and held them up. "Oh, they're beautiful!" he said.
In a general babble of excited merriment, the party filed out of the Cafe Royale and into the waiting police vans. Only Mr. Harris was left behind. His snores had taken on a puzzled, melancholy note.
The Iron Orchid giggled. "I suppose this happens to you all the time," she said to Donna Isobella, whose lips seemed a little set. "It's a rare treat for me, however."
Mr. Underwood beamed at the policemen as Mrs. Underwood led him through the doors.
"Be of good cheer," he told Inspector Springer, "for the Lord is with us."
Inspector Springer shook his head and sighed. "Speak for yourself," he said. He was not looking forward to the night ahead.
There were not many customers in the restaurant, but those who were there had begun to comment.
"Shove off, will yer!" said the waiter in a louder voice. "I'll git the peelers on yer…" He had gone quite red in the face.
Jherek Carnelian ignored him, for he had seen Frank Harris sitting at a small table in the company of a lady of exotic appearance. She wore a bright carmine dress, trimmed with black lace, a black mantilla, and had several silver combs in her raven hair. She was laughing in a rather high-pitched, artificial way at something Mr. Harris had just said.
"Mr. Harris!" called Jherek Carnelian.
"Mr. Harris !" Mrs. Underwood said fiercely. Undaunted by the agitated waiters, she began to stalk towards the table. "I should appreciate a word with you, sir!"
"Oh, my God!" Mr. Harris groaned. "I thought you were still … How? Oh, my God!"
The lady in carmine turned to see what was happening. Her lips matched her dress. In a rather frigid tone she said: "This lady is a friend of yours, Mr. Harris?"
He clutched for his companion's hand. "Donna Isobella, I assure you — two people I gave my protection to — um…"
"Your protection , Mr. Harris, seems worth very little." Mrs. Underwood looked Donna Isobella up and down. "Is this, then, the highly placed person with whom I understood you to be in conference?"
There came a chorus of complaints from other tables. The waiter seized Jherek Carnelian by the arm. Jherek, mildly surprised, stared down at him. "Yes?"
"You must leave, sir. I can see now that you are a gentleman — but you are improperly dressed…"
"It is all I have," said Jherek. "My power rings, you see, are useless here."
"I don't understand…"
Kindly, Jherek showed the waiter his remaining rings. "They all have slightly different functions. This one is chiefly used for biological restructuring. This one…"
"Oh, my God!" said Mr. Harris again.
A new voice interrupted. It was excited and loud. "There they are! I told you we should find them in this sinkhole of iniquity!"
Mr. Underwood did not appear to have slept for some time. He still wore the suit Jherek had seen him in the previous night. His hay-coloured hair was still in disarray. His pince-nez clung lopsidedly to his nose.
Behind Mr. Underwood stood Inspector Springer and his men. They looked a little dazed.
Several customers got up and called for their hats and coats. Only Mr. Harris and Donna Isobella remained seated. Mr. Harris had his head in his hands. Donna Isobella was staring brightly around her smiling at everyone now. Silver flashed; carmine rustled. She seemed pleased by the interruption.
"Seize them!" demanded Mr. Underwood.
"Harold," began Mrs. Underwood, "there has been a terrible mistake! I am not the woman you believe me to be!"
"To be sure, madam! To be sure!"
"I mean that I am innocent of the sins with which you charge me, my dear!"
"Ha!"
Inspector Springer and his men began to weave their way somewhat warily towards the small group on the far side of the restaurant, while Harold Underwood brought up the rear.
Mr. Harris was trying to recover his position with Donna Isobella. "My connection with these people is only of the most slender, Donna Isobella."
"No matter how slender, I wish to meet them," she said. "Introduce us, please, Frank!"
It was when the Lat brigand-musicians materialized that many of the waiters left with the few customers who had remained.
Captain Mubbers, his instrument at the ready, stared distractedly around him. The pupils of his single eye began slowly to focus. "Ferkit!" he growled belligerently, at no one in particular. "Kroofrudi!"
Inspector Springer paused in his stride and stared thoughtfully down at the seven small aliens. With the air of a man who is on the brink of discovering a profound truth, he murmured: "Ho!"
"Smakfrub, glex mibix cue?" said one of Captain Mubbers' crewmembers. And with his instrument he feinted at Inspector Springer's legs. Evidently they had the same problem, in that their weapons could not work at this distance from their power source, or else the charges had run out.
The Lat's three pupils crossed alarmingly and then fell apart. He mumbled to himself, turning his back on Inspector Springer. His ears shrugged.
"The rest of your anarchist gang, eh?" said Inspector Springer. "And even more desperate-looking than the last lot. What's the lingo? Some kind a' Roossian, is it?"
"They are the Lat," said Jherek. "They must have got caught in the field Nurse set up. Now we do have a paradox. They're space-travellers," he explained to Mrs. Underwood, "from my own time…"
"Any of you speak English?" enquired Inspector Springer of Captain Mubbers.
"Hawtyard!" Captain Mubbers growled.
" 'Ere, I say, steady on!" expostulated Inspector Springer. "Ladies," he said, "at least of sorts, are in the company."
One of his men, indicating the striped flannel suits which each of the Lat wore, suggested that they might have escaped from prison — for all that the suits resembled pyjamas.
"Those are not their normal clothes," said Jherek. "Nurse put them into those when…"
"Nobody arsked you, sir, if you don't mind," said Inspector Springer haughtily. "We'll take your statement in a moment."
"Those are the ones you must arrest, officer!" insisted Harold Underwood, still shaking with rage. He indicated his wife and Jherek.
"It's astonishing," said Mrs. Underwood half to herself, "how you can live with someone for such a long time without realizing the heights of passion to which they are capable of rising."
Inspector Springer reached towards Captain Mubbers. The Lat's bulbous nose seemed to pulse with rage. Captain Mubbers looked up at Inspector Springer and glared. The policeman tried to lay his hand on Captain Mubber's shoulder. Then he withdrew the hand sharply.
"Eouw!" he exclaimed, nursing the injured limb. "Little beggar bit me!" He turned in desperation to Jherek. "Can you talk their lingo?"
"I'm afraid not," said Jherek. "Translation pills are only good for one language at a time and currently I am talking and hearing yours…"
Inspector Springer appeared to dismiss Jherek from his mind for the moment. "The others just vanished," he said, aggrievedly, convinced that someone had deliberately deceived him.
" They were illusions," Jherek told him. " These are real — space-travellers…"
Again Inspector Springer made a movement towards Captain Mubbers. "Jillip goff!" Captain Mubbers demanded. And he kicked Inspector Springer sharply in the shins with one of his hoof-like feet.
"Eouw!" said Inspector Springer again. "All right! Yer arsked fer it!" And his expression became ugly.
Captain Mubbers pushed aside a table. Silverware clattered to the floor. Two of his crew, their attention drawn to the knives and forks, fell upon their knees and began to gather the implements up, chattering excitedly as if they had just discovered buried treasure.
"Leave that cutlery alone!" bellowed Inspector Springer. "All right, men! Charge 'em!"
To a man, the constables produced their truncheons, and were upon the Lat, who fought back with the tableware as well as their powerless instrument-weapons.
Mr. Jackson came strolling in. There were now no waiters to be seen. He hung up his own hat and coat, taking only a mild interest in the melee at the centre of the restaurant, and crossed to where Frank Harris sat moaning softly to himself, Donna Isobella sat clapping her hands and giggling, and Jherek Carnelian and Mrs. Underwood stood wondering what to do. Harold Underwood was waving his fists, leaping around the periphery of the fight shouting at Inspector Springer to do his duty (he did not seem to believe that the inspector's duty had much to do with arresting three-foot-high brigand-musicians from a distant galaxy).
"Good evening to you," said Mr. Jackson affably. He opened a slender gold case and extracted an Egyptian cigarette. Inserting it into a holder, he lit it with a match and, leaning against a pillar, proceeded to watch the fight. "I thought I'd find you here," he added.
Jherek was quite enjoying himself. "And I might have guessed that you would come, Jagged. Who would want to miss this?"
It seemed that none of his friends wished to do so, for now, their costumes blazing and putting to shame the opulence of the Cafe Royale, the Iron Orchid, the Duke of Queens, Bishop Castle and My Lady Charlotina appeared.
The Iron Orchid, in particular, was delighted to see her son, but when she spoke he discovered that he could not understand her. Feeling in his pockets, he produced the rest of his translation pills and handed them to the four newcomers. They were quick to realize the situation and each swallowed a pill.
"I thought at first it was another illusion from your deceptor-gun," the Iron Orchid told him, "but actually we are back in the Dawn Age, are we not, with you?"
"You are, indeed, tenderest of blooms. You see, I am reunited with Mrs. Underwood."
"Good evening," said Mrs. Underwood to Jherek's mother in a tone which might have contained a hint of coolness.
"Good evening, my dear. Your costume is beautiful. It is contemporary, I suppose?" The Iron Orchid turned in a swirl of fiery drapery. "And Jagged is here, too! Greetings to you, languid Lord of Canaria!"
Mr. Jackson smiled faintly in acknowledgement.
Bishop Castle gathered his blue gown about him and sat down next to Mr. Harris and Donna Isobella. "I am glad to be out of that wood, at any rate," he said. "Are you residents of this age, or visitors like myself?"
Donna Isobella beamed at him. "I am from Spain," she said. "I dance. Exotically, you know."
"How delightful. Are the Lat causing you much trouble?"
"The little beast-men? Oh, no. They and the police are entertaining themselves quite cheerfully, I think."
With a shaking hand, Mr. Harris poured himself a large glass of champagne. He did not offer any to the others. He drank rapidly.
My Lady Charlotina kissed Mrs. Underwood upon the cheek. "Oh, you can scarcely know the excitement you have caused us all, pretty ancestress. But your own age seems not without its diversions!" She went to join Bishop Castle at the table.
The Duke of Queens was exclaiming with great pleasure about the plush and gilt decor of the restaurant. "I am determined to make one," he announced. "What did you say it was called, Jherek?"
"The Cafe Royale."
"It shall flourish again, five times the size, at the End of Time!" proclaimed the Duke.
From the middle of the room came muffled cries of "Ferkit!" and "Eouw!" Neither Inspector Springer's team, nor Captain Mubbers', seemed to be getting the upper hand. More tables were turned over.
The Duke of Queens took careful note of the police uniforms. "Does this happen every evening? Presumably the Lat are a new addition to the programme?"
"I think the best they've done in the past are drunken revels of the conventional sort," said Mr. Jackson. "Though they are not so very different in essence, I suppose."
"The Cafe is well known," Donna Isobella was explaining to an intensely interested Bishop Castle, "for its Bohemian clientele. It is rather less formal than most restaurants of its class."
There came a queer whizzing noise now and a flash of light which blinded them all, then Brannart Morphail was hanging near the ceiling in a harness of pulsing yellow, with what appeared to be two rapidly spinning discs upon his back, threatening to collide with a large crystal chandelier. His medical boot waved back and forth in an agitated way as he slapped at part of the harness near his shoulder, evidently finding difficulty in controlling the machine.
"I warned you! I warned you!" he cried from on high. His voice was crackling, improperly modulated, as if he were using an inferior translator. It rose and fell. "All this manipulation of time is creating havoc! No good will come of it! Beware! Beware!"
Even the police and the Lat paused in their battle to stare up at the apparition.
Brannart Morphail, with a yell, began to float upon his back, his arms waving, his feet kicking. "It's the damned spacial co-ordinates every time!" he complained. He slapped the harness again and flipped over so that he was staring down at them, floating on his stomach. From the discs, the loud whizzing noise grew higher and more erratic. "Only machine I could get working to come here. Some stupid 95th-century idea of economy! Argh!" And he was on his back again.
Mr. Underwood had become very suddenly calm. He stood regarding Brannart Morphail through his pince-nez, his face very white, his body rigid. Occasionally his lips moved.
"It's all your doing. Jherek Carnelian!" One of the discs stopped working altogether and Brannart Morphail began to drift lopsidedly across the ceiling, banging against the chandeliers and making them ring. "You can't make these uncontrolled jaunts here and there through time without causing the most appalling eddies in the megaflow! Look what's happened now. I came to stop you, to warn you — aaah!" The scientist kicked savagely, trying to extricate himself from a velvet pelmet near the window.
In a low, unsteady voice, Mr. Harris was talking to My Lady Charlotina who was stroking his head. "All my life," he was saying, "I've been accused of telling tall stories. Who's going to believe this one?"
"Brannart's right, of course," said Mr. Jackson, still leaning comfortably against the pillar. "I wonder if the risks will be worth it?"
"Risks?" said Jherek, watching as Mrs. Underwood went towards her husband.
"I can't understand why the Effect has not begun to take place!" complained Brannart Morphail, floating freely again, but still unable to get the second disc working. He noticed Mr. Jackson for the first time. "What's your part in this, Lord Jagged? Something whimsical and cunning, no doubt."
"My dear Brannart, I assure you…"
"Bah! Oof!" The disc began to whirl and the scientist was wrenched upwards and to one side. "Neither Jherek nor that woman should still be here — nor should you, Jagged! Go against the Logic of Time and you bring doom to all!"
"Doom…" murmured Mr. Underwood, unaware that his wife had reached him and was shaking his shoulder.
"Harold! Speak to me!"
He turned his head and he was smiling gently. "Doom," he said again. "I should have realized. It is the Apocalypse. Do not worry, my dear, for we shall be saved." He patted her hand. She burst into tears.
Mr. Jackson approached Jherek who was watching this scene with anxious interest. "I think, perhaps, it would be wise to leave now," said Mr. Jackson.
"Not without Mrs. Underwood," said Jherek firmly.
Mr. Jackson sighed and shrugged. "Of course not. Anyway, it is important that you remain together. You are so rare…"
"Rare?"
"A figure of speech."
Mr. Underwood began to sing, oblivious of his wife's tears. He sang in a surprisingly rich tenor voice. "Jesu, lover of my soul./ Let me to thy bosom fly./ While the nearer waters roll,/ While the tempest still is high;/ Hide me, O my Savior, hide,/ Till the storm of life is past;/ Safe into the haven guide/ O receive my soul at last."
"How lovely!" cried the Iron Orchid. "A primitive ritual, such as the rotted cities recall!"
"I suspect is it more of a sorcerous summoning," said Bishop Castle, who took a special interest in such ancient customs. "We might even say some sort of holey ghost." He explained kindly to a rapt Donna Isobella: "So-called because they could be seen only imperfectly. They were partly transparent, you know."
"Aren't we all on such occasions?" said Donna Isobella. She smiled winningly at Bishop Castle who leaned over and kissed her on the lips.
"Beware!" groaned Brannart Morphail, but they had all lost interest in him. The Lat and the constables had resumed their fight.
"I must say I like your little century," said the Duke of Queens to Jherek Carnelian. "I can see why you come here."
Jherek was flattered, in spite of his usual scepticism concerning the Duke's taste. "Thank you, darling Duke. I didn't make it, of course."
"You discovered it, however. I should like to come again. Is it all like this?"
"Oh, no, there's a great deal of variety." He spoke a little vaguely, his eyes on Mr. and Mrs. Underwood. Mrs. Underwood, still weeping, held her husband's hand and joined in the song. "Cover my defenceless head/ With the shadow of thy wing." Her descant was a perfect counter-part to his tenor. Jherek found himself oddly moved. He frowned. "There's leaves, and horses, and sewage farms."
"How do they grow sewage?"
"It's too complicated to explain." Jherek was reluctant to admit his ignorance, particularly to his old rival.
"Perhaps, if you have a moment, you could take me on a short tour of the main features?" suggested the Duke of Queens hesitantly. "I would be extremely grateful, Jherek." He spoke in his most ingratiating voice and Jherek realized that, at long last, the Duke of Queens was acknowledging his superior taste. He smiled condescendingly at the Duke. "Of course," he said, "when I have a moment."
Mr. Harris had fallen head down onto the tablecloth. He had begun to snore rather violently.
Jherek took a step or two towards Mrs. Underwood, but then thought better of it. He did not know why he hesitated. Bishop Castle looked up. "Join us, jaunty Jherek, please. After all, you are our host!"
"Not exactly," said Jherek, but he seated himself on the other side of Donna Isobella.
The Lat had been driven into the far corner of the Cafe Royale, but they were putting up a spirited resistance. Not a policeman taking part in the fray was short of at least one bitten hand and bruised shin.
Jherek found himself unable to pay any attention at all to the conversation at the table. He wondered why Mrs. Underwood wept so copiously as she sang. Mr. Underwood's face, in contrast, was full of joy.
Donna Isobella moved a fraction closer to Jherek and he caught the mingled scents of violets and Egyptian cigarettes. Bishop Castle had begun to kiss her hand, the nails of which were painted to match her dress.
The whizzing noise from overhead grew louder again and Brannart Morphail drifted in, chest once more towards the floor. "Get back to your own times, while you may!" he called. "You will be stranded — marooned — abandoned! Take heed! Take hee-ee-eeeed!" And he vanished. Jherek, for one, was glad to see him go.
Donna Isobella flung back her head and flashed a bright smile at Jherek, apparently replying to something Bishop Castle had said, but addressing Jherek. "Love love, my love," she announced, "but never commit the error of loving a person. The abstraction offers all the pleasure and nothing whatsoever of the pain. Being in love is so much preferable to loving someone ."
Jherek smiled. "You sound a bit like Lord Jagged over there. But I'm afraid I am already trapped."
"Besides," said Bishop Castle, insistently keeping his hold of the lady's hand, "who is to say which is sweeter — melancholia or mindless ecstasy?"
They both looked at him in mild astonishment.
"I have my own preferences," she said, "I know ." She returned her full attention to Jherek, saying huskily: "But there — you are so much younger than I."
"Is that so?" Jherek became interested. He had understood that, through no choice of their own, these people had extremely short life-spans. "Well, then, you must be at least five hundred years old."
Donna Isobella's eyes blazed. Her lip curled. She made to speak and then changed her mind. She turned her back on him. She laughed rather harshly at something Bishop Castle murmured.
He noticed, on the far side of the room, a shadowy figure whom he did not recognize. It was clad in some kind of armour, and stared about in consternation.
Lord Jagged had noticed it, too. He drew his fine brows together and puffed thoughtfully on his cigarette.
The figure disappeared almost immediately.
"Who was that, Jagged?" enquired Jherek.
"A warrior from a period six or seven centuries before this one," said Mr. Jackson. "I can't be mistaken. And look!"
A small child, the outline of her body flickering a little, stared about her in wonderment, but was there for only a matter of seconds before she had vanished.
"Seventeenth century," said Jagged. "I am beginning to take Brannart's warnings seriously. The whole fabric of Time is in danger of diffusing completely. I should have been more careful. Ah, well…"
"You seem concerned, Jagged."
"I have reason to be," said Lord Jagged. "You had better collect Mrs. Underwood immediately."
"She is singing, at present, with Mr. Underwood."
"So I see."
There came a chorus of whistlings from the street and into the restaurant burst a score of uniformed policemen, their truncheons drawn. The leader presented himself to Inspector Springer and saluted. "Sergeant Sherwood, sir."
"In the nick of time, sergeant." Inspector Springer rearranged his ulster and placed his battered bowler hard upon his head. "We're cleaning up a den of forrin' anarchists 'ere, as you can observe. Are the vans outside?"
"Plenty of vans for this little lot, inspector." Sergeant Sherwood cast a loathing eye upon the assembled company. "I allus knew wot they said abart this place was true!"
"An' worse. I mean, look at 'em." Inspector Springer indicated the Lat who had given up the fight and were sitting sulkily in a corner, nursing their bruises. "You'd 'ardly believe they was yuman, would yer?"
"Ugly customers, right enough. Not English, o' course."
"Nar! Latvians. Typical Eastern European political troublemakers. They breed 'em like that over there."
"Wot? special?"
"It's somefin' to do with the diet," said Inspector Springer. "Curds an' so forth."
"Oo-er. I wouldn't 'ave your job, inspector, for a million quid."
"It can be nasty," agreed Inspector Springer. "Right. Let's get 'em all rounded up."
"The — um — painted women, too?"
"By all means, sergeant. Every one of 'em. We'll sort out 'oo's 'oo at the Yard."
Mr. Jackson had been listening to this conversation and now he turned to Jherek with a shrug. "I fear there is little we can do for the moment," he said philosophically. "We are all about to be carried off to prison."
"Oh, really?" Jherek cheered up.
"It will be nice to be a prisoner again," he said nostalgically. He identified gaol with one of his happiest moments, when Mr. Griffiths, the lawyer, had read to him Mrs. Amelia Underwood's declaration of her love. "Perhaps they'll be able to furnish us with a time machine, too."
Lord Jagged did not seem quite as cheerful as Jherek. "We shall be needing one very much," he said, "if our problems are not to be further complicated. In more ways than one, I would say, time is running out."
There was a sudden click and Jherek Carnelian looked down at his wrists. A newly arrived constable had snapped a pair of handcuffs on them. " 'Ope you like the bracelets, sir," said the constable with a sardonic grin.
Jherek laughed and held them up. "Oh, they're beautiful!" he said.
In a general babble of excited merriment, the party filed out of the Cafe Royale and into the waiting police vans. Only Mr. Harris was left behind. His snores had taken on a puzzled, melancholy note.
The Iron Orchid giggled. "I suppose this happens to you all the time," she said to Donna Isobella, whose lips seemed a little set. "It's a rare treat for me, however."
Mr. Underwood beamed at the policemen as Mrs. Underwood led him through the doors.
"Be of good cheer," he told Inspector Springer, "for the Lord is with us."
Inspector Springer shook his head and sighed. "Speak for yourself," he said. He was not looking forward to the night ahead.
18. To the Time Machine, At Last!
"The 'Ome Secretary," declared Inspector Springer importantly, " 'as bin informed." He stood with his fists upon his hips in the centre of the large cell. He looked about him at his prisoners with the self-satisfied expression of a farmer who has made a good purchase of livestock. "I should not be surprised," he continued, "if we 'ave not uncovered the biggest load of conspirators against the Crown since the Gunpowder Plot. And, 'opefully, we shall in the next few days flush a few more from their fox-holes." He gave his particular attention now to Captain Mubbers and his crew. "We shall also discover 'ow the likes o' you are smuggled inter this country."
"Groonek, wertedas," mumbled Captain Mubbers, staring up placatingly at Inspector Springer. "Freg nusher, tunightly, mibox?"
"So you say, my lad! We'll let an English jury decide your fate!"
Captain Mubbers abandoned his attempts to reason with Inspector Springer and, with a muttered "Kroofrudi!" retired to the company of his crew in the corner.
"We'll need a translator, inspector," said Sergeant Sherwood, from where he stood by the door, taking down details on a clipboard. "I couldn't get their names. All the rest," he continued, "seem pretty foreign, with the exception of those three." With his pencil he indicated Mr. and Mrs. Underwood and the man who had given his name as "Mr. Jackson."
"I have a pill left," offered Jherek. "You could take that and it would enable you to converse with them, if you were on your own…"
"Pills? You stand there and offer me, an officer of the Law, drugs ?" He turned to Sergeant Sherwood. "Drugs," he said.
"That explains it." Sergeant Sherwood nodded soberly. "I wonder wot 'appened to that other one you mentioned. 'Im with the flying machine."
" 'Is whereabouts will come to light in time," said Inspector Springer.
"Absolutely," said Jherek. "I hope he got back all right. The distortion seems to have subsided, wouldn't you say, Jagged?"
"Jackson," said Jagged, but he was not very emphatic. "Yes, but it won't last unless we act quickly."
Mr. Underwood had stopped singing and instead was shaking his head from side to side a good deal. "The tensions," he was saying, "the strain — as you say, my dear." Mrs. Underwood was soothing him. "I apologize for my outbursts — for everything — it was un-Christian — I should have listened — if you love this man…"
"Oh, Harold!"
"No, no. I would rather you went with him. I need a rest, anyway — in the country. Perhaps I could go to stay with my sister — the one who runs the Charity House at Whitehaven. A divorce…"
"Oh, Harold !" She clutched his arm. "Never. It is all right, I will stay with you."
"Groonek, wertedas," mumbled Captain Mubbers, staring up placatingly at Inspector Springer. "Freg nusher, tunightly, mibox?"
"So you say, my lad! We'll let an English jury decide your fate!"
Captain Mubbers abandoned his attempts to reason with Inspector Springer and, with a muttered "Kroofrudi!" retired to the company of his crew in the corner.
"We'll need a translator, inspector," said Sergeant Sherwood, from where he stood by the door, taking down details on a clipboard. "I couldn't get their names. All the rest," he continued, "seem pretty foreign, with the exception of those three." With his pencil he indicated Mr. and Mrs. Underwood and the man who had given his name as "Mr. Jackson."
"I have a pill left," offered Jherek. "You could take that and it would enable you to converse with them, if you were on your own…"
"Pills? You stand there and offer me, an officer of the Law, drugs ?" He turned to Sergeant Sherwood. "Drugs," he said.
"That explains it." Sergeant Sherwood nodded soberly. "I wonder wot 'appened to that other one you mentioned. 'Im with the flying machine."
" 'Is whereabouts will come to light in time," said Inspector Springer.
"Absolutely," said Jherek. "I hope he got back all right. The distortion seems to have subsided, wouldn't you say, Jagged?"
"Jackson," said Jagged, but he was not very emphatic. "Yes, but it won't last unless we act quickly."
Mr. Underwood had stopped singing and instead was shaking his head from side to side a good deal. "The tensions," he was saying, "the strain — as you say, my dear." Mrs. Underwood was soothing him. "I apologize for my outbursts — for everything — it was un-Christian — I should have listened — if you love this man…"
"Oh, Harold!"
"No, no. I would rather you went with him. I need a rest, anyway — in the country. Perhaps I could go to stay with my sister — the one who runs the Charity House at Whitehaven. A divorce…"
"Oh, Harold !" She clutched his arm. "Never. It is all right, I will stay with you."