Moorcock Michael. The Hollow Lands

The Hollow Lands
BY MICHAEL MOORCOCK
Book Two of the Dancers at the End of Time trilogy

 
Let us go hence — the night is now at hand;
The day is overworn, the birds all flown;
And we have reaped the crops the gods have sown,
Despair and death; deep darkness o'er the land,
Broods like an owl; we cannot understand
Laughter or tears, for we have only known
Surpassing vanity: vain things alone
Have driven our perverse and aimless band.
Let us go hence, somewhither strange and cold,
To Hollow Lands where just men and unjust
Find end of labour, where's rest for the old,
Freedom to all from love and fear and lust.
Twine our torn hands! O pray the earth enfold
Our life-sick hearts and turn them into dust.
 

   ERNEST DOWSON
   A Last Word
   1899

1. In Which Jherek Carnelian Continues to be in Love

   "You have begun another fashion I fear, my dear." The Iron Orchid slid the sable sheets down her smooth skin and pushed them from the bed with her slender feet.
   "I am so proud of you. What mother would not be? You are a talented and tasty son!"
   Jherek sighed from where he lay on the far side of the bed, his face all but hidden in the huge downy pile of pillows. He was pale. He was pensive.
   "Thank you, brightest of blossoms, most revered of metals."
   His voice was small.
   "But you still pine," she said sympathetically, "for your Mrs. Underwood."
   "Indeed."
   "Few could sustain such a passion so well. The world still awaits, eagerly, expectantly, the outcome. Will you go to her? Will she come to you?"
   "She said that she would come to me," Jherek Carnelian murmured. "Or so I understood. You know how difficult it is sometimes to make sense of a time traveller's conversation, and I must say that it was particularly confusing in 1896." He smiled. "It was wonderful, however. I wish you could have seen it, Iron Orchid. The Coffee Stalls, the Gin Palaces, the Prisons and all the other monuments. And so many people! One might doubt a sufficiency of air to give life to them!"
   "Yes, dear." Her response was not as lively as it might have been, for she had heard all this more than once. "But your recreation is there, for all of us to enjoy. And others now follow where you led."
   Realizing that he was in danger of boring her, he sat up in his pillows, stretching his fingers out before him and contemplating the shimmering power rings which adorned them. Pursing his perfect lips he made an adjustment to the ring on the index finger of his right hand. A window appeared on the far side of the room and through the window sunshine came leaping, warm and bright.
   "What a beautiful morning!" exclaimed the Iron Orchid, complimenting him. "How do you plan to spend it?"
   He shrugged. "I had not considered the problem. Have you a suggestion?"
   "Well, Jherek, since you are the one who has set the fashion for nostalgia, I thought you might like to come with me to one of the old rotted cities."
   "You are most certainly in a nostalgic mood, Queen of imaginative mothers." He kissed her softly upon the lids of her ebony eyes. "We are last there together when I was a child — you are thinking of Shanalorm, of course?"
   "Shanalorm, or whatever it's called. You were conceived there, too, as I remember." She yawned. "The rotted cities are the only permanency in this world of ours."
   "Some would say they were the world." Jherek smiled. "But they do not have the charm of the Dawn Age metropoli, ancient as they are."
   "I find them romantic," she said reminiscently. She threw jet arms around him, kissing him upon the lips with her mouth of midnight blue, her dress (living purple poppies) undulating and sighing. "What shall you wear, to go adventuring? Are you still in a mood for those arrowed suits?"
   "I think not." (Privately, he was disappointed that she still favoured blacks and dark blues, for it indicated that she had not completely forgotten her relationship with doom-embracing Werther de Goethe.) He considered the problem for a moment and then, with a twist of a power ring, produced flowing robes of white spider-fur. His intention was to create a contrast, and it pleased her. "Perfect," she purred. "Come, let's board your carriage and be off."
   They left his ranch (which was purposely preserved much as it had been when he had tried to prepare a home for his lost love, Mrs. Amelia Underwood, before she had been projected back to her own 19th century) and crossed the well-tended lawns, where his deer and his buffalo no longer roamed, through the rockeries, rose bowers and Japanese gardens which reminded him so poignantly of Mrs. Underwood, to his landau of milky jade. The landau was upholstered inside with the skins of apricot-coloured vynyls (beasts now long extinct) and trimmed with green gold.
   The Iron Orchid settled herself in the carriage and Jherek seated himself opposite, tapping a rail as a signal for the carriage to ascend. Someone (not himself) had produced a lovely, round yellow sun and gorgeous blue clouds, while below them rolled gentle grassy hills, woods of pine and clover-trees, rivers of amber and silver, rich and restful to the eye. There was miles and miles of it. They headed in a roughly southerly direction, towards Shanalorm.
   They crossed a viscous white and foamy sea from which pink creatures, not unlike gigantic earthworms, poked either their heads or their tails (or both), and they speculated on its creator.
   "Unfortunately, it is probably Werther," said the Iron Orchid. "How he strives against an ordinary aesthetic! Is this another example of his Nature, do you think? It certainly seems primitive."
   They were glad to have the white sea behind them. Now they floated over high salt crags which glittered in the light of a reddish orb which was probably the real sun. There was a silence in this landscape which thrilled them both and they did not speak until it was passed.
   "Nearly there," said the Iron Orchid, peering over the side of the landau (actually she had absolutely no clear idea where they were and had no need to know, for Jherek had given the carriage clear instructions). Jherek smiled, delighting in his mother's enthusiasms. She always enjoyed their outings together.
   Caught by a gust of air, his spider-fur draperies lifted around him, all but obscuring his view. He patted them down so that their whiteness spread across the seat and at that moment, for a reason he could not define, he thought of Mrs. Underwood and his brow clouded. It had been much longer than he had expected. He was sure that she would have returned by now if she could. He knew that soon he must visit the ill-tempered old scientist, Brannart Morphail, and beg him for the use of another time machine. Morphail had claimed that Mrs. Underwood, subject as anyone else to the Morphail Effect, would soon be ejected from 1896 and might wind up in any period of time covered by the past million years, but Jherek was sure that she would return to this Age. After all, they were in love. She had admitted, at long last, that she loved him. Jherek wondered if Brannart, determined to prove his theory flawless, were actually blocking Mrs. Underwood's attempts to get to him. He knew that the suspicion was unfair, but it was already obvious that both My Lady Charlotina and Lord Jagged of Canaria were playing complicated games involving his and Mrs. Underwood's fates. He had taken this in good part so far, but he was beginning to wonder if the joke were not beginning to pall.
   The Iron Orchid had noticed his change of mood. She leaned across and stroked his forehead. "Melancholy, again, my love?"
   "Forgive me, finest of flowers." With an effort he cleared his face of lines. He smiled. He was glad when, at that moment, he noticed violet light pulsing on the horizon. "Shanalorm looms. See!"
   As she turned, her face was a black mirror reflecting the delicate radiation. "Ah, at last!"
   They entered a landscape that none chose to change; not merely because it was so fine, but also because it might have been unwise to tamper with the sources of their power. Cities like Shanalorm had been built over the course of many centuries and they were very old. It had been said that they were capable of converting the energy of the entire cosmos, that the universe could be created afresh by means of their mysterious engines, but no one had ever dared to test this pronouncement. Though few had bothered to do so in the past couple of millennia (it was currently considered vulgar) it was certainly possible to make any number of new stars or planets. The cities would last as long as Time itself (which was not that long, if Yusharisp, the little alien who had gone into space with Lord Mongrove, was to be believed).
   Beneath its canopy of violet light, which did not seem to penetrate to the city itself, Shanalorm lay dreaming. Some of its bizarre buildings had melted and remained in a semi-liquid state, their outlines still discernible; other buildings were festering — machine mould and energy-moss undulated across their shells, bright yellow-green, bile-blue and reddish-brown, groaning and whispering as it sought fresh seepages from the power-reservoirs; peculiar little animals, indigenous to the cities, scuttled in and out of openings which might have been doors and windows, through shadows of pale blue, scarlet and mauve, cast by nothing visible; they swam through pools of glittering gold and turquoise, feasting off half-metallic plants which in turn were nurtured by queer radiations and cryptically structured crystals. And all the while Shanalorm sang to itself, a thousand interweaving songs, hypnotic harmonies. Once, it was said, the whole city had been sentient, the most intelligent being in the universe, but now it was senile and even its memories were fragmented. Images flickered here and there among the rotting jewel-metal of the buildings; scenes of Shanalorm's glories, of its inhabitants, of its history. It had had many names before it was called Shanalorm.
   "Isn't it pretty, Jherek!" cried the Iron Orchid. "Where shall we have our picnic?"
   Jherek stroked part of the landau's rail and the carriage began to spiral very slowly down until it was floating between the towers, skimming just above the roofs of blocks and domes and globes which shone with a thousand indefinable shades. "There?" He indicated a pool of ruby-coloured liquid overhung with old trees, their long, rusted branches touching the surface. A soft, red-gold moss crept down to the bank and tiny, tinkling insects made sparkling trails of amber and amethyst through the air.
   "Oh, yes! It's perfect!"
   As he landed the carriage and she stepped daintily out, she raised a finger to her lips, staring around at the scene with an expression of faint recognition.
   "Is this…? Could it be…? Jherek, you know, I believe this is where you were conceived , my egg. Your father and I were walking" — she pointed at a complex of low buildings on the opposite shore, just visible through a drifting, yellow mist — "over there! When the conversation turned, as it will in such places, to the customs of the ancients. I think we were discussing the Dead Sciences. As it happened, he had been studying some old text on biological restructuring, and we wondered if it was still possible to create a child according to Dawn Age practices." She laughed. "The mistakes we made at first! But eventually we got the hang of it and here you are — a creature of quality, the product of skilled craftsmanship. Possibly that is why I cherish you so deeply, with such pride."
   Jherek took her hand of gleaming jet. He kissed the tips of her fingers. Gently, he stroked her back. He could say nothing, but his hands were gentle, his expression tender. He knew her well enough to know that she was strangely excited.
   They lay down together on the comfortable moss, listening to the music of the city, watching the insects dancing in the predominantly violet light.
   "It is the peace, I believe, that I treasure most," murmured the Iron Orchid, moving her head luxuriously against his shoulder, "the antique peace. Have we lost something, do you think, that our forefathers possessed, some quality of experience? Werther believes that we have."
   Jherek smiled. "It is my understanding, most glorious of blooms, that individuals are given to individual experiences. We can make of the past anything we choose."
   "And of the future?" said she dreamily, inconsequently.
   "If Yusharisp's warnings are to be taken seriously, then the future fades; there is scarcely any left."
   But he had lost her attention. She got up and walked to the edge of the pool. Below the surface warm colours writhed and, entranced for the moment, she stared at them. "I should regret…" she began, then paused, shaking her dusky hair. "Ah, the smells , Jherek. Are they not sublime?"
   He raised himself to his feet and went to join her, a billowing cloud of white as he moved. He took a deep breath of the chemical atmosphere and his body glowed. He looked across the pool at the outline of the city, wondering how it had changed since it had been populated by humankind, when people had lived their lives among its engines and its mills, before it had become self-sufficient, no longer needing tending. Did it ever suffer loneliness, he thought, or miss what must have seemed to it, at last, the clumsy, affectionate attentions of the engineers who had brought it to life? Had Shanalorm's inhabitants drifted away from the city, or had the city rejected them? He put an arm around his mother's shoulders, but he realized that it was himself shivering, touched for a moment by an inexplicable chill.
   "They are sublime," he said.
   "Not dissimilar, I suppose, to the one you visited — to London?"
   "It is a city," he agreed, "and they do not alter much in their essentials." And he felt another pang, so he laughed and said: "What shall be the colours of our meal today?"
   "Ice white and berry-blue," she said. "Those little snails with their azure shells — where are they from? And plums! What else? Aspirin in jelly?"
   "Not today. I find it a trifle insipid. Shall we have a snow-fish of some sort?"
   "Absolutely!" Removing her gown, she flicked it out over the moss and it became a silvery cloth. Together they arranged the food, seating themselves on opposite sides of the cloth.
   But when it was ready Jherek did not feel hungry. To please his mother, he sampled some fish, a sip or two of mineral water, a morsel of heroin, and was glad when she herself became bored with the meal and suggested that they disseminate it. No matter how much he tried to give his whole heart to his mother's enthusiasm, he found that he still could not purge himself of a vague feeling of unease. He knew that he would like to be elsewhere but knew, too, that there was nowhere in the world he could go and be rid of his sense of dissatisfaction. He noticed that she was smiling.
   "Jherek! You sag, my dear! You mope! Perhaps the time has come to forget your role — to give it up in favour of one which can be better realized?"
   "I cannot forget Mrs. Underwood."
   "I admire your resolution. I have told you so already. I merely remind you, from my own knowledge of the classics, that passion, like a perfect rose, must finally fade. Perhaps it is time to begin fading a little?"
   "Never."
   She shrugged. "It is your drama and you must be faithful to it, of course. I would be the first to question the wisdom of veering from the original conception. Your taste, your tone, your touch — they are exquisite. I shall argue no further."
   "It appears to go beyond taste," said Jherek, picking at a piece of bark and making it thrum gently against the bole of the tree. "It is difficult to explain."
   "What truly important work of art is not?"
   He nodded. "You are right, Iron Orchid. That is all it is."
   "It will soon resolve itself, fruit of my seed." She linked her arm in his. "Come, let us walk for a while through these tranquil streets. You might find inspiration here."
   He allowed her to lead him across the pool while she, still in a mood of fond reminiscence, talked of his father's love of this particular city and the profound knowledge he had had of its history.
   "And you never knew who my father was?"
   "No. Wasn't it delicious? He remained in disguise throughout. We were in love for weeks!"
   "No clues?"
   "Oh, well…" She laughed lightly. "It would have spoiled it to have pursued the secret too fiercely, you know."
   Beneath their feet some buried transformer sighed and made the ground tremble.

2. Playing at Ships

   "I sometimes wonder," said the Iron Orchid as Jherek's landau carried them away from Shanalorm, "where all the current craze for Dawn Age discoveries is leading."
   "Leading, my life?"
   "Artistically, I mean. Soon, largely because of the fashion you began, we shall have recreated that age down to the finest details. It will be like inhabiting the 19th century."
   "Yes, metallic magnificence?" He was polite but still unable to follow her drift.
   "I mean, are we not in danger of taking Realism too far, Jherek? One's own imagination can become clogged, after all. It was always your argument that travelling into the past rather spoiled one's conception — made the outlines fuzzy, as it were — inhibited creativity."
   "Perhaps," he agreed. "But I am not sure my 'London' is harmed from being inspired by experience rather than fantasy. The fad could go too far, of course. In the case, for instance, of the Duke of Queens…"
   "I know you rarely favour his work. It can be extravagant sometimes, a little, I suppose, empty, but…"
   "It is his tendency to vulgarize which disturbs me, to pile effect upon effect. I think he showed restraint in his 'New York, 1930,' for all the obvious influence of my own piece. Such influences might be good for him."
   "He, among others, could take it too far," she said. "That is what I meant." Then she shrugged. "But soon you'll set a fresh fashion, Jherek, and they will follow that." She spoke almost wistfully, almost hopefully. "You will guide them away from excess."
   "You are kind."
   "Oh, more!" Her raven face lit with humour. "I am biased, my dear! You are my son!"
   "I heard that the Duke of Queens had completed his 'New York.' Shall we go to see it?"
   "Why not? And let us hope he'll be there, too. I am very fond of the Duke of Queens."
   "As am I, for all that I do not share his tastes."
   "He shares yours. You should be more generous."
   They laughed.
   The Duke of Queens was delighted to see them. He stood some distance away from his design, admiring it with unashamed pleasure. He was dressed in a style of the 800th century, all crystal spirals and curlicues, beast eyes and paper bosses, with gauntlets which made his hands invisible. His sensitive face with its heavy black beard turned upwards as he called to Jherek and his mother:
   "Iron Orchid, in all your swarthy beauty! And Jherek! I give you full credit, my dear, for your original inspiration. Regard this as a tribute to your genius!"
   Jherek warmed to the Duke of Queens, as always. His taste might not have been all it could be, but his generosity was unquestionable. He determined to praise the Duke's creation, no matter what he thought of it privately.
   It was, in fact, a relatively moderate affair.
   "It is from the same period as your 'London,' as you can see. Very true to the original, I think."
   The Iron Orchid's hand tightened momentarily on Jherek's arm as they descended from the landau, as if to confirm the validity of her judgement.
   "That tallest tower at the centre is the Empire State Apartments, in lapis lazuli and gold, built as the home of New York's greatest king (Kong the Mighty) who, as you know, ruled the city during its Golden Age. The bronze statue you see on the top of the building is Kong's…"
   "He looks beautiful," said the Iron Orchid, "but almost inhuman."
   "It was the Dawn Age," said the Duke. "The building is just over a mile and a quarter high (I took the dimensions from an historical text-book) and a splendid example of the barbaric simplicity of typical architecture of the early Uranium Centuries — almost too early, some would say."
   Jherek wondered if the Duke of Queens were quoting whole from the text-book; his words had that ring to them.
   "Are not the buildings crowded together rather?" said the Iron Orchid.
   The Duke of Queens was not offended. "Deliberately," he told her. "The epics of the time made constant references to the narrowness of the streets, forcing people to move crabwise — hence the distinctive 'sidewalk' of New York."
   "And what are those?" said Jherek, pointing to a collection of picturesque thatched cottages. "They seem untypical."
   "It is the village of Greenwich, a kind of museum frequented by sailors. A famous vessel was moored in the river. Can you see it?" He indicated something tied to a jetty, it glinted in the dark water of a lagoon.
   "It appears to be a gigantic glass bottle," said the Iron Orchid.
   "So I thought, but somehow they managed to sail in them. Doubtless the secret of their locomotion has been lost, but I based the ship on a model of one I came across in a record. It is called the Cutty Sark ." The Duke of Queens permitted himself a smirk. "And that, my dear Jherek, is where I have had the privilege of being imitated. My Lady Charlotina was so impressed that she has begun a reproduction of some other famous ship of the period."
   "I must say that your sense of detail is impressive," Jherek complimented him. "And have you populated the city?" He screwed up his eyes the better to see. "Are those figures moving about in it?"
   "They are! Eight million of them."
   "And what are those tiny flashes of light?" enquired the Iron Orchid.
   "The muggers," said the Duke of Queens. "At that time New York attracted a good many artists, primarily photographers (called popularly 'shooters,' 'muggers,' or sometimes 'mug-shotters') and what you see are their cameras in action."
   "You have a talent for thorough research," said Jherek.
   "I owe much to my sources, I admit," agreed the Duke of Queens. "And I found a time traveller in my menagerie who was able to help. He wasn't from exactly the same period, but close enough to have seen many records of the time. Most of the other buildings are in lurex and coloured perspex, favourite materials of Dawn age craftsmen. The protective talismans are, of course, in neon, to ward off the forces of darkness."
   "Ah, yes," said the Iron Orchid brightly. "Gaf the Horse in Tears had something similar in his 'Canceropolis, 2215.' "
   "Really?" The Duke's tone was unintentionally distant. He was not fond of Gaf's work and had been known to describe it once as "over-eager." "I must go to see it."
   "It's on the same theme as Argonheart Po's. 'Edible Birmingham, Undated,' I believe," said Jherek, to turn the subject a little. "I tried it a day or two ago. It was delicious."
   "What he lacks in visual originality, he makes up for in culinary imagination."
   "Definitely a Birmingham of the mind," agreed the Iron Orchid, "and for the palate. Some of the buildings were blatant copies of My Lady Charlotina's 'Rome, 1946.' "
   "A shame about the lions," murmured the Duke of Queens sympathetically.
   "They got out of control," said the Iron Orchid. "I warned her that they would. Not enough Christians. Still, I thought it drastic to disseminate it, merely because the population was eaten. But the flying elephants were lovely, weren't they?"
   "I'd never seen a circus before," said Jherek.
   "I was just about to leave for Lake Billy the Kid, where some of the ships are being launched." The Duke of Queens indicated his latest air car, a vast copy of one of the Martian flying machines which had attempted to destroy New York during the period in which he took an interest. "Would you like to come?"
   "A wonderful idea," said the Iron Orchid and Jherek, thinking that one way of passing the time was as good as another, agreed.
   "We shall follow in my landau," he said.
   The Duke of Queens gestured with one of his invisible hands. "There is plenty of room in my air car, but just as you like." He felt beneath his crystalline robes and produced a flying helmet and goggles. Donning them, he strode to his carriage, climbed with some difficulty up the smooth side and settled himself in the cock-pit.
   Jherek watched in amusement as there came a roaring from the machine, a glow which was soon red-hot, a shower of sparks and a considerable amount of blue smoke, and then the contraption was lurching upwards. The Duke of Queens seemed to specialize in exceedingly unstable methods of transport.
   Lake Billy the Kid had been enlarged for the occasion of the regatta (this, in itself, was unusual) and the surrounding mountains had all been moved back to accommodate the extra water. Small groups of people were gathered here and there on the shore, staring at the ships which had so far been presented. They made a fine collection.
   Jherek and the Iron Orchid landed on the white ash of the beach and joined the Duke of Queens who was already talking to their hostess. My Lady Charlotina still wore several breasts and an extra pair of arms and her skin was a delicate blue; for decoration she had a collar from which trailed a few gauzy wisps of various colours. Her large eyes were alight with pleasure at seeing them.
   "Iron Orchid, still in mourning I see. And Jherek Carnelian, most famous of metatemporal explorers. I had not expected you."
   Slightly put out, the Iron Orchid unostentatiously changed her skin colour to a more natural shade. Her gown became suddenly so blindingly white that they all blinked. She toned it down, murmuring apologies. "Which of the boats is yours, dear?"
   My Lady Charlotina pursed her lips in mock disapproval. " Ships , most venerable of plants. That one is mine." She inclined her head in the direction of an immense reproduction of a woman, lying stomach-down in the water, her arms and legs spread out symmetrically, a crown of gold and diamonds upon her wooden head. "The Queen Elizabeth ."
   As they watched, a great gust of blackness billowed from the ears of the model and from the mouth (barely above the surface) there came a melancholy tooting.
   "The one beside it is the Monitor , which carried off some virgins or something, did it not?" This was smaller than the Queen Elizabeth ; the vessel's bulk representing a man's body, its back arched inwards, with a huge bull's head on its shoulders. "O'Kala Incarnadine simply can't rid himself of his obsession with beasts. It's sweet, really."
   "Are they all of the same period?" asked the Duke of Queens. "That one, for instance?" He pointed to a rather shapeless ship. "It looks more like an island."
   "That's the S.S. France ," explained My Lady Charlotina. "It's Grevol Lockspring's entry. The one just streaming towards it is the Water Lily — I'm sure it wasn't a real plant." She named some of the other peculiarly wrought vessels. "The Mary Rose . The Hindenburg . The Patna . And isn't that one beautiful — stately — The Leningrad? "
   "They are all lovely," said The Iron Orchid vaguely. "What will they do when they are assembled?"
   "Fight, of course," said My Lady Charlotina in excitement. "That's what they were built for, you see, in the Dawn Age. Imagine the scene — a heavy mist on the waters — two ships manoeuvring, each aware of the other, neither being able to find the other. It is, say, my Queen Elizabeth and Argonheart Po's Nautilus (I fear it will melt before the regatta is finished). The Nautilus sees the Queen Elizabeth , its foghorns disperse the mist, it focuses its funnels and — whoosh! — the Queen Elizabeth is struck by thousands of little belaying needles — she shudders and retaliates — from her forward ports (they must have been her breasts; that is where I've put them, at any rate) pour lethal tuxedos, wrapping themselves around the Nautilus and trying to drag it under. But the Nautilus is not so easily defeated … Well, you can imagine the rest, and I will not spoil the actual regatta for you. Almost all the ships are here now. I believe there are a couple of entries to come, then we begin."
   "I cannot wait," said Jherek absently. "Is Brannart Morphail, by the by, still residing with you, My Lady Charlotina?"
   "He has apartments at Below-the-Lake, yes. He is there now, I would guess. I asked him for help with the design of the Queen Elizabeth , but he was too busy."
   "Is he still angry with me?"
   "Well, you did lose one of his favourite time machines."
   "It hasn't returned, then?"
   "No. Are you expecting it?"
   "I thought, perhaps, Mrs. Underwood would use it to come back to us. You would tell me if she did?"
   "You know that I would. Your relationship with her is my abiding interest."
   "Thank you. And have you seen Lord Jagged of Canaria recently?"
   "He was supposed to come today. He half-promised to contribute a ship, but he is doubtless as lazy as ever and has forgotten. He might well be in one of those strange, unsociable moods of his. He retires, as you know, from society from time to time. Oh, Mistress Christia, what is this?"
   The Everlasting Concubine fluttered long lashes over her wide, blue eyes. She was clad in filmy pink, with a pink hat perched on her golden hair. Her hands were dressed in pink gloves and she was presenting something which rested on her outstretched palms. "It is not an entry, exactly," she said, "but I thought you might like it."
   "I do! What is it called?"
   "The Good Ship Venus ." Mistress Christia smiled at Jherek. "Hello, my dear. Does the flame of your lust burn as strongly as ever?"
   "I am in love, these days," he said.
   "You draw a distinction."
   "I have been assured that there is one." He kissed her upon her perfect nose. She tickled his ear.
   "Where do you discover all these wonderful old emotions?" she asked. "You must talk to Werther — he has the same interests, but does not pursue them with your panache, I am afraid. Has he told you about his 'sin'?"
   "I have not seen him since my return from 1896."
   My Lady Charlotina interrupted, placing a caressing hand upon Mistress Christia's thigh. "Werther excelled himself — and so did you, Everlasting Concubine. Surely you aren't criticizing him?"
   "How could I? I must tell you about Werther's 'crime,' Jherek. It all began on the day that I accidentally broke his rainbow…" And she embarked upon a story which Jherek found fascinating, not merely because it was really a very fine story, but also because it seemed to relate to some of the ideas he was himself mulling over. He wished that he found Werther better company, but every time he tried to have a conversation with the gloomy solitary, Werther would accuse him of being superficial or insensitive and the whole thing would descend into a series of puzzled questions on Jherek's part and recriminations on Werther's.
   Mistress Christia and Jherek Carnelian strolled arm in arm along the shore while the Everlasting Concubine chatted merrily on. Out on Lake Billy the Kid the ships were beginning to take up their positions. The sun shone down on blue, placid water; from here and there came the murmur of animated conversation and Jherek found his good humour returning as Mistress Christia drew to the close of her tale.
   "I hope Werther was grateful," he said.
   "He was. He is very sincere, Jherek, but in a different sort of way."
   "I need no convincing. Tell me, did he —?" And he broke off as he recognized a tall figure standing by the water's edge, deep in conversation with Argonheart Po (who was, as always, wearing his tall chef's cap). "Excuse me, Mistress Christia. You will not think me rude if I speak to Lord Jagged?"
   "You could never offend me, delicacy."
   "Lord Jagged!" called Jherek. "How pleased I am to see you here."
   Handsome, weary, his long, pale face wearing just a shade of a smile, Lord Jagged turned. He wore scarlet silk, with one of his usual high, padded collars framing a head of shoulder-length near-white hair.
   "Jherek, spice of my life! Argonheart Po was just giving me the recipe for his ship. He assures me that, contrary to the gossip, it cannot melt for at least another four hours. You will be as interested as I to hear how he accomplished the feat."
   "Good afternoon, Argonheart," said Jherek with a nod to the fat and beaming inventor of, among other things, the savoury volcano. "I was hoping, Lord Jagged, to have a word…"
   Argonheart Po was already moving away, his hand held tightly by the ever tactful Mistress Christia.
   "…about Mrs. Underwood," concluded Jherek.
   "She is back?" Lord Jagged's aquiline features were expressionless.
   "You know that she is not."
   Lord Jagged's smile broadened a fraction. "You are beginning to credit me with prescience of some sort, Jherek. I am flattered, but I do not deserve the distinction."
   Disturbed because of this recent, subtle alteration in their old relationship, Jherek bowed his head. "Forgive me, jaunty Jagged. I am full of assumptions. I am, in the words of the ancients, 'over-excited.' "
   "Perhaps you have contracted one of those old diseases, my breath? The kind which could only be transmitted by word of mouth — which attacked the brain and made the brain attack the body…"
   "Dawn Age science is your speciality, rather than mine, Lord Jagged. If you are making a considered diagnosis…?"
   Lord Jagged laughed one of his rare, hearty laughs and he flung his arm around his friend's shoulders.
   "My luscious, loving larrikin, my golden goose, my grief, my prayer. You are healthy! I suspect that you are the only one of us that is!"
   And, his usual, cryptic self, he refused to expand on this statement, drawing Jherek's attention, instead, to the regatta, which had begun at last. A vile yellow mist had been spread across the sparkling sea, making all murky; the sun had been dimmed, and great, shadowy shapes crept, honking, through the water.
   Jagged arranged his collar about his face, but he kept his arm round Jherek's shoulders. "They will fight to the death, I'm told."

3. A Petitioner at the Court of Time

   "What else is it but decadence," said Li Pao, My Lady Charlotina's resident bore (and, like most time travellers, dreadfully literal-minded), "when you spend your days in imitation of the past? And it is not as if you imitated the virtues of the past." He brushed pettishly at his faded denim suit. He took off his denim cap and wiped his brow.
   "Virtues?" murmured the Iron Orchid enquiringly. She had heard the word before.
   "The best of the past. Its customs, its morals, its traditions, its standards…"
   "Flags?" said Gaf the Horse in Tears, looking up from an inspection of his new penis.
   "Li Pao's words are always so hard to translate," said My Lady Charlotina, their hostess. They had repaired to her vast palace under the lake and she was serving them with rum and hard tack. Every ship had been sunk. "You don't really mean flags, do you, dear?"
   "Only in a manner of speaking," said Li Pao, anxious not to lose his audience. "If by flags we refer to loyalties, to causes, to a sense of purpose."
   Even Jherek Carnelian, an expert in Dawn Age philosophies, could scarcely keep up with him. When the Iron Orchid turned to him in appeal to explain, he could only shrug and smile.
   "My point," said Li Pao, raising his voice a fraction, "is that you could use all this to some advantage. The alien, Yusharisp…"
   The Duke of Queens coughed in embarrassment.
   "…had news of inescapable cataclysm. Or, at least, he thought it inescapable. There is a chance that you could save the universe with your scientific resources."
   "We don't really understand them any more, you see," gently explained Mistress Christia, kneeling beside Gaf the Horse in Tears. "It's a marvellous colour," she said to Gaf.
   "There are many here — prisoners of your whims, like myself — who, if given the opportunity, might learn the principles involved," Li Pao went on, "Jherek Carnelian, you are bent on rediscovering all the old virtues, surely you see my point?"
   "Not really," said Jherek. "Why would you wish to save the universe? Is it not better to let it go its natural course?"
   "There were mystics in my day," said Li Pao, "who considered it unwise to, as they put it, "tamper with nature." But if they had been listened to, you would not have the power you possess today."
   "We would still have been happy, doubtless," O'Kala Incarnadine chewed patiently at his hard tack, his voice somewhat bleating in tone, owing to his having remodelled his body into that of a sheep. "One does not need power, surely, to be happy?"
   "That was not exactly what I was trying to say." Li Pao's lovely yellow skin had turned very slightly pink. "You are immortal — yet you will still perish when the planet itself is destroyed. In perhaps two hundred years you will be dead. Do you want to die?"
   My Lady Charlotina yawned. "Most of us have died at some stage. Quite recently, Werther de Goethe hurled himself to his death on some rocks. Didn't you, Werther?"
   Dark-visaged Werther sipped moodily at his rum. He gave a sigh of assent.
   "But I speak of permanent death — without resurrection." Li Pao sounded almost desperate. "You must understand. None of you are unintelligent…"
   "I am unintelligent," said Mistress Christia, her pride wounded.
   "So you say." Li Pao dismissed her plea. "Do you want to be dead for ever, Mistress Christia?"
   "I have never considered the question that much. I suppose not. But it would make no difference, would it?"
   "To what?"
   "To me. If I were dead."
   Li Pao frowned.
   "We would all be better off dead, useless eaters of the lotus that we are." Werther de Goethe's jarring monotone came from the far side of the room. He glared down at his reflection in the floor.
   "You speak of only postures, Werther," the ex-member of the governing committee of the 27th century People's Republic admonished. "Of poetic roles. I speak of reality."
   "Is there nothing real about poetic roles?" Lord Jagged of Canaria strolled across the room, admiring the flowers which grew from the ceiling. "Was not your role ever poetic, Li Pao, when you were in your own time?"
   "Poetic? Never. Idealistic, of course, but we were dealing with harsh facts."
   "There are many forms of poetry, I understand."
   "You are merely seeking to confuse my argument, Lord Jagged. I know you of old."
   "I thought I aimed at clarification. By metaphor, perhaps," he admitted, "and that does not always seem to clarify. Though it works very well for some."
   "I believe you deliberately oppose my arguments because you half-agree with them yourself." Li Pao plainly felt he had scored a good point.
   "I half-agree with all arguments, my dear!" Lord Jagged's smile seemed a touch weary. "Everything is real. Or can be made real."
   "With the resources at your command, certainly." Li Pao agreed.
   "It is not exactly my meaning. You made your dream real, did you not? Of the Republic?"
   "It was founded on reality."
   "My scanty acquaintance with your period does not allow me to dispute that statement with any fire, I fear. Whose dream, I wonder, laid those foundations?"
   "Well, dreams , yes…"
   "Poetic inspiration?"
   "Well…"
   Lord Jagged drew his great robe about him. "Forgive me, Li Pao, for I realize that I have confused your argument. Please continue. I shall interrupt no further."
   But Li Pao had lost impetus. He fell into a sulking silence.
   "There is a rumour, magnificent Lord Jagged, that you yourself have travelled in time. Do you speak from direct experience of Li Pao's period?" Mistress Christia raised her head from its contact with Gaf's groin.
   "As a great believer in the inherent possibilities of the rumour as art," said Lord Jagged gently, "it is not for me to confirm or deny any gossip you might have heard, sweet Mistress Christia."
   "Oh, absolutely!" She gave her full attention back to Gaf's anatomy.
   Not without difficulty, Jherek held back from taxing Lord Jagged further on that particular subject, but Jagged continued:
   "There are some who would argue that Time does not really exist at all, that it is merely our primitive minds which impose a certain order upon events. I have heard it said that everything is happening, as it were, concurrently. Some of the greatest inventors of time machines have used that theory to advantage."
   Jherek, desperately feigning lack of interest, poured himself a fresh tot. When he spoke, however, his tone was not entirely normal.
   "Would it be possible, I wonder, to make a new time machine? If Shanalorm's or some other city's memories were reliable…"
   "They are not!" The querulous voice of Brannart Morphail broke in. He had added an inch or two to his hump since Jherek had last encountered him. His club foot was decidedly overdone. He came limping across the floor, his smock covered in residual spots of the various substances in his laboratories. "I have visited every one of the rotted cities. They give us their power, but their wisdom has faded. I was listening to your discourse, Lord Jagged. It is a familiar theory, favoured by the non-scientist. I assure you, none the less, that one gets nowhere with Time unless one treats it as linear."
   "Brannart," said Jherek hesitantly, "I was hoping to see you here."
   "Are you bent on pestering me further, Jherek? I have not forgotten that you lost me one of my best time machines."
   "No sign of it, then?"
   "None. My instruments are too crude to detect it if, as I suspect, it has gone back to some pre-Dawn period."
   "What of the cyclic theory?" Lord Jagged said. "Would you give any credence to that?"
   "So far as it corresponds to certain physical laws, yes."
   "And how would that relate to the information we were given by the Duke's little alien?"
   "I had hoped to ask Yusharisp some questions — and so I might have done if Jherek had not interfered."
   "I am sorry," said Jherek, "but…"
   "You are living proof of the non-mutability of Time," said Brannart Morphail. "If you could go back and set to rights the events brought about by your silly meddling, then you would be able to prove your remorse. As it is, you can't, so I would ask you to stop expressing it!"
   Pointedly, Brannart Morphail turned to Lord Jagged, a crooked, insincere grin upon his ancient features. "Now, dear Lord Jagged, you were saying something about the cyclic nature of Time?"
   "I think you are a little hard on Jherek," said Lord Jagged. "After all, My Lady Charlotina knew, to some extent, the outcome of her joke."
   "We'll speak no more of that. You wondered if Yusharisp's reference to the death of the cosmos — of the universe ending one cycle and beginning another — bore directly upon the cyclic theory?"
   "It was a passing thought, nothing more," said Lord Jagged, looking back over his shoulder and winking at Jherek. "You should be kinder, Brannart, to the boy. He could bring you information of considerable usefulness in your experiments, surely? I believe you feel angry with him because his experiences are inclined to contradict your theories."
   "Nonsense! It is his interpretation of his experiences with which I disagree. They are naive."
   "They are true," said Jherek in a small voice. "Mrs. Underwood said that she would join me, you know. I am sure that she will."
   "Impossible — or, at very least, unlikely. Time does not permit paradoxes. The Morphail Theory specifically shows that once a time traveller has visited the future he cannot return to the past for any length of time; similarly any stay in the past is limited, for the reason that if he did stay there he could alter the course of the future and therefore produce chaos. The Morphail Effect is my term to describe an actual phenomenon — the fact that no one has ever been able to move backwards in Time and remain in the past. Merely because your stay in the Dawn Age was unusually long you cannot insist that there is a flaw in my description. The chances of your 19th-century lady being returned to this point in time are, similarly, very slight — millions to one. You could search for her, of course, through the millennia, and, if you were successful, bring her back here. She has no time machine of her own and therefore cannot control her flight into her future."