Dancers at the End of Time (38 page)
Read Dancers at the End of Time Online
Authors: Michael Moorcock
Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Science Fiction; English, #SciFi-Masterwork
"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 Café Royale. I saw him there."
"Then we must try to get back to the Café 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.
It was dark by the time Mrs. Underwood had managed to find her way to the Café 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 Café 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 mêlée 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 Café 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.
