Dancers at the End of Time (39 page)

"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 Café 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 Café 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 Café 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."