The Best of Michael Moorcock

by Michael Moorcock

  “It’s no trick, son. Even if it is, what can you lose?”

  “Nothing.” Seward got up.

  The big man put his arm around Seward’s shoulders. Seward felt comfortable in the grip, though normally he disliked such gestures.

  “Now, son, we go real quietly and we go as fast as we can. Come on.”

  Softly, the big man began to tiptoe along the corridor. Seward was sure that TV cameras, or whatever they were, were following him, that the Man Without A Navel, the monk, the two torturers, the Laughing Cavalier, were all waiting somewhere to seize him.

  But, very quickly, the negro had reached a small wooden door and was drawing a bolt. He patted Seward’s shoulder and held the door open for him. “Through you go, son. Make for the red car.”

  It was morning. In the sky hung a golden sun, twice the size of Earth’s. There was a vast expanse of lifeless rock in all directions, broken only by a white road which stretched into the distance. On the road, close to Seward, was parked a car something like a Cadillac. It was fire-red and bore the registration plates YOU 000. Whoever these people were, Seward decided, they were originally from Earth—all except the Man Without A Navel, perhaps. Possibly this was his world and the others had been brought from Earth, like him.

  He walked towards the car. The air was cold and fresh. He stood by the convertible and looked back. The negro was running over the rock towards him. He dashed round the car and got into the driver’s seat. Seward got in beside him.

  The negro started the car, put it into gear and shoved his foot down hard on the accelerator pedal. The car jerked away and had reached top speed in seconds.

  At the wheel, the negro relaxed. “Glad that went smoothly. I didn’t expect to get away with it so easily, son. You’re Seward, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. You seem to be as well-informed as the others.”

  “I guess so.” The negro took a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. “Smoke?”

  “No thanks,” said Seward. “That’s one habit I don’t have.”

  The negro looked back over his shoulder. The expanse of rock seemed never-ending, though in the distance the fortress was disappearing. He flipped a cigarette out of the pack and put it between his lips. He unclipped the car’s lighter and put it to the tip of the cigarette. He inhaled and put the lighter back. The cigarette between his lips, he returned his other hand to the wheel.

  He said: “They were going to send the Vampire to you. It’s lucky I reached you in time.”

  “It could be,” said Seward. “Who are you? What part do you play in this?”

  “Let’s just say I’m a friend of yours and an enemy of your enemies. The name’s Farlowe.”

  “Well, I trust you, Farlowe—though God knows why.”

  Farlowe grinned. “Why not? I don’t want your world destroyed any more than you do. It doesn’t much matter, I guess, but if there’s a chance of restoring it, then you ought to try.”

  “Then you’re from my world originally, is that it?”

  “In a manner of speaking, son,” said Farlowe.

  Very much later, the rock gave way to pleasant, flat countryside with trees, fields and little cottages peaceful under the vast sky. In the distance, Seward saw herds of cattle and sheep, the occasional horse. It reminded him of the countryside of his childhood, all clear and fresh and sharp with the clarity that only a child’s eye can bring to a scene before it is obscured and tainted by the impressions of adulthood. Soon the flat country was behind them and they were going through an area of low, green hills, the huge sun flooding the scene with its soft, golden light. There were no clouds in the pale blue sky.

  The big car sped smoothly along and Seward, in the comfortable companionship of Farlowe, began to relax a little. He felt almost happy, would have felt happy if it had not been for the nagging knowledge that somehow he had to get back and continue his work. It was not merely a question of restoring sanity to the world, now—he had also to thwart whatever plans were in the mind of the Man Without A Navel.

  After a long silence, Seward asked a direct question. “Farlowe, where is this world? What are we doing here?”

  Farlowe’s answer was vague. He stared ahead at the road. “Don’t ask me that, son. I don’t rightly know.”

  “But you live here.”

  “So do you.”

  “No—I only come here when—when . . .”

  “When what?”

  But Seward couldn’t raise the courage to admit about the drug to Farlowe. Instead he said: “Does M-A 19 mean anything to you?”

  “Nope.”

  So Farlowe hadn’t come here because of the drug. Seward said: “But you said you were from my world originally.”

  “Only in a manner of speaking.” Farlowe changed gears as the road curved steeply up a hill. It rose gently above the idyllic countryside below.

  Seward changed his line of questioning. “Isn’t there any sort of organisation here—no government. What’s the name of this country?”

  Farlowe shrugged. “It’s just a place—no government. The people in the fortress run most things. Everybody’s scared of them.”

  “I don’t blame them. Who’s the Vampire you mentioned?”

  “He works for the Man.”

  “What is he?”

  “Why—a vampire, naturally,” said Farlowe in surprise.

  The sun had started to set and the whole countryside was bathed in red-gold light. The car continued to climb the long hill.

  Farlowe said: “I’m taking you to some friends. You ought to be fairly safe there. Then maybe we can work out a way of getting you back.”

  Seward felt better. At least Farlowe had given him some direct information.

  As the car reached the top of the hill and began to descend Seward got a view of an odd and disturbing sight. The sun was like a flat, round, red disc—yet only half of it was above the horizon. The line of the horizon evenly intersected the sun’s disc! It was some sort of mirage—yet so convincing that Seward looked away, staring instead at the black smoke which he could now see rolling across the valley below. He said nothing to Farlowe.

  “How much further?” he asked later as the car came to the bottom of the hill. Black night had come, moonless, and the car’s headlights blazed.

  “A long way yet, I’m afraid, son,” said Farlowe. “You cold?”

  “No.”

  “We’ll be hitting a few signs of civilisation soon. You tired?”

  “No—why?”

  “We could put up at a motel or something. I guess we could eat anyway.”

  Ahead, Seward saw a few lights. He couldn’t make out where they came from. Farlowe began to slow down. “We’ll risk it,” he said. He pulled in towards the lights and Seward saw that it was a line of fuel pumps. Behind the pumps was a single-storey building, very long and built entirely of timber by the look of it. Farlowe drove in between the pumps and the building. A man in overalls, the top half of his face shadowed by the peak of his cap, came into sight. Farlowe got out of the car with a signal to Seward to do the same. The negro handed his keys to the attendant. “Fill her full and give her a quick check.”

  Could this be Earth? Seward wondered. Earth in the future—or possibly an Earth of a different space-time continuum. That was the likeliest explanation for this unlikely world. The contrast between recognisable, everyday things and the grotesqueries of the fortress was strange—yet it could be explained easily if these people had contact with his world. That would explain how they had things like cars and fuel stations and no apparent organisation necessary for producing them. Somehow, perhaps, they just—stole them?

  He followed Farlowe into the long building. He could see through the wide windows that it was some kind of restaurant. There was a long, clean counter and a few people seated at tables at the far end. All had their backs to him.

  He and Farlowe sat down on stools. Close to them was the largest pin-table Seward had ever seen. Its lights were flashing and its balls wer
e clattering, though there was no one operating it. The coloured lights flashed series of numbers at him until his eyes lost focus and he had to turn away.

  A woman was standing behind the counter now. Most of her face was covered by a yashmak.

  “What do you want to eat, son?” said Farlowe, turning to him.

  “Oh, anything.”

  Farlowe ordered sandwiches and coffee. When the woman had gone to get their order, Seward whispered: “Why’s she wearing that thing?”

  Farlowe pointed at a sign Seward hadn’t noticed before. It read THE HAREM HAVEN. “It’s their gimmick,” said Farlowe.

  Seward looked back at the pin-table. The lights had stopped flashing, the balls had stopped clattering. But above it suddenly appeared a huge pair of disembodied eyes. He gasped.

  Distantly, he heard his name being repeated over and over again. “Seward. Seward. Seward. Seward . . .”

  He couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from. He glanced up at the ceiling. Not from there. The voice stopped. He looked back at the pin-table. The eyes had vanished. His panic returned. He got off his stool.

  “I’ll wait for you in the car, Farlowe.”

  Farlowe looked surprised. “What’s the matter, son?”

  “Nothing—it’s okay—I’ll wait in the car.”

  Farlowe shrugged.

  Seward went out into the night. The attendant had gone but the car was waiting for him. He opened the door and climbed in.

  What did the eyes mean? Were the people from the fortress following him in some way. Suddenly an explanation for most of the questions bothering him sprang into his mind. Of course—telepathy. They were probably telepaths. That was how they knew so much about him. That could be how they knew of his world and could influence events there—they might never go there in person. This comforted him a little, though he realised that getting out of this situation was going to be even more difficult than he’d thought.

  He looked through the windows and saw Farlowe’s big body perched on its stool. The other people in the café were still sitting with their backs to him. He realised that there was something familiar about them.

  He saw Farlowe get up and walk towards the door. He came out and got into the car, slamming the door after him. He leaned back in his seat and handed Seward a sandwich. “You seem worked up, son,” he said. “You’d better eat this.”

  Seward took the sandwich. He was staring at the backs of the other customers again. He frowned.

  Farlowe started the car and they moved towards the road. Then Seward realised who the men reminded him of. He craned his head back in the hope of seeing their faces, but it was too late. They had reminded him of his dead assistants—the men who’d committed suicide.

  They roared through dimly seen towns—all towers and angles. There seemed to be nobody about. Dawn came up and they still sped on. Seward realised that Farlowe must have a tremendous vitality, for he didn’t seem to tire at all. Also, perhaps, he was motivated by a desire to get as far away from the fortress as possible.

  They stopped twice to refuel and Farlowe bought more sandwiches and coffee which they had as they drove.

  In the late afternoon Farlowe said: “Almost there.”

  They passed through a pleasant village. It was somehow alien, although very similar to a small English village. It had an oddly foreign look which was hard to place. Farlowe pulled in at what seemed to be the gates of a large public park. He looked up at the sun. “Just made it,” he said. “Wait in the park—someone will come to collect you.”

  “You’re leaving me?”

  “Yes. I don’t think they know where you are. They’ll look but, with luck, they won’t look around here. Out you get, son. Into the park.”

  “Who do I wait for?”

  “You’ll know her when she comes.”

  “Her?” He got out and closed the door. He stood on the pavement watching as, with a cheerful wave, Farlowe drove off. He felt a tremendous sense of loss then, as if his only hope had been taken away.

  Gloomily, he turned and walked through the park gates.

  4

  As he walked between low hedges along a gravel path, he realised that this park, like so many things in this world, contrasted with the village it served. It was completely familiar just like a park on his own world.

  It was like a grey, hazy winter’s afternoon, with the brittle, interwoven skeletons of trees black and sharp against the cold sky. Birds perched on trees and bushes, or flew noisily into the silent air.

  Evergreens crowded upon the leaf-strewn grass. Cry of sparrows. Peacocks, necks craned forward, dived towards scattered bread. Silver birch, larch, elm, monkey-puzzle trees, and swaying white ferns, each one like an ostrich feather stuck in the earth. A huge, ancient, nameless trunk from which, at the top, grew an expanse of soft, yellow fungus; the trunk itself looking like a Gothic cliff, full of caves and dark windows. A grey-and-brown pigeon perched motionless on the slender branches of a young birch. Peacock chicks the size of hens pecked with concentration at the grass.

  Mellow, nostalgic smell of winter; distant sounds of children playing; lost black dog looking for master; red disc of sun in the cool, darkening sky. The light was sharp and yet soft, peaceful. A path led into the distance towards a flight of wide stone steps, at the top of which was the curving entrance to an arbour, browns, blacks and yellows of sapless branches and fading leaves.

  From the arbour a girl appeared and began to descend the steps with quick, graceful movements. She stopped when she reached the path. She looked at him. She had long, blonde hair and wore a white dress with a full skirt. She was about seventeen.

  The peace of the park was suddenly interrupted by children rushing from nowhere towards the peacocks, laughing and shouting. Some of the boys saw the tree-trunk and made for it. Others stood looking upwards at the sun as it sank in the cold air. They seemed not to see either Seward or the girl. Seward looked at her. Did he recognise her? It wasn’t possible. Yet she, too, gave him a look of recognition, smiled shyly at him and ran towards him. She reached him, stood on tiptoe and gave him a light kiss on the cheek.

  “Hello, Lee.”

  “Hello. Have you come to find me?”

  “I’ve been looking for you a long time.”

  “Farlowe sent a message ahead?”

  She took his hand. “Come on. Where have you been, Lee?”

  This was a question he couldn’t answer. He let her lead him back up the steps, through the arbour. Between the branches he glanced a garden and a pool. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s see what’s for dinner. Mother’s looking forward to meeting you.”

  He no longer questioned how these strange people all seemed to know his name. It was still possible that all of them were taking part in the conspiracy against him.

  At the end of the arbour was a house, several storeys high. It was a pleasant house with a blue-and-white door. She led him up the path and into a hallway. It was shining with dark polished wood and brass plates on the walls. From a room at the end he smelled spicy cooking. She went first and opened the door at the end. “Mother—Lee Seward’s here. Can we come in?”

  “Of course.” The voice was warm, husky, full of humour. They went into the room and Seward saw a woman of about forty, very well preserved, tall, large-boned with a fine-featured face and smiling mouth. Her eyes also smiled. Her sleeves were rolled up and she put the lid back on a pan on the stove.

  “How do you do, Professor Seward. Mr. Farlowe’s told us about you. You’re in trouble, I hear.”

  “How do you do, Mrs.—”

  “Call me Martha. Has Sally introduced herself?”

  “No,” Sally laughed. “I forgot. I’m Sally, Lee.”

  Her mother gave a mock frown. “I suppose you’ve been calling our guest by his first name, as usual. Do you mind, professor?”

  “Not at all.” He was thinking how attractive they both were, in their different ways. The young, fresh girl and her warm, intelligent moth
er. He had always enjoyed the company of women, but never so much, he realised, as now. They seemed to complement one another. In their presence he felt safe, at ease. Now he realised why Farlowe had chosen them to hide him. Whatever the facts, he would feel safe here.

  Martha was saying: “Dinner won’t be long.”

  “It smells good.”

  “Probably smells better than it tastes,” she laughed. “Go into the lounge with Sally. Sally, fix Professor Seward a drink.”

  “Call me Lee,” said Seward, a little uncomfortably. He had never cared much for his first name. He preferred his middle name, William, but not many others did.

  “Come on, Lee,” she took his hand and led him out of the kitchen. “We’ll see what there is.” They went into a small, well-lighted lounge. The furniture, like the whole house, had a look that was half-familiar, half-alien—obviously the product of a slightly different race. Perhaps they deliberately imitated Earth culture, without quite succeeding. Sally still gripped his hand. Her hand was warm and her skin smooth. He made to drop it but, involuntarily, squeezed it gently before she took it away to deal with the drink. She gave him another shy smile. He felt that she was as attracted to him as he to her. “What’s it going to be?” she asked him.

  “Oh, anything,” he said, sitting down on a comfortable sofa. She poured him a dry martini and brought it over. Then she sat demurely down beside him and watched him drink it. Her eyes sparkled with a mixture of sauciness and innocence which he found extremely appealing. He looked around the room.

  “How did Farlowe get his message to you?” he said.

  “He came the other day. Said he was going to try and get into the fortress and help you. Farlowe’s always flitting about. I think the people at the fortress have a price on his head or something. It’s exciting, isn’t it?”

  “You can say that again,” Seward said feelingly.

  “Why are they after you?”

  “They want me to help them destroy the world I come from. Do you know anything about it?”

  “Earth, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Was he going to get some straightforward answers at last?

  “I know it’s very closely connected with ours and that some of us want to escape from here and go to your world.”