The Coming of the Teraphiles

by Michael Moorcock

  made them drool rather as Serbian wolves had drooled when

  a rare troika full of wealthy kulaks sped over the snow on

  silver runners, her tinkling sleigh bells reminding them what

  fresh horse-and-peasant tasted like.

  Bending his eye to the big keyhole which gave him a sight

  of the outside landing, Lord Sherwood saw Mrs Banning-

  Cannon slow to half-speed as her spouse, splendid in

  traditional white-tie supper attire, emerged to offer her his

  arm, causing a minor jam as guests in rooms, almost all of

  traditional carnivore strains, fell in at their rear. The centaur,

  H'hn'ee, immediately behind them in splendid black and

  white, was forced to dig in his hoofs pretty rapidly to avoid

  colliding with the over-eager canine, Uff Nuf O'Kay, next

  to him. Together Mr and Mrs Banning-Cannon proceeded

  towards the banisters of the main staircase to arrive at the top

  and pause there in a stately manner. Her expression was that

  of one who had finally made it to top Indian on the totem

  pole, whereas her husband wore a grin set in what used to be

  called 'the rictus of death'. As it happened, Urquart Banning-

  Cannon felt in fairly excellent spirits but had never been very

  good at smiling. His wife had insisted on the smile.

  They seemed to sail past at an incredibly slow rate of

  knots. It was, Bingo could have sworn, five full minutes

  before they began to descend. The other guests were starting

  to back up. He saw Flapper arrive from her room and direct

  an irritable glance at Hari Agincourt, who made a strange,

  wriggling movement and just managed a grin, appearing if

  anything more terrified than Mr Banning-Cannon's. Other

  guests rounded the corner and slowed in some surprise to

  see the jam. But at least it was now moving.

  'Finally!' Lord Sherwood drew on a pair of white kid

  gloves (because he had learned from his own perusal of those

  ancient 'thrillers' that this was always what Fantomas did)

  and inserted his master key into the door which joined his

  room with Mr Banning-Cannon's. The wards turned slowly

  but smoothly with a reassuring set of clicks and clacks. The

  door to Mr Banning-Cannon's room swung open.

  Leaving the key in the lock, Robin of Sherwood, the pride

  of his people, stole silently between the rooms, the smell of

  Mr B-C's cologne mingling with that of the antique beef and

  some other, less readily identifiable salty scent, to discover

  to his surprise that the door into the intersecting apartments

  had been locked from the other side by what he considered an

  overly suspicious guest. This meant he was forced to return

  for the master key by which he let himself in through the

  other connecting door. Seconds later, another quick snap of

  his elegant wrist, and he had opened the door into Mrs B-C's

  bedroom, a riot of brilliant colour, flashing gemstones and

  silks rippling in the sweet summer breeze coming through

  the open window.

  Averting his gentlemanly eyes from the spectacle of his

  guest's sturdy bloomers, he raced to the wardrobe, expecting

  to discover a hatbox somewhere in the vicinity. He saw

  nothing on top. Nothing under the four-poster. In fact, no

  such receptacle was to be seen anywhere. He sniffed at a

  funny burnt toast and flowers sort of smell, maybe a new

  kind of perfume? His search grew increasingly desperate. In

  none of the rooms, on top of no cupboard, under no bed and

  behind no secret panel was there a sign of anything like the

  hat or its box, both of which had been described to him in

  some detail. He sniffed again. That odd smell. What was it?

  He was about to begin again when he heard a sound in the

  hall outside. Someone was unlocking the door leading to the

  landing!

  They were coming in! They would discover him.

  There was nowhere to hide. He looked wildly about for

  cover.

  Then came an outraged yell from behind him. With

  a terrified gulp, Robin, Earl of Lockesley set off at a rapid

  lick back to his quarters the way he had come, ripping off

  his gloves, haring through Urquart Banning-Cannon's

  apartments to reach his own room and slamming his door

  behind him while, on the other side, Mrs Banning-Cannon's

  screams of mingled anger and terror sounded up and down

  the ancient halls of Lockesley. His heart beat faster and faster.

  All thought was driven from his head. Made dizzy by the

  emotional upheavals of the past hour or so, he felt his legs

  wobble.

  The screaming grew louder and louder. A woman's voice

  cried: 'Through there. I saw them! They have stolen my finest

  hat!'

  Lord Bingo's simple but, it has to be admitted, somewhat

  overbred system had taken all it could. Across the galaxy, on

  dozens of reconstituted Earth-type planets, there were peers

  proud to boast of the peasant blood flowing in their veins,

  but the Lockesleys were not among them. Neither were they

  a nervous family since their blood, rather than thinning,

  had tended to atrophy; equally the Lockesley nerves were

  not so much highly tuned as petrified. That said, they had

  also managed to avoid all major conflicts since the time of

  Vortigern when an ancestor, for a bet, had stolen a Roman's

  helmet and had to leg it pretty fast with the best part of a

  Roman legion in hot pursuit. Therefore, it was something

  of an aberration when Bingo, his sturdy, uncomplex brain

  shaken at last by an overdose of imagination and unfamiliar

  terrors, gave up in the face of Fate's implacable workings.

  The legs, which had threatened to buckle, finally did. His

  noble brow narrowly missing the comer of the ancestral

  space-chest, he fell forward, struck the old Iranian carpet and

  remained there.

  Blackness swam up to embrace him.

  He welcomed oblivion. He did not welcome coming to.

  He awoke after what could only have been a minute or

  two to hear someone's depressing declaration:

  'He's dead. As a doornail. He was killed when he startled

  the thief and tried to intercept him... See? Those are tiny

  needle marks in his neck. They must have escaped through

  his French windows! They're wide open.'

  Lord Sherwood groaned, as much for his own benefit as

  anyone's. 'I say! What tiny needle marks?'

  'They've gone now. Must have been a mistake of your

  nano-razor.'

  'Merely stunned,' offered another voice. 'Let's hope he

  saw the intruder!'

  Bingo opened his eyes. Half a dozen worried faces stared

  down at him. He couldn't think of anything very original to

  say so he said, 'Where am I?' and waited for the best.

  By the cooing sound of Mrs B-C somewhere in the

  background he could tell she did not suspect him. And,

  judging by Mr B-C's grotesque wink, he was already getting

  credit for pinching the Great Hat of Loondoon. This bothered

  him a bit, since he hadn't actually pinched the tile, while the

  expressions on his guests' faces suggeste
d that something

  substantially dastardly had been achieved.

  'That's the mark of your true aristocrat,' he heard Mrs

  Banning-Cannon declare. 'I saw him going after them.

  Look, his windows are open, too. They got away through

  them. Without thought for his own safety he tried to tackle

  the thieves as they made their escape! And they struck him

  down!'

  So the hat had been pinched!

  'He's not hurt is he?' came Amy's worried voice from the

  back.

  The Doctor felt behind Bingo's head. 'Doesn't seem to be.

  Maybe we should heave him onto the bed and check.'

  'Couldn't we all do this later?' suggested Uff Nuf O'Kay.

  'It would be a shame if the dinner were spoiled.'

  And so a compromise was struck and Robin, Lord of

  Sherwood, was stretched out on his bed with a flask of

  brandy on his nightstand, as everyone else trooped down to

  enjoy the feast while the soup, fish, meats and veg remained

  more or less at their proper temperatures.

  This was a feast Bingo didn't intend to miss. He had

  anticipated it since boyhood when his grandfather had

  taken him on his knee and told him of the family's haunch

  of giant bison kept at optimum freshness until such time as

  Sherwood might be restored and a monarch sit upon the

  throne. Lord Sherwood rested only for a few moments before

  rising, straightening his ties, running a comb through his

  hair, checking his neck for tiny needle marks and legging it

  downstairs with all the dignity a hungry man could muster.

  A moment or two later he made his entrance into the dining

  room on the excuse that no true Sherwood could desert his

  guests on such an important occasion.

  'A genuine hero!' pronounced Mrs B-C. 'If only you had

  arrived in my room a moment earlier! It's a wonder they

  didn't have a go at the vault sent ahead today. The one

  with the silver arrow in it! How did the thief escape, Lord

  Sherwood? Did you see? Through the window and over the

  balcony, I take it. You heard a noise, went to investigate and

  - well, we know the rest. Did you see the man?'

  'Man?' Bingo Lockesley took his place at the table.

  'I'm assuming it was a man who stole my hat. Or two

  men, maybe. Or a man and a woman. Sexton Begg and

  Mademoiselle Yvonne? That hat was heavy! I was going

  to have to wear a special anti-magnetic harness under my

  costume tomorrow. If I had not forgotten my reticule and

  returned for it, there would have been no witness to your

  bravery. He was leaving when I went back. I was heartened

  to see you chasing the intruder - or perhaps intruders! Was

  there more than one, Lord Robin? Did you tackle them

  both?'

  'Um,' said Bingo. His fall to the carpet had deafened him

  a little.

  '- and, careless of their numbers, chased them through

  the adjoining doors,' Enola Banning-Cannon continued,

  glowing with hero-worship, 'and then they gave you the

  slip! They must have been huge. Unless there were three or

  four of them. In which case you were braver than ever!' she

  exclaimed. 'Tell us, Lord Sherwood! Did you see four or five

  men? Can you give us a description?'

  'I regret,' he said as he sat down at the head of the table,

  'that I recognised none of them.'

  'They'll have escaped by now.' Mr Banning-Cannon laid

  down his soup spoon. 'I'd notify the local police. But if the

  thieves had a vehicle waiting, they could already be off-

  planet...'

  'Of course they only needed a moment,' his wife resumed.

  'And, as you say, if they had a ship waiting, perhaps another

  ship in space, they could be light years away! They must have

  known how valuable a Diana of Loondoon creation can be.

  They'll try to fence it, I suppose. I'd heard there were gangs

  of hat-snatchers all over this part of the galaxy...'

  'I warned you, my dear!' Mr Banning-Cannon finished his

  soup.

  'You warned me of no such thing! Indeed, Urquart,

  if you had not been with me the entire time, I might have

  suspected...'

  'You don't think they were after the Arrow of Artemis and

  took the hat by mistake?' At the other end of the table, the

  Doctor had lifted his head from his plate. 'You said you saw

  no one in the gang? Nothing for the Magistrate to go on?'

  'Not a shadow,' said Bingo truthfully. 'They might almost

  have been invisible. D-d-id you say M-m-m...?'

  'Or time-trippers.' Hari Agincourt was excited by the

  notion. 'I once saw a V about a gang which specialised in

  shunting back a few minutes before a crime was committed,

  pinching whatever it was they wanted, hiding the swag and

  then shunting forward again, leaving only the tell-tale smell

  of burning salt behind them. Or was it pepper? Or vodka?'

  Amy sniffed.

  'Yes,' said the Doctor, following her logic. 'That's all your

  theory lacks, Mr Agincourt.'

  'See what you mean.' Hari bit his lip. 'No burning sea water,

  eh?'

  'Well, it could have been disguised by the delicious scents

  of our dinner, I suppose.' Mr Banning-Cannon came to Hari's

  help. 'You have to admit—'

  'But there was an odd smell. We are all impressed by the

  dinner,' Mrs Banning-Cannon graciously acknowledged

  their host, 'however I am certain that few of us here could

  not mistake roasting beef for burnt ozone. I'm sure it wasn't

  ozone. Lavender, perhaps, with a hint of Mary's Passion.

  Definitely floral. If you can't be helpful in any other way,

  Urquart, I suggest you try not to intervene with further

  theories. You have done your part. The police must have been

  called by now and should be here in the morning, though

  why they don't work at night I can't think. With luck, they'll

  already have captured the felons by then and return my hat

  unharmed.'

  A fresh thought suddenly occurred to Bingo: Would they?

  Return the hat unharmed, that was? Suppose they were

  animal rights activists objecting to fur and feathers who

  merely intended to do a little unpicking or V-painting of the

  hat before returning it? Or hatnappers, even! Or common

  opportunist crooks. What if they had really been after the

  Silver Arrow but couldn't crack the time-sealed vault? No.

  That was secure and anyway he was pretty sure it had already

  been shunted into the future. It was likely that once aboard

  the Gargantua Mr B-C would know immediately that Bingo

  had nothing to do with the heist and be thoroughly within his

  rights in rescinding the offered reward, maybe withdrawing

  Bingo's concession and kicking him, de-Earled, off the planet

  altogether. Now he chewed his antique beef without relish...

  'Mocked are the meek when caught in untruthful celebration,'

  as the Book of Coleman's had it.

  Lord Sherwood ignored the swift glance of enquiry Mr

  B-C threw in his direction. At this rate the planet-moulder

  would give the game away. Mr B-C did not know at that

  stage that the Earl
of Lockesley had been unsuccessful in his

  heist and had, indeed, been thwarted in his ambition. The

  great tycoon was basking in the glow of success, believing

  that Bingo had managed to hide the huge hat somewhere in

  his room and would be able to produce it, no doubt, during

  the following evening when the party was over and, in the

  words of the recently revived song, they had burst his pretty

  balloon and stolen the moon away. Well they'd done that

  aeons ago. Anyway, it was a hat in this case, rather than a

  moon, which could then be 'discovered' somewhere and

  returned. By which time the local magistrate would be able

  to dismiss the whole episode as an annoying prank by some

  of the younger members of the Second Fifteen. Don't worry,

  Bingo, old lad. Things were proceeding nicely.

  Mr B-C's opinion of the young man as well as the entire

  aristocracy had risen considerably in the past hour or two.

  Not only had Sherwood snaffled the hideous headgear

  from under the nose of his guest, he had been able to hide it

  before Mrs Banning-Cannon had unexpectedly returned to

  the room to recover her forgotten reticule. That had shown

  remarkable resourcefulness! The captain of industry could

  not have done better himself. Indeed, with rare generosity,

  he admitted he could not have done as well. He longed to

  find out how the job had been accomplished. Meanwhile

  he returned his attention to the meal before him which had

  taken on something of the character of a victory feast.

  Later, enjoying a cigar and a ballon of cognac on the terrace,

  he was able to catch Bingo alone for a moment and grace him

  with an enormous wink. 'Good show, my boy!'

  At that moment W.G. Grace, smoking a large cigar and

  stroking her magnificent beard, sashayed round the corner

  of the terrace to an exchange of 'good evenings' and so forth.

  A couple more such interruptions and Bingo was practically

  tongue-tied.

  At last Bingo opened his mouth to fill his patron in on

  the real details of the event then realised that, not only was

  this the wrong moment, there might never be a right one.

  The hat was gone, perhaps for ever. There might never come

  a time when it was returned. In which case, although he

  could be said to have failed in his commission, Mr Banning-

  Cannon would never know. He would hand over the keys

  of the desanctioned Peers™ with gratitude and good grace,