Dancers at the End of Time

by Michael Moorcock

  He was excited as he ran back down the bank, but he did not forget his priorities. He paused to arrange the flowers and, when she stood up from her toilet, turning towards him, he presented the bunch.

  "A little late, I fear," he said. "But here they are! Your flowers, Mrs. Underwood."

  She hesitated for a moment and then reached out to take them. "Thank you, Mr. Carnelian." Her lips trembled.

  He looked searchingly at her face. "Your eyes —" he said — "they seem wet. Did you splash some water into your face?"

  She cleared her throat and put fingers first to one eye and then the other. "I suppose I did," she agreed.

  "I believe that we are a little closer to our goal," he told her, pointing back up the bank. "It will not be long now before we are back in my own age and you can take up my 'moral education' where you were forced to leave it, when you were snatched from my arms."

  She shook her head and her smile, now, seemed a little warmer. "I sometimes wonder if you are deliberately naïve, Mr. Carnelian. I have told you — my duty is to return to Harold and try to ease his mind. Think of him! He is not — not a flexible man. He must be in agony at this moment."

  "Well, if you wish to return, we will both go. I will explain to him in more detail…"

  "That would not help. Somehow we must ensure your safety, then I will go to him on my own."

  "And after that, you will come to me?"

  "No, Mr. Carnelian."

  "Even though you love me?"

  "Yes, Mr. Carnelian. And, I say again. I have not confirmed what I said at a time when I was not altogether in my right senses. Besides, Mr. Carnelian, what if I did love you? I have seen your world — your people play at real life — your emotions are the emotions of actors — sincere for the moment that they are displayed on stage before the public. Knowing this, how would I feel if I did love you? I would be aware that your love for me is nothing but a sentimental imposture, pursued, admittedly, with a certain persistence, but an imposture none the less."

  "Oh, no, no, no!" His large eyes clouded. "How could you think that?"

  They stood in silence upon the bank of the tranquil river. Her eyes were downcast as she looked at the flowers; her delicate hands stroked the petals; she breathed rapidly. He took a step towards her and then stopped. He thought for a moment, before he spoke.

  "Mrs. Underwood?"

  "Yes, Mr. Carnelian?"

  "What is an imposture?"

  She looked up in surprise and then she laughed. "Oh, dear, Mr. Carnelian! Oh dear! What are we to do?"

  He took her hand and she did not resist him. He began to lead her up the bank. "We'll go to the people who live in the laboratories I've just spotted. They'll help us."

  "Laboratories. How do you know?"

  "Robot workers. You don't have many in 1896, do you?"

  "We have none at all, as far as I've heard!"

  "Then I am right. It is of an experimental nature. We shall find scientists there. And scientists will not only understand what I have to say — they'll be more than glad to be of assistance!"

  "I am not at all sure, Mr. Carnelian — Oh!" She had reached the fence, she was looking at the scene below them. First she blushed and then she laughed. "Oh, Mr. Carnelian, I'm afraid your hopes are unjustified. I wondered what the smell might be…"

  "Smell? Is it unusual?"

  "A little. Oh, my goodness…"

  "It is not an experimental farm, Mrs. Underwood?" For the first time his spirits threatened to desert him.

  "No, Mr. Carnelian. It is what we call a sewage farm." She leaned on the fence and as she laughed tears ran down her cheeks.

  "What is 'sewage?' " he asked.

  "It is not something a lady could tell you, I fear!"

  He sat down on the ground at her feet. He put his head in his hands and he became aware of a hint of despair in the back of his mind.

  "Then how are we to find a time machine?" he said. "Even an old one, even that broken one I left behind on my last visit — it would be something. Ah, Mrs. Underwood, I think I have not planned this adventure as well as I might have done."

  "Perhaps that is why I am beginning to enjoy it," she said. "Cheer up, Mr. Carnelian. My father always used to tell me that there was nothing like a good, solid, seemingly unsolvable problem to get one's teeth into and take one's mind off the usual silly anxieties which plague us. And this problem is huge — it certainly makes any others I might have had seem very trivial indeed! I must admit I had sunk into self-pity and that will never do. But I am over that now."

  "I suspect that I am only just beginning to discover what it is," said Jherek feelingly. "Does it involve a belief in an anthropomorphical and malevolent being called Fate?"

  "I'm afraid it does, Mr. Carnelian."

  He pulled himself slowly to his feet. She helped him on with his coat. He brightened at the next thought which occurred to him. "Perhaps, however, it is furthering my 'moral education'? Would that be the case, Mrs. Underwood?"

  They began to climb down the bank and back to the sandy path.

  This time she took him by the hand. "It's more in the nature of a side-effect, though I know I shouldn't sound so cynical. Mr. Underwood has often said to me that there is nothing so unwelcome in the sight of the Lord than a cynical woman. And there are a great many of them about, I'm afraid, in these worldly and upsetting modern times of ours. Come along, let's see where this path takes us."

  "I hope," he murmured, "that it is not back to Bromley."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Entrained for the Metropolis

  The small sandy-haired man unscrewed the ebony and glass object from his right eye and sucked somewhat noisily at his teeth. "Funny," he said. "It's a cut above yer usual paste. I'll give ya that much.

  But it's no more a real ruby than the kind ya kin by fer a shillin' in the market. Settin's nice, though, I can't recognize the metal. Well, 'ow much d'yer wanna borrow on it?" He held out Jherek's power ring on the palm of his hand.

  Mrs. Underwood stood nervously beside Jherek at the counter. "A sovereign?"

  "I dunno." He looked at it again. "It's a curiosity, an' beautiful workmanship, I'll grant … But what do I risk? Fifteen bob?"

  "Very well," said Mrs. Underwood. She accepted the money on Jherek's behalf. He was half-stupefied by the negotiations, having no clear idea of what was taking place. He didn't mind losing a power ring, for he could easily get another on his return and they were useless here, but he could not quite understand why Mrs. Underwood was giving it to this man and why the man was giving her something in exchange. She accepted a ticket and tucked it into his top pocket.

  They left the shop and entered a busy street. "Luckily it's market day and we shan't be too noticeable," said Mrs. Underwood. "Gypsies and so on will be about, as well." Carts and carriages jammed the narrow roadway and a couple of motor cars added to the confusion, their fumes giving rise to a great deal of pointed coughing and loud complaints from those on foot. "We'll have something to eat at the station buffet, while we are waiting for the train. Once in London, we'll go straight to the Café Royale and hope that one of your friends is there. It is our only chance." She walked as rapidly as possible up the winding pavement of the country street, turning into an alley blocked by two posts; the alley became a series of stone steps. They climbed them and found themselves in a much quieter road.

  "The station's this way, I believe," she said. "It is a stroke of luck that we were so close to Orpington."

  They approached a green and red building. It was indeed, the railway station and Mrs. Underwood marched boldly to the ticket office and bought them two Second Class single tickets to Charing Cross.

  "We have twenty minutes to wait," she said, glancing at the clock over the ticket office, "ample time for refreshments. And," she added in an undertone, "there are no police in evidence. We appear for the moment to have made good our escape."

  It was Jherek's first encounter with the cheese sandwich. He found it r
ather hard going, but he made the most of the experience, telling himself that, after all, he might not have the chance again. He enjoyed the tea, finding it rather nicer than the beverage he had had at Mrs. Underwood's, and when, at last, the train came steaming into the station he cried out in delight: "It is just like my own little engine at home!"

  Mrs. Underwood seemed embarrassed. Some of the other people in the refreshment room were looking at Jherek and whispering among themselves. But Jherek hardly noticed.

  He was dragging Mrs. Underwood eagerly through the doors and onto the platform.

  "Orping ton," called a thin man in a dark uniform. " Or pington!"

  Jherek waited impatiently for some passengers to leave their carriage and he climbed in, nodding and smiling to those who were already seated.

  "Isn't it splendid?" he said to her as they sat down. "Ancient transport has always been one of my chief enthusiasms — as you know."

  "Please try to say as little as possible," she begged him in a whisper. She had already warned him that the newspapers would have published reports of their adventures of the previous night. He apologized and settled back, but he could not resist peering animatedly out of the windows at the scenery as it went past.

  Mrs. Underwood seemed particularly distraught by the time they reached Charing Cross. Before leaving the carriage, she leaned out of the open window and then waited until all the other passengers had gone before saying to Jherek: "I cannot see any sign that the police are waiting for us. But we must hurry."

  They joined the crowds making their way towards the barriers at the far end of the platforms and here even Jherek was conscious that they did not quite look the same as the others. Mrs. Underwood's dress was muddy, crumpled and torn in a couple of places; also she wore no hat, whereas all the other ladies had hats, veils, sunshades and coats. Jherek's black coat was stained and as battered as Mrs.

  Underwood's dress and he had a large hole in the knee of his left trouser leg. As they reached the gate and handed their tickets to the collector, they attracted some comment as well as disapproving glances.

  And it was Jherek who saw the policeman come walking ponderously towards them, his tongue thoughtfully stroking his lower lip, his hands clasped behind his back.

  "Run, Mrs. Underwood!" he shouted urgently.

  And then it was too late for her to brazen out the confrontation for the policeman was saying: "By Golly, it is them!" and was beginning to pull a whistle from his pocket.

  They dashed for the exit, blundering first into a very large woman carrying a basket and leading a very small black and white dog on a piece of string, who cried " 'ere, watch it!" rather too late; then into two maiden ladies who cackled like startled hens and said a great deal concerning the manners of the young; and lastly into a stout stockbroker in a hat of exaggerated height and sleekness, who grunted

  "Bless my soul!" and sat down on a fruitstall so that the fruitstall collapsed and sent apples, grapefruit, oranges and pineapples rolling about in all directions, causing the policeman to interrupt his attempts to blow his whistle as he dodged a veritable Niagara of pears, calling after them: "Stop there! Stop, I say, in the name of the Law!"

  Outside the station they found themselves in the Strand and now Jherek saw something leaning against a wall on the corner of Villiers Street.

  "Look!, Mrs. Underwood — we are saved. A time machine!"

  "That, Mr. Carnelian, is a tandem bicycle."

  He already had his hands on it and was trying to straddle it as he had seen the others do.

  "We would do better to hail a cab," she said.

  "Get aboard quickly. Can you see any controls?"

  With a sigh, she took the remaining saddle, in the front. "We had best head for Regent Street. It is not far, happily. The other side of Piccadilly. At least this will prove to you, once and for all, that…"

  Her voice was lost as they hurtled into the press of the traffic, weaving between trams and omnibuses, between horses and motor cars and causing both to come to sudden stops and stand stock still in the middle of the road, panting and shuddering.

  Jherek, expecting to see the scene vanish at any moment, paid little attention to the confusion happening around them. He was having a great deal of trouble keeping his balance upon the time machine.

  "It will be soon!" he cried into her ear, "it must be soon!" And he pedalled harder. All that happened was that the machine lurched onto the pavement, shot across Trafalgar Square at considerable speed, up the Haymarket, and was in Leicester Square almost before they had realized it. Here Jherek fell off the tandem, to the vast entertainment of a crowd of street urchins hanging about outside the doors of the Empire Theatre of Varieties.

  "It doesn't seem to work," he said.

  Mrs. Underwood informed him that she had told him so. She now had a large tear in the hem of her dress where it had caught in the chain. However, for the moment, they did not appear to have the police on their trail.

  "Quickly," she said, "and let us pray to heaven that someone who knows you is in the Café Royale!"

  Heads turned as they ran across Piccadilly Circus and arrived at last at the doors of the Café Royale which Jherek had last visited less than twenty-four hours before. Mrs. Underwood pushed at the doors, but they would not budge. "Oh goodness!" she said in despair. "It's closed!"

  "Closed?" said Jherek. He pressed his face to the glass. He could see people inside. He signed to them, but they shook their hands from side to side and pointed at the clock.

  "Closed," sighed Mrs. Underwood. She uttered a funny, toneless laugh. "Well, that's it! We're finished!"

  "Hey!" called someone. They turned, ready to run, but it was not the police. From the great tide of traffic converging upon Piccadilly Circus they distinguished a hansom cab, its driver seated high in the rear of the vehicle, his face expressionless. "Hi!" said a voice from within the cab.

  "Mr. Harris!" called Jherek, recognizing the face. "We were hoping you would be in the Café Royale."

  "Get in!" hissed Harris. "Hurry. Both of you."

  Mrs. Underwood lost no time in accepting his offer and soon the three of them were crammed in the cab and it was jogging around the Circus and back towards Leicester Square.

  "You are the young man I saw yesterday," said Harris in triumph. "I thought so. This is a bit of luck."

  "Luck for us, Mr. Harris," said Mrs. Underwood, "but not for you if your part in this is discovered."

  "Oh, I've bluffed my way out of worse situations," he said. He laughed easily. "Besides, I'm a journalist first and foremost — and we newshounds are permitted a certain amount of leeway when obtaining a really tip-top story. I'm not just helping you out of altruism, you know. I read the papers today. They're saying that you're the Mayfair Killer come back from the dead to be reunited with your — um — paramour!" Mr. Harris's eyes gleamed. "What's your version? You certainly bear a striking resemblance to the Killer. I saw a drawing in one of the papers when the trial was taking place. And you, young lady, were a witness for the defence at the trial, were you not?"

  She looked at Mr. Harris a little suspiciously. It seemed to Jherek that she did not altogether like the bluff, rapid-speaking editor of the Saturday Review.

  He saw that she hesitated and raised his hand. "Say no more at this stage! What reason, after all, have you to trust me." With his stick he opened a hatch at the top of the cab. "I have changed my mind, cabby. Take us, instead to Bloomsbury Square." He let the flap fall back and turning to them said, "I have rooms there where you will be safe for the moment."

  "Why are you helping us, Mr. Harris?"

  "I want an exclusive of your story, ma'am, for one thing. Also, there were facts about the Mayfair case which never seemed to fit right. I am curious to know what you can tell me."

  "You could help us with the Law?" Hope now overcame her caution.

  "I have many friends," said Mr. Harris, stroking his chin with the head of his cane, "in the Law. I am on intimate terms with
several High Court Judges, Queen's Counsels — eminent lawyers of all descriptions. I think you could call me a man of influence, ma'am."

  "Then we may yet be saved," said Mrs. Underwood.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Mysterious Mr. Jackson

  After installing Mrs. Underwood and Jherek Carnelian in his Bloomsbury rooms, Mr. Harris left, telling them that he would return as soon as possible and that they were to make themselves comfortable.

  The rooms, it seemed, did not really meet with Mrs. Underwood's approval, though Jherek found them extremely pleasant. There were numerous pictures of attractive young people upon the walls, there were thick velvet curtains at the windows, and deep-piled Turkish carpets upon the floors. There were porcelain figurines and a profusion of jade and amber ornaments. Looking through the books, Jherek found a great many elegant drawings of a kind he had not previously seen and he showed them to Mrs.

  Underwood, hoping that they might cheer her up, but instead she closed the books with a bang, refusing to explain why she would not look at the pictures. He was disappointed, for he had hoped that she would help the time pass by reading to him from the books. He found some other books, with yellow paper covers, which did not have pictures, and handed one of these to her.

  "Perhaps you could read this?"

  She glanced at it and sniffed. "It is French," she said.

  "You do not like it, either?"

  "It is French." She looked through into the bedroom, at the wide bed with its lavish coverings. "This whole place reeks of the fin de siècle. Although Mr. Harris has helped us, I do not have to approve of his morals. I am in no doubt as to his purposes in keeping these rooms."

  "Purposes? Does he not live in them?"