Dancers at the End of Time

by Michael Moorcock

  "Live? Oh, yes. To the full, it seems. But I suspect this is not the address at which he entertains his respectable friends." She crossed to a window and flung it up. "If he has any," she added. "I wonder how long we shall have to stay here."

  "Until Mr. Harris has time to talk to a few people he knows and to take down our story," said Jherek, repeating what Mr. Harris had told them. "There is a great sense of safety about this apartment, Mrs. Underwood. Don't you feel it?"

  "It has been designed to avoid ordinary public scrutiny," she said, and she sniffed again. Then she stared into one of the long gilt mirrors and tried, as she had tried before, to tidy her hair.

  "Aren't you tired?" Jherek walked into the bedroom. "We could lie down. We could sleep."

  "So we could," she said sharply. "I suspect that there is more lying down than standing up goes on here, as a rule. Art nouveau everywhere! Purple plumes and incense. This is where Mr. Harris entertains his actresses."

  "Oh," said Jherek, having given up trying to understand her. He accepted, however, that there was something wrong with the rooms. He wished that Mrs. Underwood had been able to complete his moral education; if she had, he felt, he, too, might be able to enjoy sniffing and pursing his lips, for there was not much doubt that she was taking a certain pleasure in her activities: her cheeks were quite flushed, there was a light in her eyes. "Actresses?"

  "So-called."

  "There does not seem much in the way of food here," he told her, "but there are lots of bottles.

  Would you like something to drink?"

  "No thank you, Mr. Carnelian. Unless there is some mineral water."

  "You had better look for yourself, Mrs. Underwood. I don't know which is which."

  Hesitantly, she entered the bedroom and surveyed the wide selection on a small sideboard set against the wall. "Mrs. Harris appears to have a distaste for Adam's Ale," she said. Her head lifted as there came a knocking upon the outer door. "Who could that be?"

  "Mr. Harris returning earlier than expected?"

  "Possibly. Open the door, Mr. Carnelian, but have a care. I do not entirely trust your journalist friend."

  Jherek had some difficulty with the catch and the light knocking sounded again before he had the door open. When he saw who stood there, he grinned with relief and pleasure. "Oh, Jagged, dear Jagged! At last! It is you!"

  The handsome man in the doorway removed his hat. "The name," he said, "is Jackson. I believe I saw you briefly last night at the Café Royale? You would be Mr. Carnelian."

  "Come in, devious Jagged!"

  With a slight bow to Mrs. Underwood, who stood now in the centre of the sitting room, Lord Jagged of Canaria entered. "You would be Mrs. Underwood? My name is Jackson. I work for the Saturday Review. Mr. Harris sent me to take some shorthand notes. He will join us later."

  "You are the judge!" she exclaimed. "You are Lord Jagger, who sentenced Mr. Carnelian to death!"

  The man who claimed to be Mr. Jackson raised his eyebrows as, with a delicate movement, he divested himself of his top-coat and laid it, together with his hat, gloves and stick, upon the table. "Mr.

  Harris warned me that you would still be a little agitated. It is understandable, madam, in the circumstances. I assure you that I am neither of the two men so far mentioned. I am merely Jackson — a journalist. My job is to put some basic questions to you. Mr. Harris sent his regards and said that he is doing everything in his power to contact someone in high places — who must for the moment be nameless — in the hope that they will be able to assist you."

  "You bear a remarkable resemblance to the Lord Chief Justice," she said.

  "So I have been told. But I am neither as eminent nor as talented as that gentleman to my regret."

  Jherek was laughing. "Listen to him! Isn't he perfect!"

  "Mr. Carnelian," she said, "I think you are making a mistake. You will embarrass Mr. Jackson."

  "No, no!" Mr. Jackson dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his slender hand. "We journalists are pretty hardy fellows, you know."

  Jherek shrugged. "If you are not Jagged — and Jagged was not Jagger — then I must assume there are a number of Jaggeds, each playing different roles, perhaps throughout history…"

  Mr. Jackson smiled and produced a notebook and a pencil. "That's the stuff," he said. "We seem to have a rival to your friend Mr. Wells, eh, Mrs. Underwood?"

  "Mr. Wells is not my friend," she said.

  "You know him, however, don't you — Mr. Jackson?" asked Jherek.

  "Only slightly. We've had the odd conversation in the past. I've read a good many of his books, however. If your story is up to The Wonderful Visit and can be presented in the right way, then our circulation's assured!" He settled himself comfortably in a deep armchair. Jherek and Mrs. Underwood sat on the edge of the ottoman opposite him. "Now, I gather you're claiming to be the Mayfair Killer returned from the dead…"

  "Not at all!" exclaimed Mrs. Underwood. "Mr. Carnelian would not kill anyone."

  "Unfairly accused, then? Returned to vindicate the claim? Oh, this is splendid stuff!"

  "I haven't been dead," said Jherek. "Not recently at any rate. And I don't understand about the rest."

  "You are on the wrong tack, I fear, Mr. Jackson," said Mrs. Underwood primly.

  "Where have you been, then, Mr. Carnelian?"

  "In my own time — in Jagged's time — in the distant future, of course. I am a time traveller, just as Mrs. Underwood is." He touched her hand, but she removed it quickly. "That is how we met."

  "You honestly believe that you have travelled through time, Mr. Carnelian?"

  "Of course. Oh, Jagged, is there any point to this? You've already played this game once before!"

  Mr. Jackson turned his attention to Mrs. Underwood. "And you say that you visited the future?

  That you met Mr. Carnelian there? You fell in love?"

  "Mr. Carnelian was kind to me. He rescued me from imprisonment."

  "Aha! And you were able to do the same for him here?"

  "No. I am still not sure how he escaped death on the gallows, but escape he did — went back to his own time — then returned. Was it only last night? To Bromley."

  "Your husband then called the police."

  "Inadvertently, the police must have been called, yes. My husband was overexcited. Have you heard how he is, by the way?"

  "I have only read the papers. He is quoted, in the more sensational sheets, as claiming that you have been leading a double-life — by day a respectable, God-fearing Bromley housewife — by night, an accomplice of thieves — 'A Female Charlie Peace' I believe you were termed in today's Police Gazette

  ."

  "Oh, no! Then my reputation is gone for good."

  Mr. Jackson inspected the cuff of his shirt. "It would seem that it would take much, Mrs.

  Underwood, to restore it. You know how the odour of scandal clings, long after the scandal itself is proved unfounded."

  She straightened her shoulders. "It remains my duty to try to convince Harold that I am not the wanton creature he now believes me to be. It will cause him much grief if he thinks that I have been deceiving him over a period of time. I can still attempt to put his mind at rest on the issue."

  "Doubtless…" murmured Mr. Jackson, and his pencil moved rapidly across the page of his notebook. "Now, could we have a description of the future?" He returned his attention to Jherek. "An Anarchist Utopia, is it, perhaps? You are an anarchist, are you not, sir?"

  "I don't know what one is," said Jherek.

  "He certainly is not!" cried Mrs. Underwood. "A degree of anarchy might have resulted from his actions…"

  "A Socialist Utopia, then?"

  "I think I follow your meaning now, Mr. Jackson," said Mrs. Underwood. "You believe Mr.

  Carnelian to be some kind of mad political assassin, claiming to be from an ideal future in the hope of propagating his message?"

  "Well, I wondered…"

  "Was this idea original to you?"


  "Mr. Harris suggested —"

  "I suspected as much. He did not believe a word of our story!"

  "He considered it a trifle over-coloured, Mrs. Underwood. Would you not think so, if you heard it, say, from my lips!"

  "I wouldn't!" smiled Jherek. "Because I know who you are."

  "Do be quiet, please, Mr. Carnelian," said Mrs. Underwood. "You are in danger of confusing matters again."

  "You are beginning to confuse me, I fear," said Mr. Jackson equably.

  "Then we are only reciprocating, joking Jagged, the confusion you have created in us!" Jherek Carnelian got up and strode across the room. "You know that the Morphail Effect is supposed to apply in all cases of time travel to the past, whether by travellers who are returning to their own time, or those merely visiting the past from some future age."

  "I'm afraid that I have not heard of this 'Morphail Effect'? Some new theory?"

  Ignoring him, Jherek continued. "I now suspect that the Morphail Effect only applies in the case of those who produce a sufficient number of paradoxes to 'register' as it were upon the fabric of Time.

  Those who are careful to disguise their origins, to do little to make use of any information they might have of the future, are allowed to exist in the past for as long as they wish!"

  "I'm not sure I entirely follow you, Mr. Carnelian. However, please go on." Mr. Jackson continued to take notes.

  "If you publish all this, Mr. Carnelian will be judged thoroughly mad," said Mrs. Underwood quietly.

  "If you tell enough people what I have told you — it will send us off into the future again, probably."

  Jherek offered Mr. Jackson an intelligent stare. "Wouldn't it, Jagged?"

  Mr. Jackson said apologetically. "I'm still not quite with you. However, just keep talking and I'll keep taking notes."

  "I don't think I'll say anything for a while," said Jherek. "I must think this over."

  "Mr. Jackson could help us, if he would accept the truth," said Mrs. Underwood. "But if he is of the same opinion as Mr. Harris…"

  "I am a reporter," said Mr. Jackson. "I keep my theories to myself, Mrs. Underwood. All I wish to do is my job. If you had some proof, for instance…"

  "Show him that odd-looking gun you have, Mr. Carnelian."

  Jherek felt in the pocket of his coat and pulled the deceptor-gun out. "It's hardly proof," he said.

  "It is certainly a very bizarre design," said Mr. Jackson, inspecting it.

  He was holding it in his hands when there came a knocking on the door and a voice bellowed:

  "Open this door! Open in the name of the Law!"

  "The police!" Mrs. Underwood's hand went to her mouth. "Mr. Harris has betrayed us!"

  The door shook as heavy bodies flung themselves against it.

  Mr. Jackson got up slowly, handing back the gun to Jherek. "I think we had better let them in," he said.

  "You knew they were coming!" cried Mrs. Underwood accusingly. "Oh, we have been deceived on all sides."

  "I doubt if Mr. Harris knew. On the other hand, you were brought here in an ordinary cab. The police could have discovered the address from the cabby. It's rather typical of Frank Harris to forget, as it were, those all-important details."

  Mr. Jackson called out: "Wait one moment, please. We are about to unlock the door!" He smiled encouragingly at Mrs. Underwood as he undid the catch and flung the door wide. "Good afternoon, inspector."

  A man in a heavy ulster, with a small bowler hat fixed rigidly upon the top of his rocklike head, walked with massive bovine dignity into the room. He looked about him, he sniffed rather as Mrs.

  Underwood had sniffed; pointedly, he looked neither at Jherek Carnelian nor at Mrs. Underwood. Then he said:

  "Herr-um!"

  He wheeled, a cunning rhino, his finger jutting forward like a menacing horn, until it was quite close to Jherek's nose. "You 'im?"

  "Who?"

  "Mayfair Killer?"

  "No." Jherek inched backwards.

  "Thought not." He fingered a thoroughly well-waxed moustache. "I'm Inspector Springer." He brought bushy brows down over deep, brooding eyes. "Of Scotland Yard," he said. " Heard of me, 'ave you?"

  "I'm afraid not," said Jherek.

  "I deal with politicals, with aliens, with disruptive forrin' elements — an' I deal with 'em extremely firm."

  "So you believe it, too!" Mrs. Underwood rose. "You are mistaken in your suspicions, inspector."

  "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. Jack
son 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.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A Particularly Memorable Night at the Café Royale

  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.