The Coming of the Teraphiles

by Michael Moorcock

  snaffled your favourite hat. Yet, even if he carried the crime

  on his conscience to his grave, Bingo Lockesley's mind was

  made up. Chances like this arrived once in a million years.

  His ancestors and his children's children would feel nothing

  but gratitude if they knew what he was doing for them.

  Should she hear his story, even Mrs Enola Banning-Cannon

  (nee Tarbutton) would probably forgive him instantly.

  *

  Mr Banning-Cannon's mind, too, was made up. It had to be

  said that to be thwarted, as she would see it, of an earldom

  as well as a chance to out-hat all the other ladies at the next

  day's party would not fit easily into Mrs B-C's general view

  of what the world ought to be. Were she ever to discover that

  she had been duped she would be unlikely to laugh it off with

  a cheerful quip and a gentle, chiding tap of her fan on young

  Lockesley's cheek. More probably she would not rest until

  her Tarbutton relatives had reduced his world to ashes.

  Of course, Urquart Banning-Cannon knew all this, which

  was why he was offering such a hefty reward for the successful

  accomplishment of the hat-napping. The odds favoured

  Lockesley considerably since he knew the house inside out.

  He could only hope the boy had somewhere to hide the thing

  once the deed was done. There would be a search. Questions

  would be asked. Accusations would be made. Threats would

  fly. Sabres would rattle.

  Urquart felt a chill in his veins, a desire perhaps to rethink.

  Was it too late to turn back now? Usually his wife would

  have noticed his slightly shifty demeanour, his tendency to

  sweat a bit, his wet dry lips. She would have been certain

  something was up, but she was too distracted by imagining

  what she could tell her envious lady friends at home to spot

  the tell-tale signs.

  Soon they were settled in their adjoining suites getting

  ready for dinner. Once or twice Mr B-C wandered into his

  wife's rooms and made a casual enquiry while in actuality

  casing the joint, getting the exact emplacement of what he

  came to think of as the swag.

  This swag remained in a gaudy hatbox measuring

  more than a metre across and almost another metre deep.

  Not something to be easily snatched and pocketed by a

  professional cracksman, let alone an amateur. But Urquart

  had a healthy respect for Bingo's skills and knowledge of this

  rambling old run-down place he called home -

  - while, at the same moment as Mr B-C stood before the

  dressing table mirror tying his ties and buttoning up his

  waistcoat, Bingo was wondering if he had bitten off more

  than he could chew.

  What if he were caught? He gulped inwardly. The

  Lockesley name would be blackened for ever. He needed

  an accomplice, and accomplices were hard to come by,

  especially on a planet like this where pretty much everyone

  was a Decent Chap. He sighed. There were few candidates

  for the position. None could be local, of course. He had to

  recruit someone from the team. And his estranged pal Hari

  Agincourt could not be involved.

  The list of candidates had narrowed down. The members

  of the Tournament First Fifteen consisted of seven humans,

  including himself, Hari and Old Bill Told, three rhinocerids

  (the Judoon), a canine (Uff Nuf O'Kay, their star wotsit

  keeper), a centaur (H'hn'ee), a bovine (N'hoo), and an

  avian predator or hawk-person (DikMik Aaak) who was a

  splendid bowman but obviously not much good at hefting

  one end of a heavy hatbox. There was also Masher Dubloon,

  the skunkoid: excellent fielder and very strong for his size.

  However, in spite of all attempts at de-scenting, Masher still

  left a distinctive smell behind him.

  William 'Old Bill' Told was planning to start a skiing

  planet after this and could not risk blackening his name,

  which he had already put into the past tense. Similarly Donna

  Bradmann of the Second Fifteen had taken Holy Orders and

  planned to fill the position of Top Chider in Fingerwagger,

  New North Whales, after this. Dougy Fairbanks, also of the

  Second Fifteen, was a pretty good all-rounder on the field and

  specialised in lance-and-quintain, knocking up a consistently

  good score, but she was inclined to make even the darkest

  of his friends' secrets into an anecdote before remembering

  she'd been sworn to total silence on the matter. There was

  Doctor whatsit, their newest recruit and another general all-

  rounder, as he had shown on the field today, but who knew

  where his loyalties lay? And, again in the Second Fifteen,

  Fran^oise and Jessie, the James sisters, belonged to some sort

  of sect that forbade them from doing anything after nightfall

  except eat and make love. Which left the non-humans, several

  of whom were good chaps, up for any bit of fun, but each

  with drawbacks.

  The problem of recruiting a Judoon was weight - they

  could be heard clumping along nearly half a mile away.

  They took a nano-personality changer when playing, which

  evened up their weight and power on the tournament field,

  but here they were who they were. The bovines also carried

  a characteristic smell which would give them away. So it had

  to be a human. W.G. Grace had the muscles...

  At that moment a discreet knock on the door interrupted

  his train of thought. He crossed to answer it and stared up

  into the amiable face of the team's latest recruit. 'The Doctor',

  with his pretty lady friend Amy, had joined the team after

  their ship had crashed here. Apparently they had been

  travelling in some kind of experimental two-person craft en

  route from the Greater Oort in Orion where the remains of

  Original Terra could be found. He was an historian, judging

  from his knowledge of O.T. and her remaining neighbours.

  He had shown his ID, but for some reason Lord Sherwood

  could never remember his name: probably one of those bizarre

  affectations some students of the Old Worlds seemed to relish

  simply because everyone else found it unpronounceable.

  The Doctor was a fine all-rounder, a pleasant fellow and a

  jolly lucky one, with an absolute stunner of a girlfriend. In

  fact, Bingo had to admit that if Amy were not attached to the

  Doctor he would even now be leaving his card on her hall

  table.

  'Um,' he said, a little surprised. 'Ah...' Then, remembering

  his manners, 'Do come in..."

  The pair trooped through and sat a little uncomfortably

  on the edge of his bed. In response to Bingo's lifted eyebrow

  and downcast eye, Amy said:

  'As you're captain of the team, we thought we ought...'

  She turned to the Doctor. 'Well...'

  'We ought to tell you. You ought to know that we think you

  have some sort of - I don't know - spanner in your works - a

  bit of a - what's the word?'

  'Spy in the ointment?' Initially tending towards roughly

  the colour of uncooked sausages, Bingo had, he was pretty

  sure,
paled at this. Sure that he had somehow been overheard

  plotting with Mr B-C and his action interpreted as a scheme

  to throw the game, he now found himself in a double bind.

  To dispel any rumour about traitors in the team's ranks,

  Bingo would have to tell the truth. Or, he thought, getting

  into the swing of things the way liars often do, and, enjoying

  a buzz from the sheer exhilaration of inventing a story, he

  could tell some of the truth (chatting to Urquart Banning-

  Cannon) and make up the rest. This seemed the preferred

  option. He lifted his eyes to face Amy and the Doctor and,

  scarcely having finished blanching, he blushed again. 'Um.

  Fly in the amber, eh?' he babbled inanely, blushing deeper

  still at his own apparently uncontrollable foolishness. 'I mean

  sparrow in the soup,' He looked from one baffled face to the

  other. 'Don't I?'

  The Doctor scratched his handsome nose. 'I'm not sure,'

  he said. He and Amy exchanged a glance. 'See, that's the

  reason we're here. You might have spotted something and be

  able to add to what we heard... It's not very clear, really, but

  we think someone's trying to pinch something from you.'

  'P-p-pinch?' babbled the 507th Earl of Lockesley.

  'Something of yours.'

  'Not - not a h-hat?' Bingo had, for the moment at least,

  moment, crumbled.

  'A bat? I don't think so. Though it could be disguised as a

  bit of equipment. The trouble is, we don't know what it looks

  like...'

  'Oh, it's pretty horrible, I promise you that.' He blanched

  again. 'Or so I was told. I haven't actually seen it yet myself.

  D-did you say bat?' He blushed. At this rate he could hire

  himself out as a space beacon. 'Bat?'

  'No, you said bat.' Amy raised both eyebrows. 'It was a

  pretty good guess.'

  'But the fact is we don't know,' said the Doctor. 'My friend

  Amy here thought it could be anything, but I'm inclined to

  narrow the search...'

  'Um - friend did you say?' Bingo blushed again. 'Amy?

  Miss Pond?'

  'Yes. Are you OK?'

  'Oh, yes. Much better, thank you. Not your girlfriend?' He

  frowned hard at the Doctor.

  'Is that a problem?'

  'Far from it, Doctor.' Bingo had by now pretty much

  given up paling and was glowing a steady red. 'Anyway, this

  plot?'

  'We think those involved could bring about the destruction

  of our galaxy.' The Doctor looked towards the door as if he

  suspected they in turn were being overheard. 'Perhaps even

  the universe,' he added, apparently as a vague afterthought.

  'Oh, come on now!' Bingo was about to say that even the

  most horrible of hats could not make the Milky Way have a

  style breakdown, when something stopped him. 'Oh, really?

  This object, you mean. This bat. Or artefact. Or whatever...'

  'We thought we ought to warn you.' The Doctor rose to

  leave. Lord Sherwood was clearly distracted. 'It is only a

  rumour...'

  'Of course. Of course. As captain and all that, I'm

  responsible for the actions of the whole team.'

  'Quite,' said the Doctor. 'Well...' He extended his hand.

  'If you hear of anything odd going on, or see anything

  strange...'

  'Or some sixth sense is triggered,' added Amy. 'It could

  be anything.'

  'Anything?'

  'Anything general, you know. Or something singular, of

  course.'

  'Single,' babbled Bingo. 'Quite. Absolutely. Wonderful.

  I'm your man. Is it hot in here?' He went to the big French

  doors leading to his balcony. 'Mind if I open a window?

  Keep my eye on the arrow, eh? Both hands on the bat. Sticky

  whackit, mm? Rely on me.' He began tugging at the handles.

  'Good. Got it. Oh, you're leaving! Cheerio for the moment,

  eh? Pip pip...'

  When the door closed behind them, the Doctor and Amy

  exchanged another glance.

  'Barmy,' murmured Amy, 'if cute. Pity.'

  'I think we caught him at a bad time.' The Doctor scratched

  his unruly head. 'Why was he going on about a bat? Maybe

  Frank/Freddie Force and his Antimatter Men got to Bingo

  ahead of us. Maybe they've nobbled him.'

  'That would be a shame,' said Amy vaguely. 'OK. So who

  should we check out next?'

  'I've told you everything that was in the message.

  Everything I could understand. It had to be sent by someone

  who knows me, and thought I'd know what they were on

  about. I've checked out the humanoids, and they all seem all

  right. Hari Agincourt is Lord Bingo's cousin and best friend.

  W.G. Grace is easily their finest whacker.'

  Amy glanced at him. 'Hmm. And quite some beard.'

  'Bit eccentric?' said the Doctor.

  'And enormous,' agreed Amy.

  'You'd be eccentric if you'd swallowed so many identity

  pills you'd been a hundred personalities in Earth's distant

  history in almost a decade,' he told her. 'She's by far the best

  historian here. And there's almost nothing she doesn't know

  about mythology. She's obsessed. Like those other three in

  the Second Team back-ups. Drake, Stanley and de Gama.

  Explorers? Myth figures?' He shook his head, sending his

  floppy hair flying. 'All completely barmy. Unless they're very

  clever at hiding their real personalities. But they are very,

  very brilliant sports people.'

  'Did Lord Sherwood's manner strike you as guilty?' Amy

  wondered.

  'At first. Maybe we'd caught him admiring his own archer's

  stances in his mirror? Or doing his hair? Is that natural, do

  you think? That shock of white blond hair?'

  'There's definitely something or someone on his mind.

  Or, if not exactly his mind... Anyway, he's clearly sweet on

  someone. They've got the poor beggar poleaxed.'

  'What do you mean "someone"?'

  'Someone. A person. He's got a crush on somebody in the

  team, I'll bet you!'

  'Really? Man or woman? Alien or human?' The Doctor

  smiled to himself. 'I'm sure well find out soon, if we stick

  around long enough.'

  'You think we might be on a wild goose chase, Doctor?'

  'No. The message was pretty convincing. And its location.

  Miggea's a significant star. It's right at the centre of the Ghost

  Worlds, so it's close to the apex.' He steepled his hands to

  show her. 'Do you see? And when a trusted informant tells

  you that General Frank/Freddie Force and his Antimatter

  Men have crossed into our space, it's important to believe

  them. Especially when that someone is talking from a point

  just barely on the right side of the Schwarzschild Radius in

  the Sagittarian cloud and has a familiar and particular note

  of fear in their voice.' He stared off thoughtfully into the

  distance. 'They say old Renark, Lord of the Rim, the first

  man to try to enter a black hole, is still in there, stuck for

  ever between his last moment of life and his first moment of

  death. And of course General Frank/Freddie and Co won't be

  too far from that black hole, either, for fear of being stranded. />
  You see our problem?'

  'Um. Not really.' Amy wasn't quite sure where to start,

  but she took a deep breath and asked: 'What's matter and

  antimatter? How do they work?'

  'Look at this - my bow tie. The central knot's the black

  hole. This side of the triangular bow is matter. This other

  side is antimatter. They are self-perpetuating, like Law and

  Chaos. Same thing, see?'

  Amy nodded sagely. She hoped. She certainly wished she

  looked sager than she felt.

  Chapter 5

  Black

  AS SOON AS THE Doctor and his unnervingly beautiful friend had

  disappeared, probably to do some further sleuthing, Bingo

  Lockesley put his mind to the problem in hand. He was

  pretty sure that not only had he thrown them off the scent,

  but also that his scent was not in fact the one they happened

  to be casting around for.

  Robin, Lord Sherwood, Earl of Lockesley, had struck

  upon an entirely new plan which would not involve him in

  asking for extra assistance. The rooms between his room and

  Mrs Banning-Cannon's suite would soon be empty, since it

  currently contained Mr Banning-Cannon. Bingo was certain

  that Mrs B-C would not be so rude as to turn up late for her

  first meal at Lockesley Hall. All he had to do, Bingo reasoned,

  was to wait until the pair leapt at the sound of the dinner

  gong and went haring on their way to the source of the

  delicious smells already wafting from below. The coast clear,

  he could slip through, using his master key, drag the hatbox

  onto the rug, drag the rug complete with hatbox through

  Mr Banning-Cannon's room into his own and hide it in his

  grandfather's old space-chest situated at the end of his bed.

  Or maybe on the balcony, if dry. A piece of cake! he thought,

  salivating. The smells of rich old-fashioned food permeating

  his family castle were distracting him.

  He drew another breath. Not good enough. He went to

  his French windows opening onto a balcony and flung them

  as wide as possible. Now they too were ready for his daring

  theft.

  A few minutes later the dinner gong boomed from

  below, its sonorous tones echoing through the landings and

  chambers of Lockesley Hall as they had boomed for decades

  of yore, causing an almost unseemly rattling of door handles

  and squeaking of hinges as the many guests, their taste buds

  driven to madness by those delicious traditional scents, which