Dancers at the End of Time

by Michael Moorcock

  "Excellent! Then I may expect, one day, to be Jherek Underwood?"

  "You are devious in your methods of clinging to your points, Mr. Carnelian. But I shall not be trapped so simply. No, you would not become Jherek Underwood."

  "Ormont?"

  "The idea is amusing, even pleasant." She checked herself. "Even the hottest of radicals has never suggested, to my knowledge, such a reversal." Smiling, she chewed her underlip. "Oh, dear! What dangerous thoughts you encourage, in your innocence!"

  "I have not offended?"

  "Once, you might have done so. I am shocked at myself, for not feeling shocked. What a bad woman I should seem in Bromley now!"

  He scarcely followed, but he was not disturbed. He sank back again and made the pipe come alight for the umpteenth time (she had not been able to tell him how to keep it fuming). He enjoyed the Duke's golden sunshine, the sky which matched, fortuitously, his loved one's dress. Other air-carriages could be seen in other avenues, speeding for the hub — red and gold, plush and gilt, a fanciful reproduction of the Duke's only prolonged experience with the nineteenth century.

  Jherek touched her hand. "Do you recognize it, Amelia?"

  "It is overpoweringly huge." The brim of the hat went up and up, a lace glove touched her chin. "It disappears, look, in clouds."

  She had not seen. He hinted: "But if the proportions were reduced…"

  She tilted her head, still craning. "Some sort of American Building?"

  "You have been there!"

  "I?"

  "The original is in London."

  "Not the Café Royal?"

  "Don't you see — he has taken the décor of the Café Royal and added it to your Scotland Yard."

  "Police headquarters — with red plush walls!"

  "The Duke comes near, for once, to simplicity. You do not think it too spare?"

  "A thousand feet high! It is the tallest piece of plush, Mr. Carnelian, I may ever hope to see. And what is that at the roof — now the clouds part — a darker mass?"

  "Black?"

  "Blue, I think."

  "A dome. Yes, a hat, such as your policemen wear."

  She seemed out of breath. "Of course."

  The music grew louder. He waved his pipe in time. But she was puzzled. "Isn't it a little slow — a little drawn out — for a waltz. It's as if it were played on those Indian instruments — or were they Arabic? More than a flavour of the Oriental, at any rate. High-pitched, too, in a way."

  "The tapes are from one of the cities, doubtless," said Jherek. "They are old — possibly faulty. This is not authentic, then?"

  "Not to my time."

  "We had best not tell the Duke of Queens. It would disappoint him, don't you think?"

  She shrugged compliance. "Yet it has a rather grating effect. I hope it does not continue throughout the entire reception. You do not know the instruments used?"

  "Electronics or some such early method of music-making. You would know better…"

  "I think not."

  "Ah."

  A degree of awkwardness touched the atmosphere and, for a moment, both strove to find a new subject and restore the mood of relaxation they had been enjoying till now. Ahead, at the base of the building, was a wide, shadowy archway, and into this other air-cars were speeding — fanciful vehicles of every description, and most based on Dawn Age technology or mythology: Jherek saw a hobby-horse, its mechanical copper legs making galloping motions in the air, a Model T, its owner seated on the section where the long vertical bar joined the short horizontal one, and he heard the distinctive sound of a clipper ship, but it had disappeared before he could see it properly. Some of the vessels moved with considerable speed, others made more stately progress, like the large, grey and white car — it could be nothing else but a London Pigeon — Immediately in front of them as the archway loomed.

  "It seems the whole world attends," said Jherek.

  She fingered the complicated lace on her bodice. She smoothed a pleat. The music changed; the sound of slow explosions and of something being dragged through sand surrounded them as their car entered a great hall, its ceiling supported by fluted arches, in which, evidently, they were to park.

  Elaborately dressed figures floated from their own air-cars towards a doorway into the hall above; voices echoed.

  "It dwarfs King's Cross!" exclaimed Mrs. Underwood. She admired the mosaics, finely detailed, multicoloured, on walls and arches. "It is hard to believe that it has not existed for centuries."

  "In a sense it has," said Jherek, aware that she made an effort to converse. "In the memories of the cities."

  "This was made by one of your cities?"

  "No, but the advice of the cities is sought on such matters. For all that they grow senile, they still remember a great deal of our race's history. Is the interior familiar to you?"

  "It resembles nothing so much as the vault of a Gothic cathedral, much magnified. I do not think I know the original, if one exists. You must not forget, Mr. Carnelian, that I am no expert. Most aspects of my own world, most areas of it, are unknown to me. My experiences of London were not so varied, I would gather, as yours have been. I led a quiet life in Bromley, where the world is small." She sighed as they left the car. "Very small," she said, almost under her breath. She adjusted her hat and tossed her head in a manner he found delightful. At that moment she seemed at once more full of life and of melancholy than he had ever seen her. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before offering her his arm, but she took it readily, smiling, the sadness melting, and together they ascended to the doorway above.

  "You are glad, now, that you have come?" he murmured.

  "I am determined to enjoy myself," she told him.

  Then she gasped, for she had not expected the scene they entered. The entire building was filled not by separated floors, but by floating platforms and galleries, rising higher and higher into the distance, and in these galleries and upon these platforms stood groups of people, conversing, eating, dancing, while other groups, or individuals, drifted through the air, from one platform to another, as, in her own world, people might cross the floor of a ball-room. High, high above, the furthest figures were tiny, virtually invisible. The light was subtle, supplying brilliance and shade, and shifting almost imperceptibly the whole time; the colours were vibrant, of every possible shade or tone, complementing the costumes of the guests, which ranged from the simplest to the most grotesque. Perhaps by some clever manipulation of the acoustics of the hall, the voices rose and fell in waves, but were never loud enough to drown any particular conversation, and, to Mrs. Underwood, seemed orchestrated, harmonized into a single yet infinitely variegated chorus. Here and there, along the walls, people stood casually, their bodies at right angles to those of the majority, as they used power-rings to adjust their gravity, enabling them to convert the dimensions of the hall (or at least their experience of those dimensions) to an impression of length rather than height.

  "It reminds one of a medieval painting," she said. "Italian, are they? Of heaven? My father's house

  … Though the perspective is better…" Aware that she babbled, she subsided with a sigh, looking at him with an expression showing amusement at her own confusion.

  "It pleases you, though?" He was solicitous, yet he could see that she was not unhappy.

  "It is wonderful."

  "Your morality is not offended?"

  "For today, Mr. Carnelian, I have decided to leave a great deal of my morality at home." Again, she laughed at herself.

  "You are more beautiful than ever," he told her. "You are very fine."

  "Hush, Mr. Carnelian. You will make me self-conscious. For once, I feel in possession of myself.

  Let me enjoy it. I will —" she smiled — "permit the occasional compliment — but I should be grateful if you will forgo declarations of passion for this evening."

  He bowed, sharing her good humour. "Very well."

  But she had become a goddess and he could not help it if he w
ere astonished. She had always been beautiful in his eyes, and admirable, too. He had worshipped her, in some ways, for her courage in adversity, for her resistance to the ways of his own world. But that had been bravery under siege and now, it seemed, she single-handedly gave siege to that same society which, a few months before, had threatened to engulf and destroy her identity. There was a determination in her bearing, a lightness, an air of confidence, that proclaimed to everyone what he had always sensed in her — and he was proud that his world should see her as the woman he knew, in full command of herself and of her situation. Yet there was, as well, a private knowledge, an intimate understanding between them, of the resources of character on which she drew to achieve that command. For the first time he became conscious of the depth of his love for her and, although he had always known that she had loved him, he became confident that her emotion was as strong as his own. Like her, he required no declaration; her bearing was declaration enough.

  Together, they ascended.

  "Jherek!"

  It was Mistress Christia, the Everlasting Concubine, clad in silks that were almost wholly transparent, they were so fine, and plainly influenced by the murals she had had described to her by one of those who had visited the Café Royal. She had let her body fill out, her limbs had rounded and she was slightly, deliciously, plump.

  "May it be Amelia?" she asked of Mrs. Underwood, and looked to both for confirmation.

  Mrs. Underwood smiled assent.

  "I have been hearing of all your adventures in the nineteenth century. I am so jealous, of course, for the age seems wonderful and just the sort of period I should like to visit. This costume is not of my own invention, as you have guessed. My Lady Charlotina was going to use it, but thought it more suitable for me. Is it, Amelia, authentic?" She whirled in the air, just above their heads.

  "Greek…?" Amelia Underwood hesitated, unwilling to contradict. Then, it seemed, she realized the influence. "It suits you perfectly. You look lovely."

  "I would be welcome in your world?"

  "Oh, certainly! In many sections of society you would be the centre of attention."

  Mistress Christia beamed and bent, with soft lips, to kiss Mrs. Underwood upon her cheek, murmuring, "You look magnificent, of course, yourself. Did you make the dress or did you bring it from the Dawn Age? It must be an original."

  "It was made here."

  "It is still beautiful. You have the advantage over us all! And you, too, Jherek look the very picture of the noble, Dawn Age hero. So manly! So desirable!"

  Mrs. Underwood's hand tightened a fraction on Jherek's arm. He became almost euphoric.

  Yet Mistress Christia was sensitive, too. "I shall not be the only one to envy you today, Amelia."

  She permitted herself a wink. "Or Jherek, either." She looked beyond them. "Here is our host!"

  The Duke of Queens had seen a soldier, during his brief stay in 1896. But never had there been a scarlet tunic so thoroughly scarlet as the one he sported, nor buttons so golden, nor epaulettes so bright, nor belt and boots so mirror-gleaming. He had doffed his beard and assumed Dundreary sidewhiskers; there was a shako a-tilt on his massive head; his britches were dark blue and striped with yellow. His gloves were white and one hand rested upon the pommel of his sword, which dripped with braid. He saluted and bowed. "Honoured you could attend," he said.

  Jherek embraced him. "You have been coached, dear friend! You look so handsome!"

  "All natural," declared the Duke with some pride. "Created through exercise, you know, with the help of some time-travellers of a military persuasion. You heard of my duel with Lord Shark?"

  "Lord Shark! I thought him a misanthrope entirely. To make Mongrove seem as gregarious as Gaf the Horse in Tears. What lured him from his grey fortress?"

  "An affair of honour."

  "Indeed?" said Amelia Underwood. "Insults, was it, and pistols at dawn?"

  "I offended him. I forget how. But I was remorseful at the time. We settled with swords. I trained for ages. The irony was, however…"

  He was interrupted by Bishop Castle, in full evening dress, copied from Mr. Harris, doubtless. His handsome, rather ascetic, features were framed by a collar that was perhaps a little taller than normally fashionable in 1896. He had disdained black and the coat and trousers were, instead, bottle-green; the waistcoat brown, the shirt cream-coloured. His tie matched his coat and the exaggeratedly high top-hat on his head.

  "Jesting Jherek, you have been hidden too long!" His voice was slightly muffled by the collar covering his mouth. "And your Mrs. Underwood! Gloom vanishes. We are all united again!"

  "Is it mannerly to compliment your costume, Bishop Castle?" A movement of her parasol.

  "Compliments are the colour of our conversation, dear Mrs. Underwood. We are fulfilled by flattery; we feed on praise; we spend our days in search of the perfect peal of persiflage that will make the peacock in us preen and say 'Behold — I beautify the world!' In short, exquisite butterfly in blue, you may so compliment me and already do. May I in turn honour your appearance; it has detail which, sadly, few of us can match. It does not merely attract the eye — it holds it. It is the finest creation here.

  Henceforth there is no question but that you shall lead us all in fashion. Jherek is toppled from his place!"

  She lifted an appreciative eyebrow; his bow was sweeping and all but lost him his hat, while his head virtually disappeared from view for a moment. He straightened, saw a friend, bowed again, and drifted away. "Later," he said to them both, "we must reminisce."

  Jherek saw amusement in her eyes as she watched Bishop Castle rise to a nearby gallery. "He is a voluble cleric," she said. "We have bishops not unlike him in 1896."

  "You must tell him, Amelia. What greater compliment could you pay?"

  "It did not occur to me." She hesitated, her self-assurance gone for a second: "You do not find me callow?"

  "Ha! You rule here already. Your good opinion is in demand. You have the authority both of bearing and of background. Bishop Castle spoke nothing but the truth. Your praise warmed him."

  He was about to escort her higher when the Duke of Queens, who had been in conversation with Mistress Christia, turned back to them. "Have you been long returned, Jherek and Amelia, to the End of Time?"

  "Hardly a matter of hours," said she.

  "So you remained behind in 1986. You can tell us what became of Jagged?"

  "Then he is not yet back?" She glanced to Jherek with some alarm. "We heard…"

  "You did not meet him again in 1896? I assumed that was his destination." The Duke of Queens frowned.

  "He could be there," said Jherek, "for we have been adventuring elsewhere. At the very Beginning of Time, in fact."

  "Lord Jagged of Canaria conceals himself increasingly," complained the Duke, brushing at a braid.

  "When challenged, he proves himself a master of sophistry. His mysteries cease to entertain because he confuses them so."

  "It is possible," said Amelia Underwood, "that he has become lost in Time; that he did not plan this disappearance. If we had not been fortunate, we should still be stranded now."

  The Duke of Queens was embarrassed by his own pettishness. "Of course. Oh, dear — Time has become such a talking point and it is not one, I fear, which interests me greatly. I have never had Lord Jagged's penchant for the abstract. You know what a bore I can be."

  "Never that," said Jherek affectionately. "And even your vulgarities are splendid."

  "I hope so," he said with modesty. "I do my best. You like the building, Jherek?"

  "It is a masterpiece."

  "More restrained than usual?"

  "Much."

  The Duke's eye brightened. "What an arbiter we make of you, Jherek! It is only because of your past innovations, or because we respect your experience, too?"

  Jherek shrugged. "I have not considered it. But Bishop Castle claims that art has a fresh leader." He bowed to his Amelia.

  "You like my Royal Scotland Yar
d, Mrs. Underwood?" The Duke was eager.

  "I am most impressed, Duke of Queens." She appeared to be relishing her new position.

  He was satisfied. "But what is this concerning the Beginning of Time? Shall you bring us more ideas, scarcely before we can assimilate the old ones?"

  "Perhaps," said Jherek. "Molluscs, you know. And ferns. Rocks. Hampers. Water-scorpions. Time Centres. Yes, there would be enough for a modest entertainment of some sort."

  "You have tales for us, too!" Mistress Christia had returned. "Adventures, eh?"

  Now more of the guests had sighted them and began to drift towards them.

  "I think some, at least, will amuse you," said Amelia Underwood. Jherek detected a harder edge to her voice as she prepared to face the advancing crowd, but she had lost that quality when she next spoke. "We found many surprises there."

  "Oh, this is delightful!" cried Mistress Christia. "What an enviable pair you are!"

  "And brave, too, to risk the snares and vengeances of Time," said the Duke of Queens.

  Gaf the Horse in Tears, a Gibson Girl to the life, a Sailor hat upon his up-pinned hair, leaned forward. "Brannart told us you were doomed, gone forever. Destroyed, even."

  Sharp-featured Doctor Volospion, in a black, swirling cape and a black, wide-brimmed hat, his eyes glittering from the shadows of his face, said softly: "We did not believe him, of course."

  "Yet our time-travellers disappear — vanishing from our menageries at an astonishing rate. I lost four Adolf Hitlers alone, just recently." Sweet Orb Mace was splendid in rubashka, tarboosh, pantaloons and high, embroidered boots. "And one of them, I'm sure, was real. Though rather old, admittedly…"

  "Brannart claims these disappearances as proof that Time is ruptured." Werther de Goethe, a saturnine Sicilian brigand, complete with curling moustachios which rather contradicted the rest of the impression, adjusted his cloak. "He warns that we stand upon a brink, that we shall all, soon, plunge willy-nilly into disordered chronological gulfs."