The End of All Songs

24. The Vision in the City

"We hear you have command of so many ancient arts, Mrs. Underwood. You read I understand?" Agape, Gaf the Horse in Tears, all foliage save for his face, one of Amelia's swiss rolls filling the twigs at the end of his left bough, rustled with enthusiasm. "And write, eh?"

"A little." Her amusement was self-conscious.

"And play an instrument?"

She inclined an artificial curl or two. "The harmonium."

The guests, each with a costume more outrageous than the next, filed in to stand on both sides of the long trestle tables, sampling the cups of tea, the cucumber sandwiches, the roast ham, the cold sausages, the strawberry flan, the battenbergs, the ginger cakes, the lettuce and the cress, all under the shade of the tall red and white striped marquee. Jherek, in a corner of the tent, nibbled a pensive teacake, ignored by all save Li Pao, who was complaining of his treatment during his brief return home. "They called me decadent, you know…"

"And you sew. Embroider, is it?" Bishop Castle carefully replaced a rattling, scarcely tasted, cup upon the trestle.

"I used to. There is little point, now…"

"But you must demonstrate these arts!" The Iron Orchid signalled to Jherek. "Jherek. You told us Amelia sang , did you not?"

"Did I tell you that? She does."

"You must persuade her to give us an air."

"A son?"

"A song, my seed!"

He looked miserably over to where Amelia gesticulated, laughing with Doctor Volospion. "Will you sing a hymn for us, Amelia?"

Her answering smile chilled him. "Not now, I think." The crimson-clad arms spread wide. "Has everyone enough tea?"

A murmur of satiation.

Werther advanced again, hovering, a white hand holding a silver cake-stand from which he helped himself, popping one pastry at a time into his clacking jaws. "Queen of Melancholy, come with me to my Schloss Dolorous, my dear and my darling to be!"

She flirted. At least, she attempted to flirt. "Oh, chivalrous Knight of Death, in whose arms is eternal rest — would that I were free." The eyelids fluttered. Was there a tear? Jherek could bear no more. She was glancing towards him, perhaps to test his reaction, as he bowed and left the tent.

He hesitated outside. The red cascades continued to fall from all sides into the lake. The obsidian islands slowly drifted to the centre, some of them already touching. In the distance he could see the time-traveller gingerly leaping from one to another.

He had a compulsion to seek solitude in the old city, where he had sought it as a boy. It was possible that he would find his father there and could gain advice.

"Jherek!"

Amelia stood behind him. There was a tear on either scarlet cheek. "Where are you going? You are a poor host today."

"I am ignored. I am extraneous." He spoke as lightly as he could. "Surely I am not missed. All the guests join your entourage."

"You are hurt?"

"I merely had it in mind to visit the city."

"Is it not bad manners?"

"I do not understand you fully, Amelia."

"You go now?"

"It occurred to me to go now."

She paused. Then: "I would go with you."

"You seem content" — a backward look at the marquee — "with all this."

"I do it to please you. It was what you wanted." But she accused him. The tears had fallen: no more followed.

"I see."

"And you find my new role unattractive?"

"It is very fine. It is impressive. Instantly, you rank with the finest of fashion-setters. The whole of society celebrates your talents, your beauty. Werther courts you. Others will."

"Is that not how life is led, at the End of Time — with amusements, flirtations?"

"I suppose that it is."

"Then I must learn to indulge in such things if I am to be accepted." Again that chilling smile. "Mistress Christia would have you for a lover. You have not noticed?"

"I want only you. You are already accepted. You have seen that today."

"Because I play the proper game."

"If you'll have it so. You'll stay here, then?"

"Let me and I'll come with you. I am unused to so much attention. It has an effect upon the nerves. And I would satisfy myself that Harold fares well."

"Oh, you are concerned for him."

"Of course." She added: "I have yet to cultivate that particular insouciance characteristic of your world."

Lord Jagged's swan was drifting down. The pale yellow draperies billowed; he was somewhere amongst them — they heard his voice.

"My dears. How convenient. I did not wish to become involved with your party, but I did want to make a brief visit, to congratulate you upon it. A beautiful ambience, Amelia. It is yours, of course."

She acknowledged it. The swan began to hover, Lord Jagged's face now distinct, faintly amused as it often was, looking down on them. "You are more at ease, I see, with the End of Time, Amelia."

"I begin to understand how one such as I might learn to live here, Mephistopheles."

The reference brought laughter, as it always did. "So you have not completely committed yourself. No wedding, yet?"

"To Jherek?" She did not look at Jherek Carnelian, who remained subdued. "Not yet."

"The same reasons?"

"I do my best to forget them."

"A little more time, that is all you need, my dear." Jagged's stare gained intensity, but the irony remained.

"I gather there is only a little left."

"It depends upon your attitude, as I say. Life will continue as it has always done. There will be no change."

"No change," she said, her voice dropping. "Exactly."

"Well, I must continue about my work. I wish you well, Amelia — and you, my son. You have still to recover from all your adventures. Your mood will improve, I am sure."

"Let us hope so, Lord Jagged."

"Hi! I say there. Hi!" It was the time-traveller, from a nearby island. He waved at Jagged's swan. "Is that you, Jagged?"

Lord Jagged of Canaria turned a handsome head to contemplate the source of this interruption. "Ah, my dear chap. I was looking for you. You need help, I gather."

"To get off this damned island."

"And to leave this damned era, too, do you not?"

"If you are in a position…"

"You must forgive me for my tardiness. Urgent problems. Now solved." The swan began to glide towards the time-traveller, settling on the rocky shore so that he could climb aboard. They heard the time-traveller say: "This is a great relief, Lord Jagged. One of the quartz rods requires attention, also two or three of the instruments need adjusting…"

"Quite so," came Jagged's voice. "I head now for Castle Canaria where we shall discuss the matter in full."

The swan rose high into the air and disappeared above one of the cliffs, leaving Jherek and Amelia staring after it.

"Was that Jagged?" It was the Iron Orchid, at the entrance to the tent. "He said he might come. Amelia, everyone is remarking on your absence."

Amelia went to her. "Dearest Orchid, be hostess for a little while. I am still inexperienced. I tire. Jherek and I would rest from the excitement."

The Iron Orchid was sympathetic. "I will give them your apologies. Return soon, for our sakes."

"I will."

Jherek had already summoned the locomotive. It awaited them, blue and white steam drifting from its funnel, emeralds and sapphires winking.

As they climbed into the air they looked down on the scene of Amelia's first social creation. Against the surrounding landscape it resembled some vast and terrible wound; as if the Earth were living flesh and a gigantic spear had been driven into its side.

Shortly, the city appeared upon the horizon, its oddly shaped, corroded towers, its varicoloured halo, its drifting streamers and clouds of chemical vapour, its little grumblings and murmurings, its peculiar half-organic, half-metallic odour, filling them both with a peculiar sense of nostalgia, as if for happier, simpler days.

They had not spoken since they had left; neither, it seemed, was capable of beginning a conversation; neither could come to terms with feelings which were, to Jherek at least, completely unfamiliar. He thought that for all her gaudy new finery he had never known her so despairing. She hinted at this despair, yet denied it when questioned. Used to paradox, believing it the stuff of existence, he found this particular paradox decidedly unwelcome.

"You will look for Mr. Underwood?" he asked, as they approached the city.

"And you?"

He knew foreboding. He wished to volunteer to accompany her, but was overwhelmed by unusual and probably unnecessary tact.

"Oh, I'll seek the haunts of my boyhood."

"Isn't that Brannart?"

"Where?" He peered.

She was pointing into a tangle of ancient, rotten machinery. "I thought in there. But he has gone. I even glimpsed one of those Lat, too."

"What would Brannart want with the Lat?"

"Nothing, of course."

They had flown past, but though he looked back, he saw no sign either of Brannart Morphail or the Lat. "It would explain why he did not attend the party."

"I assumed that was pique, only."

"He could never resist an opportunity in the past to air his portentous opinions," said Jherek. "I am of the belief that he still works to thwart our Lord Jagged, but that he cannot be successful. The time-traveller was explaining to me, as I recall, why Brannart's methods fail."

"So Brannart is out of favour," said she. "He did much to help you at first." She chided him.

"By sending you back to Bromley? He forgets, when he berates us for our meddling with Time, that a great deal of what happened was because of his connivance with My Lady Charlotina. Waste no sympathy on Brannart, Amelia."

"Sympathy? Oh, I have little of that now." She had returned to her frigid, sardonic manner.

This fresh ambiguity caused further retreat into his own thoughts. He had surprised himself with his criticisms, having half a notion that he did not really intend to attack Brannart Morphail at all. He was inexpert in this business of accusation and self-immolation: a novice in the expression of emotional pain, whereas she, it now seemed, was a veteran. He floundered, he who had known only extrovert joy, innocent love; he floundered in a swamp which she in her ambivalence created for them both. Perhaps it would have been better if she had never announced her love and retained her stern reliance upon Bromley and its mores, left him to play the gallant, the suitor, with all the extravagance of his world. Were his accusations really directed at her, or even at himself? And did she not actually rack her own psyche, all aggression turned upon herself and only incidentally upon him, so that he could not react as one who is threatened, must thresh about for an object, another person, upon whom to vent his building wrath, as a beaten dog snaps at a neutral hand, unable to contemplate the possibility that it is its master's victim?

All this was too much for Jherek Carnelian. He sought relief in the outer world; they flew across a lake whose surface was a rainbow swirl, bubbling and misty, then across a field of lapis lazuli dotted with carved stone columns, the remnants of some peculiar two hundred thousandth-century technology. He saw, ahead, the mile-wide pit where not long since they had awaited the end of the world. He made the locomotive circle and land in the middle of a group of ruins wreathed in bright orange fire, each flame an almost familiar shape. He helped her from the footplate and they stood in frozen attitudes for a second before he looked deliberately into her kohl-circled eyes to see if she guessed his thoughts, for he had no words — to express them; the vocabulary of the End of Time was rich only in hyperbole. He reflected then that it had been his original impulse to expand his own vocabulary, and consequently his experience, that had led him to this present pass. He smiled.

"Something amuses you?" she said.

"Ah, no, Amelia. It is only that I cannot say what I wish to say —"

"Do not he constrained by good manners. You are disappointed in me. You love me no longer."

"You wish me to say so?"

"It is true, is it not? You have found me out for what I am."

"Oh, Amelia, I love you still. But to see you in such misery — it makes me dumb. The Amelia I now see is not what you are!"

"I am learning to enjoy the pleasures of the End of Time. You must allow me an apprenticeship."

"You do not enjoy them. You use them to destroy yourself."

"To destroy my old-fashioned notions. Not myself."

Perhaps those notions are essential. Perhaps they are the Amelia Underwood I love, or at least part of her…" He subsided; words again failed him.

"I think you are mistaken." Did she deliberately put this distance between them? Was it possible that she regretted her declaration of love, felt bound by it?

"You love me, still…?"

She laughed. "All love all at the End of Time."

With an air of resolve, she broke the ensuing silence. "Well, I will look for Harold."

He pointed out a yellow-brown metal pathway. "That will lead you to the place where you left him."

"Thank you." She set off. The dress and the boots gave her a hobbling motion; her normal grace was almost entirely gone. His heart went to her, but his throat remained incapable of speech, his body incapable of movement. She turned a corner, where a tall machine, its casing damaged to expose complicated circuits, whispered vague promises to her as she passed but became inaudible, a hopeless whore, quickly rebuffed by her lack of interest.

For a moment Jherek's attention was diverted by the sight of three little egg-shaped robots on caterpillar tracks trundling across a nearby area of rubble deep in a conversation held in a polysyllabic, utterly incomprehensible language; he looked back to the road. She was gone.

He was alone in the city, but the solitude was no longer palatable. He wanted to pursue her, to demand her own analysis of her mood, but perhaps she was as incapable of expressing herself as was he. Did Bromley supply a means of interpreting emotion as readily as it supplied standards of social conduct?

He began to suspect that neither Amelia's society nor his, for all their differences, concerned themselves with anything but the surface of things. Now that he was in the city it might be that he could find some still functioning memory bank capable of recalling the wisdom of one of those eras, like the Fifth Confucian or the Zen Commonwealth, which had placed rather exaggerated emphasis on self-knowledge and its expression. Even the strange, neurotic refinements of that other period with which he had a slight familiarity, the Saint-Claude Dictatorship (under which every citizen had been enjoined to supply three distinctly different explanations as to their psychological motives for taking even the most minor decisions), might afford him a clue to Amelia's behaviour and his own reactions. It occurred to him that she might be acting so strangely because, in some simple way, he was failing to console her. He began to walk through the ruins, in the opposite direction to the one she had taken, trying to recall something of Dawn Age society. Could it be that he was supposed to kill Mr. Underwood? It would be easy enough to do. And would she permit her husband's resurrection? Should he, Jherek, change his appearance, to resemble Harold Underwood as much as possible? Had she rejected his suggestion that he change his name to hers because it was not enough? He paused to lean against a carved jade post whose tip was lost in chemical mist high above his head. He seemed to remember reading of some ritual formalizing the giving of oneself into another's power. Did she pine because he did not perform it? Or did the reverse apply? Did kneeling have something to do with it, and if so who knelt to whom?

"Om," said the jade post.

"Eh?" said Jherek, startled.

"Om," intoned the post. "Om."

"Did you detect my thoughts, post?"

"I am merely an aid to meditation, brother. I do not interpret."

"It is interpretation I need. If you could direct me…"

"Everything is as everything else," the post told him. Everything is nothing and nothing is everything. The mind of man is the universe and the universe is the mind of man. We are all characters in God's dreams. We are all God."

"Easily said, post."

"Because a thing is easy does not mean that it is difficult. Because a thing is difficult does not mean that it is easy."

"Is that not a tautology?"

"The universe is one vast tautology, brother, yet no one thing is the same as another."

"You are not very helpful. I sought information."

"There is no such thing as information. There is only knowledge."

"Doubtless," said Jherek doubtfully. He bade good day to the post and retreated. The post, like so many of the city's artefacts, seemed to lack a sense of humour, though probably, if taxed, it would — as others here did — claim a "cosmic sense of humour" (this involved making obvious ironies about things commonly observed by the simplest intelligence).

In the respect of ordinary, light conversation, machines, including the most sophisticated, were notoriously bad company; more literal-minded even than someone like Li Pao. This thought led him, as he walked on, to ponder the difference between men and machines. There had once been very great differences, but these days there were few, in superficial terms. What were the things which distinguished a self-perpetuating machine, capable of almost any sort of invention, from a self-created human being, equally capable? There were differences — perhaps emotional. Could it not be true that the less emotion the entity possessed the poorer its sense of humour — or the more emotion it repressed the weaker its capacity for original irony?

These ideas were scarcely leading him in the direction he wished to go, but he was beginning to give up hope of finding any solution to his dilemma in the city, and at least he now felt he understood the jade post better.

A chromium tree giggled at him as he entered a paved plaza. He had been here several times as a boy. He had a great deal of affection for the giggling tree.

"Good afternoon," he said.

The tree giggled as it had giggled without fail for at least a million years, whenever addressed or approached. Its function seemed merely to amuse. Jherek smiled, in spite of the heaviness of his thoughts.

"A lovely day."

The tree giggled, its chromium branches gently clashing.

"Too shy to speak, as usual?"

"Tee hee hee."

The tree's charm was very hard to explain, but it was unquestionable.

"I believe myself, old friend, to be 'unhappy' — or worse!"

"Hee hee hee." The tree seemed helpless with mirth. Jherek began to laugh, too. Laughing, he left the plaza, feeling considerably more relaxed.

He had wandered close to the tangle of metal where, from above, Amelia had thought she had seen Brannart Morphail. Curiosity led him on, for there were, indeed, lights moving behind the mass of tangled girders, struts, hawsers, cables and wires, though they were probably not of human origin. He approached closer, but cautiously. He peered, thinking he saw figures. And then, as a light flared, he recognized the unmistakable shape of Brannart Morphail's quaint body, an outline only, for the light half?blinded him. He recognized the scientist's voice, but it was not speaking its usual tongue. As he listened, it dawned on Jherek that Brannart Morphail was, however, using a language familiar to him.

"Gerfish lortooda, mibix?" said the scientist to someone beyond the pool of light. "Derbi kroofrot!"

Another voice answered and it was equally unmistakable as belonging to Captain Mubbers. "Hrunt, arragak fluzi, grodsink Morphail."

Jherek regretted that he no longer habitually carried his translation pills with him, for he was curious to know why Brannart should be conspiring with the Lat, for conspiring he must be — there was a considerable air of secrecy to the whole business. He resolved to mention his discovery to Lord Jagged as soon as possible. He considered attempting to see more of what was going on but decided not to risk revealing his presence; instead he turned and made for the cover of a nearby dome, its roof cracked and gaping like the shell of an egg.

Within the dome he was delighted to find brilliantly coloured pictures, all as fresh as the day they were made, and telling some kind of story, though the voices accompanying them were distorted. He watched the ancient programme through until it began again. It described a method of manufacturing machines of the same sort as the one on which Jherek watched the pictures, and there were fragments, presumably demonstrating other programmes, of scenes showing a variety of events — in one a young woman in a kind of luminous net made love underwater to a great fish of some description, in another two men set fire to themselves and ran through what was probably the airlock of a spaceship, making the spaceship explode, and in another a large number of people wearing rococo metal and plastic struggled in free fall for the possession of a small tube which, when one of them managed to take hold of it, was hurled towards one of several circular objects on the wall of the building in which they floated. If the tube struck a particular point on the circular object there would be great exultation from about half the people and much despondency displayed by the other half, but Jherek was particularly interested in the fragment which seemed to be demonstrating how a man and a woman might copulate, also in free fall. He found the ingenuity involved extremely touching and left the dome in a rather more positive and hopeful spirit than when he had entered it.

It was in this mood that he determined to seek out Amelia and try to explain his discomfort with her own behaviour and his. He sought for the way he had come, but was already lost, though he knew the city well; but he had an idea of the general direction and he began to cross a crunching expanse of sweet-smelling green and red crystals, almost immediately catching sight of a landmark ahead of him — a curving, half-melted piece of statuary suspended, without visible support, above a mechanical figure which stretched imploring arms to it, then scooped little golden discs in its hands and flung them into the air, repeating these motions over and over again, as they had been repeated ever since Jherek could remember. He passed the figure and entered an alley poorly illuminated with garish amber and cerise; from apertures on both sides of the alley little metal snouts emerged, little machine-eyes peered inquisitively at him, little silver whiskers twitched. He had never known the function of these platinum rodents, though he guessed that they were information-gatherers of some kind for the machines housed in the great smooth radiation-splashed walls of the alley. Two or three illusions, only half tangible, appeared and vanished ahead of him — a thin man, eight feet tall, blind and warlike; a dog in a great bottle on wheels, a yellow-haired porcine alien in buff-coloured clothing — as he hurried on.

He came out of the alley and pushed knee-deep through soft black dust until the ground rose and he stood on a hillock looking down on pools of some glassy substance, each perfectly circular, like the discarded lenses of some gigantic piece of optical equipment. He skirted these, for he knew from past experience that they were capable of movement and could swallow him, subjecting him to hallucinatory experiences which, though entertaining, were time-consuming, and a short while later he saw ahead the pastoral illusion where they had met Jagged on his return. He crossed the illusion, noticing that a fresh picnic had been laid and that there was no trace of the Lat having been here (normally they left a great deal of litter behind them), and would have continued on his way towards the mile-wide pit had he not heard the sound, to his left, of voices raised in song.

Who so beset him round

With dismal stories,

Do but themselves confound —

His strength the more is.

He crossed an expanse of yielding, sighing stuff, almost losing his balance so that on several occasions he was forced to take to the air as best he could (there was still some difficulty, it seemed, with the city's ability to transmit power directly to the rings). Eventually, on the other side of a cluster of fallen arcades, he found them, standing in a circle around Mr. Underwood, who waved his arms with considerable zest as he conducted them — Inspector Springer, Sergeant Sherwood and the twelve constables, their faces shining and full of joy as they joined together for the hymn. It was not for some moments that Jherek discovered Mrs. Underwood, a picture of despairing bewilderment, her oriental dress all dusty, her feathers askew, seated with her head in her hand, watching the proceedings from an antique swivel chair, the remnant of some crumbled control room.

She lifted her head as he approached, on tip-toe, so as not to disturb the singing policemen.

"They are all converted now," she told him wearily. "It seems they received a vision shortly before we arrived."

The hymn was over, but the service (it was nothing less) continued.

"And so God came to us in a fiery globe and He spoke to us and He told us that we must go forth and tell the world of our vision, for we are all His prophets now. For he has given us the means of grace and the hope of glory!" cried Harold Underwood, his very pince-nez aflame with fervour.

"Amen," responded Inspector Springer and his men.

"For we were afraid and in the very bowels of Hell, yet still He heard us. And we called unto the Lord — Our help is in the name of the Lord who hath made heaven and earth. Blessed be the name of the Lord; henceforth, world without end. Lord, hear our prayers; and let our cry come unto thee."

"And He heard us!" exulted Sergeant Sherwood, the first of all these converts. "He heard us, Mr. Underwood!"

"Hungry and thirsty: their soul fainted in them," continued Harold Underwood, his voice a holy drone:

"So they cried unto the Lord in their trouble: and he delivered them forth from their distress.

He led them forth by the right way: that they might go to the city where they dwelt.

O that men would therefore praise the Lord for His goodness; and declare the wonders that he doeth for the children of men!

For He satisfieth the empty soul: and filleth the hungry soul with goodness.

Such as sit in darkness, and in the shadow of death: being fast bound in misery and iron;

Because they rebelled against the words of the Lord: and lightly regarded the counsel of the most Highest."

"Amen," piously murmured the policemen.

"Ahem," said Jherek.

But Harold Underwood passed an excited hand through his disarranged hay-coloured hair and began to sing again.

" Yea, though I walk in death's dark vale,

yet will I fear none ill… "

"I must say," said Jherek enthusiastically to Mrs. Underwood, "it makes a great deal of sense. It is attractive to me. I have not been feeling entirely myself of late, and have noticed that you —"

"Jherek Carnelian, have you no conception of what has happened here?"

"It is a religious service." He was pleased with the precision of his knowledge. "A conspiracy of agreement."

"You do not find it strange that all these police officers should suddenly become pious — indeed, fanatical! — Christians?"

"You mean that something has happened to them while we have been away?"

"I told you. They have seen a vision. They believe that God has given them a mission, to return to 1896 — though how they intend to get there Heaven alone knows — to warn everyone of what will happen to them if they continue in the paths of sinfulness. They believe that they have seen and heard God Himself. "They have gone completely mad."

"But perhaps they have had this vision, Amelia."

"Do you believe in God now?"

"I have never disbelieved, though I, myself, have never had the pleasure of meeting Him. Of course, with the destruction of the universe, perhaps He was also destroyed…"

"Be serious, Jherek. These poor people, my husband amongst them (doubtless a willing victim, I'll not deny) have been duped!"

"Duped?"

"Almost certainly by your Lord Jagged."

"Why should Jagged — you mean that Jagged is God?"

"No. I mean that he plays at God. I suspected as much. Harold has described the vision — they all describe it. A fiery globe announcing itself as 'The Lord thy God' and calling them His prophets, saying that He would release them from this place of desolation so that they could return to the place from which they had come to warn others — and so on and so on."

"But what possible reason would Jagged have for deceiving them in that way?"

"Merely a cruel joke."

"Cruel? I have never seen them happier. I am tempted to join in. I cannot understand you, Amelia. Once you tried to convince me as they are convinced. Now I am prepared to be convinced, you dissuade me!"

"You are deliberately obtuse."

"Never that, Amelia."

"I must help Harold. He must be warned of the deception."

He tried to speak through it, but she covered her ears, shaking her head and refusing to listen as he implored her to return with him.

Jherek regretted that this was not one of the hymns Amelia Underwood had taught him when they had first lived together at his ranch. He should have liked to have joined in, since it was not possible to communicate with her. He hoped they would sing his favourite — All Things Bright and Beautiful — but somehow guessed they would not. He found the present one not to his taste, either in tune (it was scarcely more than a drone) or in words which, he thought, were somewhat in contrast to the expressions on the faces of the singers. As soon as the hymn was over, Jherek lifted up his head and began to sing in his high, boyish voice:

"Excellent sentiments, Mr. Carnelian." Harold Underwood's tone denied his words. He seemed upset. "However, we were in the middle of giving thanks for our salvation…"

"Bad manners? I am deeply sorry. It is just that I was so moved…"

"Ha!" said Mr. Underwood. "Though we have witnessed a miracle today, I cannot believe that it is possible to convert one of Satan's own hierarchy. You shall not deceive us now!"

"But you are deceived, Harold!" cried his wife. "I am sure of it!"

"Listen not to temptation, brothers," Harold Underwood told the policemen. "Even now they seek to divert us from the true way."

"I think you'd better be getting along, sir," said Inspector Springer to Jherek. "This is a private meeting and I shouldn't be surprised if you're not infringing the Law of Trespass. Certainly you could be said to be Causing a Disturbance in a Public Place."

"Did you really see a vision of God, Inspector Springer?" Jherek asked him.

"We did, sir."

"Amen," said Sergeant Sherwood and the twelve constables.

"Amen," said Harold Underwood. "The Lord has given us the Word and we shall take the Word unto all the peoples of the world."

"I'm sure you'll be welcome everywhere." Jherek was eager to encourage. "The Duke of Queens was saying to me only the other day that there was a great danger of becoming bored, without outside stimulus, such as we used to get. It is quite possible, Mr. Underwood, that you will convert us all."

"We return to our own world, sir," Sergeant Sherwood told him mildly, "as soon as we can."

"We have been into the very bowels of Hell and yet were saved!" cried one of the constables.

"Amen," said Harold Underwood absently. "Now, if you'll kindly allow us to continue with our meeting…"

"How do you intend to return to 1896, Harold?" implored Mrs. Underwood. "Who will take you?"

"The Lord," her husband told her, "will provide." He added, in his old, prissy voice: "I see you appear at last in your true colours, Amelia."

She blushed as she stared down at her dress. "A party," she murmured.

He pursed his lips and looked away from her so that he might glare at Jherek Carnelian. "Your master still has power here, I suppose, so I cannot command you…"

"If we're interrupting, I apologize again." Jherek bowed. "I must say, Mr. Underwood, that you seemed rather happier, in some ways, before your vision."

"I have new responsibilities, Mr. Carnelian."

"The 'ighest sort," agreed Inspector Springer.

"Amen," said Sergeant Sherwood and the twelve constables. Their helmets nodded in unison.

"You are a fool, Harold!" Amelia said, her voice trembling. "You have not seen God! The one who deceives you is closer to Satan!"

A peculiar, self-congratulatory smile appeared on Harold Underwood's features. "Oh, really? You say this, yet you did not experience the vision. We have been chosen, Amelia, by God to warn the world of the terrors to come if it continues in its present course. What's this? Are you jealous, perhaps, that you are not one of the chosen, because you did not keep your faith and failed to do your duty?"

She gave a sudden cry, as if physically wounded. Jherek took her in his arms, glaring back at Underwood. "She is right, you know. You are a cruel person, Harold Underwood. Tormented, you would torment us all!"

"Ha!"

"Amen," said Inspector Springer automatically. "I really" must warn you again that you're doing yourself no good if you persist in these attempts to disrupt our meeting. We are empowered, not only by the 'Ome Secretary 'imself, but by the 'Osts of 'Eaven, to deal with would-be trouble-makers as we see fit." He gave the last few words special emphasis and placed his fists on his waistcoated hips (his jacket was not in evidence, though his bowler hat was still on his head). "Get it?"

"Oh, Jherek, we must go!" Amelia was close to tears. "We must go home."

"Ha!"

As Jherek led her away the new missionaries stared after them for only a moment or two before returning to their service. They walked together up the yellow-brown metal pathway, hearing the voices raised again in song:

They came to where they had left the locomotive and, as she clambered onto the footplate, her hem in tatters, her clothes stained, she said tearfully. "Oh, Jherek, if there is a Hell, then surely I deserve to be consigned there…"

"You do not blame yourself for what has happened to your husband, Amelia?"

"Who else shall I blame?"

"You were blaming Jagged," he reminded her.

"Jagged's machinations are one thing; my culpability is another. I should never have left him. I have betrayed him. He has gone mad with grief."

"Because he loses you?"

"Oh, no — because his pride is attacked. Now he finds consolation in religious mania."

"You have offered to stay with him."

"I know. The damage is done, I suppose. Yet I have a duty to him, perhaps more so, now."

"Aha."

They began to rise up over the city. Another silence had grown between them. He tried to break it:

"You were right, Amelia. In my wanderings I found Brannart. He plots something with the Lat."

But she would not reply. Instead, she began to sob. When he went to comfort her, she shrugged him away.

"Amelia?"

She continued to sob until the scene of her party came in sight. There were still guests there, Jherek could see, but few. The Iron Orchid had not been sufficient to make them stay — they wanted Amelia.

"Shall we rejoin our guests…?"

She shook her head. He turned the locomotive and made for the thatched roof of their house, visible behind the cypresses and the poplars. He landed on the lawn and immediately she ran from the locomotive to the door. She was still sobbing as she ran up the stairs to her apartment. Jherek heard a door close. He sat at the bottom of the stairs pondering on the nature of this new, all-consuming feeling of despair which threatened to rob him of the ability to move, but he was incapable of any real thought. He was wounded, he knew self-pity, he grieved for her in her pain and he, who had always expressed himself in terms of action (her wish had ever been his command, even if he had misinterpreted her occasionally), could think of nothing, not the simplest gesture, which might please her and ease their mutual misery.

After some time he went slowly to his bed.

Outside, beyond the house, the great rivers of blood still fell with unchecked force over the black cliffs, filling the swirling lake where cryptic monsters swam and on which obsidian islands still bobbed, their dark green fleshy foliage rustling in a hot, sweet wind; but Mrs. Amelia Underwood's piece-de-resistance had been abandoned long since by her forgotten guests.