MIchael Moorcock - The Dancers At The End Of Time 01 - An Alien Heat

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The Dancers at the End of Time Book 1
An Alien Heat
By
Michael Moorcock
Other books by Michael Moorcock
THE DRAGON IN THE SWORD
THE ETERNAL CHAMPION
THE SILVER WARRIORS
The Elric Saga
ELRIC OF MELNIBONÉ
THE SAILOR ON THE SEAS OF FATE
THE WEIRD OF THE WHITE WOLF
THE VANISHING TOWER
THE BANE OF THE BLACK SWORD
STORMBRINGER
The Chronicles of Castle Brass
COUNT BRASS
THE CHAMPION OF GARATHORM
THE QUEST FOR TANELORN
The Books of Corum
THE KNIGHT OF THE SWORDS
THE QUEEN OF THE SWORDS
THE KING OF THE SWORDS
THE BULL AND THE SPEAR
THE OAK AND THE RAM
THE SWORD AND THE STALLION
The Dancers at the End of Time
AN ALIEN HEAT
THE HOLLOW LANDS
THE END OF ALL SONGS
LEGENDS FROM THE END OF TIME
A MESSIAH AT THE END OF TIME
From Ace Hardcovers
THE CITY IN THE AUTUMN STARS
Ace Books, New York
This book was previously published in Great Britain, by Granada Published Ltd., as part of a
three-volume edition entitled The Dancers at the End of Time.
THE DANCERS AT THE END OF TIME: AN ALIEN HEAT
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Granada edition published 1981
Ace edition / July 1987
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1972 by Michael Moorcock.
Cover art by Robert Gould.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without
permission. For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue, New York,
NY 10016.
ISBN: 0-441-13660-5
Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue, New York,
NY 10016.
The name "ACE" and the "A" logo are trademarks belonging to Charter Communications, Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
For Nik Turner, Dave Brock, Bob Calvert, DikMik, Del Dettmar, Terry Ollis, Simon King and
Lemmy of Hawkwind.
Contents
Prologue
1 A Conversation with the Iron Orchid
2 A Soirée at the Duke of Queens
3 A Visitor Who is Less than Entertaining
4 Carnelian Conceives a New Affectation
5 A Menagerie of Time and Space
6 A Pleasing Meeting: The Iron Orchid Devises a Scheme
7 To Steal a Space-Traveller
8 A Promise from Mrs. Amelia Underwood: A Mystery
9 Something of an Idyll: Something of a Tragedy
10 The Granting of Her Heart's Desire
11 The Quest for Bromley
12 The Curious Comings and Goings of Snoozer Vine
13 The Road to the Gallows: Old Friends in New Guises
14 A Further Conversation with the Iron Orchid
The silver lips of lilies virginal,
The full deep bosom of the enchanted rose
Please less than flowers glass-hid from frosts and snows
For whom an alien heat makes festival. Theodore Wratislaw
Hothouse Flowers
1896
Prologue
The cycle of the Earth (indeed, the universe, if the truth had been known) was nearing its end and
the human race had at last ceased to take itself seriously. Having inherited millennia of scientific and
technological knowledge it used this knowledge to indulge its richest fantasies to play immense
imaginative games, to relax and create beautiful monstrosities. After all, there was little else left to do. An
earlier age might have been horrified at what it would have judged a waste of resources, an appalling
extravagance in the uses to which materials and energies were put. An earlier age would have seen the
inhabitants of this world as "decadent" or "amoral," to say the least. But even if these inhabitants were not
conscious of the fact that they lived at the end of time some unconscious knowledge informed their
attitudes and made them lose interest in ideals, creeds, philosophies and the conflicts to which such things
give rise. They found pleasure in paradox, aesthetics and baroque wit; if they had a philosophy, then it
was a philosophy of taste, of sensuality. Most of the old emotions had atrophied, meant little to them.
They had rivalry without jealousy, affection without lust, malice without rage, kindness without pity. Their
schemes — often grandiose and perverse — were pursued without obsession and left uncompleted
without regret, for death was rare and life might cease only when Earth herself died.
Yet this particular story is about an obsession which overtook one of these people, much to his own
astonishment. And because he was overtaken by an obsession that is why we have a story to tell. It is
probably the last story in the annals of the human race and, as it happens, it is not dissimilar to that which
many believe is the first.
What follows, then, is the story of Jherek Carnelian, who did not know the meaning of morality, and
Mrs. Amelia Underwood, who knew everything about it.
1
A Conversation with the Iron Orchid
Dressed in various shades of light brown, the Iron Orchid and her son sat upon a cream-coloured
beach of crushed bone. Some distance off a white sea sparkled and whispered. It was the afternoon.
Between the Iron Orchid and her son, Jherek Carnelian, lay the remains of a lunch. Spread on a
cloth of plain damask were ivory plates containing pale fish, potatoes, meringue, vanilla ice-cream and,
glaring rather dramatically, from the centre of it all, a lemon.
The Iron Orchid smiled with her amber lips and, reaching for an oyster, asked: "How do you mean,
my love, 'virtuous'?" Her perfect hand, powdered the very lightest shade of gold, hovered for a second
over the oyster and then withdrew. She used the hand, instead, to cover a small yawn.
Her son stretched on his soft pillows. He, too, felt tired after the exertions of eating, but dutifully he
continued with the subject. "I'm not thoroughly sure what it means. As you know, most devastating of
minerals, most enchanting of flowers, I have studied the language of the time quite extensively. I must
possess every tape that still exists. It provides considerable amusement. But I cannot understand every
nuance. I found the word in a dictionary and the dictionary told me it meant acting with 'moral rectitude'
or in conformity with 'moral laws' — 'good, just, righteous.' Bewildering!"
He did take an oyster. He slid it into his mouth. He rolled it down his throat. It had been the Iron
Orchid who had discovered oysters and he had been delighted when she suggested they meet on this
beach and eat them. She had made some champagne to go with them, but they had both agreed that they
did not care for it and had cheerfully returned it to its component atoms.
"However," he continued, "I should like to try it for a bit. It is supposed to involve 'self-denial' " —
he forestalled her question — "which means doing nothing pleasurable."
"But everything, body of velvet, bones of steel, is pleasurable!"
"True — and there lies our paradox! You see the ancients, mother, divided their sensations into
different groupings — categories of sensations, some of which they did not find pleasurable, it seems. Or
they did find them pleasurable and therefore were displeased! Oh, dearest Iron Orchid, I can see you are
ready to dismiss the whole thing. And I despair, often, of puzzling out the answer. Why was one thing
considered worth pursuing and another not? But," his handsome lips curved in a smile, "I shall settle the
problem in one way or another, sooner or later." And he closed his heavy lids.
"Oh, Carnelian!"
She laughed softly and affectionately and stretched across the cloth to slip her slender hands into his
loose robe and stroke his warmth and his blood.
"Oh, my dear! How swift you are! How ripe and rich you are today!"
And he drew himself to his feet and he stepped over the cloth and he laid his tall body down upon
her and he kissed her slowly.
And the sea sighed.
When they awoke, still in each other's arms, it was morning, though no night had passed. For their
own pleasure someone had doubtless been engaged in rearranging time. It was not important.
Jherek noticed that the sea had turned a deep pink, almost a cerise, and was clashing dreadfully
with the beach, while on the horizon behind him he saw that two palms and a cliff had disappeared
altogether. In their place stood a silver pagoda, about twelve storeys high and glittering in the morning
sun. Jherek looked to his left and was pleased to see that his aircar (resembling a steam locomotive of
the early 20th century, but of about half the size, in gold, ebony and rubies) was still where they had left
it. He looked again at the pagoda, craning his neck, for his mother still relaxed with her head against
his shoulder. His mother, too, turned to look as a winged figure left the roof of the pagoda and flew
crazily away towards the east, swerving and dipping, circling back, narrowly missing the sharp edge of
the pagoda's crest, and at last disappearing.
"Oh," said the Iron Orchid getting to her feet. "It is the Duke of Queens and his wings. Why will he
insist that they are successful?" She waved a vague hand at the departed duke. "Goodbye. Playing one of
his solitary games, again, I suppose." She looked down at the remains of the lunch and made a face. "I
must clear this away." With a wave of the ring on her left hand she disseminated the lunch and watched
the dust drift away on the air. "Will you be going there, this evening? To his party?" She moved her
slender arm, heavy with brown brocade, and touched her forehead with her fingertips.
"I think so." He disseminated his own pillows. "I have a great liking for the Duke of Queens."
His lips pursed a trifle, Jherek Carnelian pondered the pink sea. "Even if I do not always appreciate
his colour sense."
He turned and walked over the crushed bone beach to his aircar. He clambered into the cabin.
"All aboard, my strong, my sweet, Iron Orchid!"
She chuckled and reached up to him.
From the footplate he reached down, seized her waist and swung her aboard.
"Off to Pasadena!"
He sounded his whistle.
"Shuffle off to Buffalo!"
Responding to the sonic signal, the little locomotive took magnificently to the air, shunting up the
sky, with lovely, lime-coloured steam puffing from its smokestack and from beneath its wheels.
"Oh, they gave him his augurs at Racine-Virginia," sang Jherek Carnelian, donning a scarlet and
cloth-of-gold engineer's cap, "saying steam-up, you're way behind time! It ain't '98, it's old '97. You got
to get on down that old Nantucket line!"
The Iron Orchid settled back in her seat of plush and ermine (an exact reproduction, she
understood, of the original) and watched her son with amusement as he opened the firedoor and
shovelled in the huge black diamonds which he had made specially to go with the train and which, though
of no particular use in fuelling the aircar, added aesthetic texture to the recreation.
"Where do you find all these old songs, Carnelian, my own?"
"I came across a cache of 'platters,' " he told her, wiping honest sweat from his face with a silk rag.
The train swept rapidly over a sea and a range of mountains. "A form of sound-storage of the same
period as the original of this aircar. A million years old, at least, though there's some evidence that they,
themselves, are reproductions of other originals. Kept in perfect condition by a succession of owners."
He slammed the firedoor shut and discarded the platinum shovel, joining her upon the couch and
staring down at the quaintly moulded countryside which Mistress Christia, the Everlasting Concubine, had
begun to build a while ago and then abandoned.
It was not elegant. In fact it was something of a mess. Two-thirds of a hill, in the fashion of the 91st
century post-Aryan landscapers, supported a snake-tree done after the Saturnian manner but left
uncoloured; part of an 11th century Gothic ruin stood beside a strip of river of the Bengali Empire period.
You could see why she had decided not to finish it, but it seemed to Jherek that it was a pity she had not
bothered to disseminate it. Someone else would, of course, sooner or later.
"Carrie Joan," he sang, "she kept her boiler going. Carrie Joan, she filled it full of wine. Carrie Joan
didn't stop her rowing. She had to get to Brooklyn by a quarter-past nine!"
He turned to the Iron Orchid.
"Do you like it? The quality of the platters isn't all it could be, but I think I've worked out all the
words now."
"Is that what you were doing last year?"
She raised her fine eyebrows. "I heard the noises coming from your Hi-Rise." She laughed. "And I
thought it was to do with sex." She frowned. "Or animals." She smiled. "Or both."
The locomotive began to spiral down, hooting, towards Jherek's ranch. The ranch had taken the
place of the Hi-Rise. A typical building of the 19th century, done in fibafome and thatch, each corner of
its veranda roof was supported by a wooden Indian, some forty feet high. Each Indian had a magnificent
pearl, twelve inches in diameter, in his turban, and a beard of real hair. The Indians were the only
extravagant detail in the otherwise simple building.
The locomotive landed in the corral and Jherek, whose interest in the ancient world had, off and on,
sustained itself for nearly two years, held out his hand to help the Iron Orchid disembark. For a moment
she hesitated as she attempted to remember what she must do. Then she grasped his hand and jumped to
the ground crying:
"Geronimo!"
Together they made for the house.
The surrounding landscape had been designed to fit in with the ranch. The sky contained a sunset,
which silhouetted the purple hills, and the black pines, which topped them. On the other side was a range
containing a herd of bison. Every few days there would emerge from a cunningly hidden opening in the
ground a group of mechanical 7th cavalrymen who would whoop and shout and ride round and round the
bison shooting their arrows into the air before roping and branding the beasts. The bison had been
specially grown from Jherek's own extensive gene-bank and didn't seem to care for the operation
although it should have been instinctive to them. The 7th cavalry, on the other hand, had been
manufactured in his machine shop because he had a distaste for growing people (who were inclined to be
bad-mannered when the time came for their dissemination).
"What a beautiful sunset," said his mother, who had not visited him since the Hi-Rise days. "Was the
sun really as huge as that in those days?"
"Bigger," he said, "by all accounts. I toned it down rather, for this."
She touched his arm. "You were always inclined to be restrained. I like it."
"Thank you."
They went up the white winding staircase to the veranda, breathing in the delicious scent of magnolia
which grew on the ground beside the basement section of the house. They crossed the veranda and
Jherek manipulated a lever which, depressed, allowed the door to open so that they could enter the
parlour — a single room occupying the whole of this floor. The remaining eight floors were given over to
kitchens, bedrooms, cupboards and the like.
The parlour was a treasure house of 19th century reproductions, including a magnificent pot-bellied
stove carved from a single oak and a flowering aspidistra which grew from the centre of the grass carpet
and spread its rubbery branches over the best part of the room.
The Iron Orchid hovered beside the intricate lattice-work shape which Jherek had seen in an old
holograph and reproduced in steel and chrome. It was like a huge egg standing on its end and it rose as
high as the ceiling.
"And what is this, my life force?" she asked him.
"A spaceship," he explained. "They were constantly attempting to fly to the moon or striving to repel
invasions from Mars. I'm not sure if they were successful, though of course there are no Martians these
days. Some of their writers were inclined to tell rather tall tales, you know, doubtless with a view to
entertaining their companions."
"Whatever possessed them to try! Into space!"
She shuddered. People had lost the inclination to leave the Earth centuries ago.
Naturally, space-travellers called on the planet from time to time, but they were, as often as not,
boring fellows with not much to offer. They were usually encouraged to leave as soon as possible or, if
one should catch somebody's fancy, he would be retained in a collection.
Even Jherek had no impulse to time-travel, though time-travellers would arrive occasionally in his
era. He could have travelled through time himself, if he had wished, and very briefly visited his beloved
19th century. But, like most people, he found that the real places were rather disappointing. It was much
better to indulge in imaginative recreation of the periods or places. Nothing, therefore, would spoil the full
indulgence of one's fancies, or the thrill of discovery as one unearthed some new piece of information and
added it to the texture of one's reproduction.
A servo entered and bowed. The Iron Orchid handed it her clothes (as she had been instructed to
do by Jherek — another custom of the time) and went to stretch her wonderful body under the aspidistra
tree. Jherek was pleased to note she was wearing breasts again and thus did not clash with her
surroundings. Everything was in period. Even the servo wore a derby, an ulster, chaps and stout brogues
and carried several meerschaum pipes in its steel teeth. At a sign from its master it rolled away.
Jherek went to sit with his back against the bole of the aspidistra. "And now, lovely Iron Orchid, tell
me what you have been doing."
She looked up at him, her eyes shining. "I've been making babies, dearest. Hundreds of them!" She
giggled. "I couldn't stop. Cherubs, mainly. I built a little aviary for them, too. And I made them trumpets
to blow and harps to pluck and I composed the sweetest music you ever heard. And they played it!"
"I should like to hear it."
"What a shame." She was genuinely upset that she had not thought of him, her favourite, her only
real son. "I'm making microscopes now. And gardens, of course, to go with them. And tiny beasts. But
perhaps I'll do the cherubs again some day. And you shall hear them, then."
"If I am not being 'virtuous,' " he said archly.
"Ah, now I begin to understand the meaning. If you have an impulse to do something — you do the
opposite. You want to be a man, so you become a woman. You wish to fly somewhere, so you go
underground. You wish to drink, but instead you emit fluid. And so on. Yes, that's splendid. You'll set a
fashion, mark my words. In a month, blood of my blood, everyone will be virtuous. And what shall we
do then? Is there anything else? Tell me!"
"Yes. We could be 'evil' — or 'modest' — or 'lazy' — or 'poor' — or, oh, I don't know —
'worthy.' There's hundreds."
"And you would tell us how to be it?"
"Well…" He frowned. "I still have to work out exactly what's involved. But by that time I should
know a little more."
"We'll all be grateful to you. I remember when you taught us Lunar Cannibals. And Swimming. And
— what was it — Flags?"
"I enjoyed Flags," he said. "Particularly when My Lady Charlotina made that delicious one which
covered the whole of the western hemisphere. In metal cloth the thickness of an ant's web. Do you
remember how we laughed when it fell on us?"
"Oh, yes!" She clapped her hands. "Then Lord Jagged built a Flag Pole on which to fly it and the
pole melted so we each made a Niagara to see who could do the biggest and used up every drop of
water and had to make a whole new batch and you went round and round in a cloud raining on
everyone, even on Mongrove. And Mongrove dug himself an underground Hell, with devils and
everything, out of that book the time-traveller brought us, and he set fire to Bulio Himmler's 'Bunkerworld
2' which he didn't know was right next door to him and Bulio was so upset he kept dropping atom
bombs on Mongrove's Hell, not knowing that he was supplying Mongrove with all the heat he needed!"
They laughed heartily.
"Was it really three hundred years ago?" said Jherek nostalgically.
He plucked a leaf from the aspidistra and reflectively began to chew it. A little blue juice ran down
his beige chin.
"I sometimes think," he continued, "that I haven't known a better sequence of events. It seemed to
go on and on, one thing leading neatly to another. Mongrove's Hell, you know, also ruined my menagerie,
except for one creature that escaped and broke most of his devils. Everything went up, in my menagerie,
otherwise. Because of Himmler, really. Or because of Lady Charlotina. Who's to say?"
He discarded the leaf.
"It's strange," he said. "I haven't kept a menagerie since. I mean, almost everyone has some sort of
menagerie, even you, Iron Orchid."
"Mine is so small. Compare it with the Everlasting Concubine's, even."
"You've three Napoleons. She has none."
"True. But I'm honestly not sure whether any one of them is genuine."
"It is hard to tell," he agreed.
"And she does have an absolutely genuine Attila the Hun. The trouble she went to, too, to make that
particular trade. But he's such a bore."
"I think that's why I stopped collecting," he said. "The genuine items are often less interesting than
the fakes."
"It's usually the case, fruit of my loins." She sank into the grass again. This last reference was not to
the literal truth. In fact, as Jherek remembered, his mother had been some sort of male anthropoid at the
actual moment of his birth and had forgotten all about him until, by accident, six months later she came
upon the incubator in the jungle she had built. He had still been nursed as a new-born baby by the
incubator. But she had kept him. He was glad of that. So few human beings, as such, were born these
days.Perhaps that was why, being a natural born baby, as it were, he felt such an affinity with the past,
thought Jherek. Many of the time-travellers — even some of the space-travellers — had been children,
too. He did get on well with some of the people who had chosen to live outside the menageries and
adopt the ways of this society.
Pereg Tralo, for instance, who had ruled the world in the 30th century simply because he had been
the last person to be born out of an actual womb! A splendid, witty companion. And Clare Cyrato, the
singer from the 500th — a peculiar freak, due to some experiment of her mother's, she too had entered
life as a baby. Babies, children, adolescents — everything!
It was an experience he had not regretted. What experience could be regretted? And he had been
the darling of all his mother's friends. His novelty lasted well into his teens. With delight they had watched
him grow! Everyone envied him. Everyone envied the Iron Orchid, though for a while she had distinctly
tired of him and gone away to live in the middle of a mountain. Everyone envied him, that is, except
Mongrove (who would certainly not have admitted it, anyway) and Werther de Goethe, who had also
been born a baby. Werther, of course, had been a trial and had not enjoyed himself nearly so much.
Even though he no longer had six arms, he still felt a certain amount of resentment about the way he had
been altered, never having the same limbs or the same head, even, from one day to the next.
Jherek noticed that his mother had fallen asleep again. She only had to lie down for a moment and
she was dreaming. It was a habit she had always encouraged in herself, for she thought up many of her
best new ideas in dreams.
Jherek hardly dreamed at all.
If he had, he supposed he would not have to seek out old tapes and platters to read, watch or hear.
Still, he was acknowledged as being one of the very best recreators, even if his originality would not
equal either his mother's or that of the Duke of Queens. Privately Jherek felt that the Duke of Queens lost
on aesthetic sensibility what he made up for in invention.
Jherek remembered that both he and the Iron Orchid were invited to the Duke's that evening. He
had not been to a party for some time and was determined to wear something stunning.
He considered what to put on. He would stick to the 19th century, of course, for he believed very
much in consistency of style. And it must be nothing fanciful. It must be spare. It must be a clean, quiet
image, striking and absolutely without a personal touch. A personal touch would, again, mar the effect.
The choice became obvious.
He would wear full evening dress, an opera hat and an opera cloak.
And, he thought with a self-satisfied smile, he would have the whole thing in a low-keyed
combination of russet orange and midnight blue. With a carnation, naturally, at the throat.
2
A Soirée at the Duke of Queens
A few million years ago, perhaps less (for time was terribly difficult to keep track of), there had
flourished as a province of legendary New York City a magnificent district known as the Queen's. It was
here that some New York king's escort had established her summer residence, building a vast palace and
gardens and inviting from all over the world the most talented and the most amusing people to share the
summer months with her. To the Queen's court flocked great painters, writers, composers, sculptors,
craftsmen and wits, to display their new creations, to perform plays, dances and operas, to gossip, to
entertain their queen (who had probably been the mythical Queen Eleanor of the Red Veldt), their
patron.
Although in the meantime a few continents had drowned and others emerged, while various land
masses had joined together and some had divided, there had been little doubt in the mind of Liam Ty
Pam Caesar Lloyd George Zatopek Finsbury Ronnie Michelangelo Yurio Iopu 4578 Rew United that he
had found the site of the original court and established his own residence there and was thus able to style
himself, reasonably enough, the Duke of Queens. One of the few permanent landmarks of the world was
his statue of the Queen of the Red Veldt herself, stretching half a mile into the sky and covering an area of
some six miles, showing the heroic queen in her cadillac (or chariot) drawn by six dragons, with her oddly
curved spear in one hand, her square shield on her other arm and with her bizarre helmet upon her head,
looking splendidly heroic as she must have done when she led her victorious armies against the might of
the United Nations, that grandiose and ambitious alliance which had, in the legends, once sought to
dominate the entire planet. So long had the statue stood in the grounds of the Duke's residence that few
really ever noticed it, for the residence itself changed frequently and the Duke of Queens often managed
to astonish everyone with the originality and scope of his invention.
As Jherek Carnelian and his mother, the Iron Orchid, approached, the first thing they saw was the
statue, but almost immediately they took note of the house which the Duke must have erected especially
for this evening's party.
"Oh!" breathed the Iron Orchid, peering out from the cabin of the locomotive and shielding her eyes
against the light, "How clever he is! How delightful!"
Jherek pretended to be unimpressed as he joined her on the footplate, his opera cloak swirling.
"It's pretty," he said, "and striking, of course. The Duke of Queens is always striking."
Clad in poppies, marigolds and cornflowers from throat to ankle, the Iron Orchid turned with a
smile and wagged a finger at him. "Come now, my dear. Admit that it is magnificent."
"I have admitted that it is striking. It is striking."
"It is magnificent!"
His disdain melted before her enthusiasm. He laughed. "Very well, lushest of blooms, it is
magnificent! Without parallel! Gorgeous! Breathtaking! A work of genius!"
"And you will tell him so, my ghost?" Her eyes were sardonic. "Will you tell him?"
He bowed. "I will."
"Splendid. And then, you see, we shall enjoy the party so much more."
Of course, there was no doubting the Duke's ingenuity but as usual, thought Jherek, he had
overdone everything. The sky had been coloured a lurid purple as a background and in it swirled the
remaining planets of the Solar System — Mars as a great ruby, Venus as an emerald, Herod as a
diamond, and so on — thirty in all.
The residence itself was a reproduction of the Great Fire of Africa. There were a number of
separate buildings, each in the shape of some famous city of the time, blazing merrily away. Durban,
Kilwa-Kivinje, Yola, Timbuctoo and others all burned, yet each detailed building, which was certain to
be in perfect scale, was sculpted from water and the water was brightly (garishly, in Jherek's opinion)
coloured, as were the flames. There were flames of every conceivable, flickering shade. And among the
flames and the water wandered the guests who had already arrived. Naturally there was no heat to the
fire — or barely any — for the Duke of Queens had no intention of burning his guests to death. In a way,
Jherek thought, that was why the residence seemed to him to lack any real creative force. But then he
was inclined to take such matters too seriously — everyone told him of that.
The locomotive landed just outside Smithsmith, whose towers and terraces would crumble as if in a
blaze and then swiftly reform themselves before the water fell on anybody. People shouted with delight
and giggled in surprise. Smithsmith seemed at present the most popular attraction in the residence. Food
and beverages, mainly 28th century African, were laid about everywhere and people wandered from
table to table sampling them.
Dismounting from the footplate and absently offering his hand to his mother (whose "Geronimo" was
sotto voce because she was becoming bored with the ritual) Jherek noticed many people he knew and a
few whom he did not. Some of those he did not know were plainly from menageries, probably all
time-travellers. He could tell by the awkward way in which they stood, either conversing or keeping to
themselves, either amused or unhappy. Jherek saw a time-traveller he did recognise. Li Pao, clad in his
usual blue overalls, was casting a disapproving eye over Smithsmith.
Jherek and the Iron Orchid approached him.
"Good evening, Li Pao," said the Iron Orchid. She kissed him on his lovely, round yellow face.
"You're evidently critical of Smithsmith. Is it the usual? Lack of authenticity? You're from the 28th
century, aren't you?"
"27th," said Li Pao, "but I don't imagine things would have changed that much. Ah, you bourgeois
individualists — you're so bad at it. That's always been my main contention."
"You could be a better 'bourgeois individualist' if you wanted to be, eh?" Another menagerie
member approached. He was dressed in the long, silver skirts of the 32nd century whipperman. "You're
always quibbling over details, Li Pao."
Li Pao sighed. "I know. I'm boring. But there it is."
"It's why we love you," said the Iron Orchid, kissing him again and then waving her hand to her dear
friend Gaf the Horse in Tears who had looked up from her conversation with Sweet Orb Mace (whom
some thought might be Jherek's father) and smiled at the Iron Orchid, motioning her to join them. The
Iron Orchid drifted away.
"And it's why we won't listen to you time-travellers," said Jherek. "You can be so dreadfully
pedantic. This detail isn't right — that one's out of period — and so on. It spoils everyone's pleasure.
You must admit, Li Pao, that you are a trifle literal minded."
"That was the strength of our Republic," said Li Pao, sipping his wine. "That was why it lasted fifty
thousand years."
"Off and on," said the 32nd century whipperman.
"More on than off," said Li Pao.
"Well, it depends what you call a republic," said the whipperman.
They were at it again. Jherek Carnelian smoothed himself off and saw Mongrove, the bitter giant, all
overblown and unloved, who stood moping in the very centre of blazing Smithsmith as if he wished the
buildings would really fall down on him and consume him. Jherek knew that Mongrove's whole persona
was an affectation, but he had kept it so long that it was almost possible Mongrove had become the thing
itself. But Mongrove was not really unloved. He was a favourite at parties — when he deigned to attend
them. This must be his first in twenty years.
"How are you, Lord Mongrove?" Jherek asked, staring up at the giant's lugubrious face.
"The worse for seeing you, Jherek Carnelian. I have not forgotten all the slights, you know."
"You would not be Mongrove if you had."
"The turning of my feet into rats. You were only a boy, then."
"Correct. The first slight." Jherek bowed.
"The theft of my private poems."
"True — and my publishing them."
"Just so." Mongrove nodded, continuing: "The shifting of my lair and its environs from the North to
the South pole."
"You were confused."
"Confused and angry with you, Jherek Carnelian. The list is endless. I know that I am your butt,
your fool, your plaything. I know what you think of me."
"I think well of you, Lord Mongrove."
"You know me for what I am. A monster. A horror. A thing which does not deserve to live. And I
hate you for that, Jherek Carnelian."
"You love me for it, Mongrove. Admit it."
A deep sigh, almost a windy bellow, escaped the giant's lips and tears fell from his eyes as he turned
摘要：

TheDancersattheEndofTimeBook1AnAlienHeatByMichaelMoorcockOtherbooksbyMichaelMoorcockTHEDRAGONINTHESWORDTHEETERNALCHAMPIONTHESILVERWARRIORSTheElricSagaELRICOFMELNIBONÉTHESAILORONTHESEASOFFATETHEWEIRDOFTHEWHITEWOLFTHEVANISHINGTOWERTHEBANEOFTHEBLACKSWORDSTORMBRINGERTheChroniclesofCastleBrassCOUNTBRASST...

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