Dancers at the End of Time (46 page)

Jherek glimpsed antennae, white-grey claws, spiny and savage, a rearing, curling tail, armed with brown tusks, paddle-shaped back legs, all leaping half-out of the thick waters, attacking the raft.

There were two loud snapping noises, close together, and the front claws had each grasped a Lat.

They struggled and screamed. The tusky tail swung up and round clubbing them unconscious. Then the gigantic scorpion (for it resembled nothing else) had returned to the depths, leaving debris behind, a bobbing wickerwork hamper, green pulpy logs to which the surviving Lat clung.

Jherek saw a trail in the distant water, near the middle of the creek. He knew that this must be another such beast; he waded forward, offering his arms to the desperate Lat and shouting:

"Oh, what a jolly adventure, after all! The Duke of Queens could not have arranged a more sensational display! Just think, Mrs. Underwood — none of this was engineered. It is all happening spontaneously — quite naturally. The scorpions! Aren't they superbly sinister, sweet sister of the sphinx!"

"Mr. Carnelian!" Her voice was more than urgent. "Save yourself. More of the creatures come from all sides!"

It was true. The surrounding water was thick with gigantic scorpions. They converged.

Jherek drew Captain Mubbers and another Lat back to the shore. But a third was too slow. He had time to cry one last "Ferkit!" before the claws contracted and the great tail thumped and he became a subject of contention between the scorpion who had caught him and those of the scorpion's comrades who were disappointed at their own lack of success.

Mrs. Underwood reached his side. There was alarm and disapproval on her features. "Mr.

Carnelian — you frightened me so. But your bravery…"

He raised both eyebrows.

"It was superb," she said. Her voice had softened, but only momentarily. She remembered the hamper. It was the only thing left afloat, and apparently was without interest for the scorpions, who continued to dispute the ownership of the rapidly disintegrating corpse which occasionally emerged above the surface of the creek. There was foam, and there was blood.

The hamper bobbed up and down in the eddy created by the warring water scorpions; it had almost reached the middle of the creek.

"We must follow its drift," she said, "and hope to catch up with it later. Is there a current? Inward or outward? Where is the sea?"

"We must watch," said Jherek. "With luck, we can plot its general course at least."

Something fishy appeared above the surface near the hamper. A brown, glistening back, with fins, slid from view almost immediately.

"The sharks," said Inspector Springer. "I told you about them."

The hamper, which made this world a true Eden, rose under the back of at least one large finny creature. It turned over.

"Oh! " cried Mrs. Underwood.

They saw the hamper sink. They saw it rise again. The lid had swung open, but still it bobbed.

Quite suddenly, Mrs. Underwood sat down on the shingle and began to cry. To Jherek, the sound diminished all those which still issued from that savage Lower Devonian creek. He went to her. He seated himself beside her and he put a slim arm around her lonely shoulders.

It was then that a small power-boat, its motor whining, rounded the headland. It contained two black-clad figures, one seated at the wheel, the other standing up with a boathook in its hands. The craft made purposefully for the hamper.

Mrs. Underwood stopped crying and began to blink.

"It's getting to be like bloomin' Brighton," said Inspector Springer disapprovingly. "It seemed so unspoiled at first. What a racket that boat makes!"

"They have saved the hamper," said she. The two figures were hauling it aboard. The boat was rocked by the squirming movements of the large fish. A few objects fell from the hamper. The two figures seemed abnormally anxious to recover the objects, taking great trouble to pursue and scoop up a tin mug which had gone adrift. This done, the boat headed in their direction.

Jherek had seen nothing quite like the costumes of the newcomers; though they bore some resemblance to certain kinds of garments sometimes worn by space-travellers; they were all of a piece, shining and black, pouched and quilted, belted with broad bands containing what were probably tools.

They had tight-fitting helmets of the same material, with goggles and ear-pieces, and there were black gauntlets on their hands.

"I don't like the look of 'em," muttered the inspector. "Divers, ain't they?" He glanced back at the hills. "They could be up to no good. Why 'aven't they showed themselves before?"

"Perhaps they didn't know we were here," said Jherek reasonably.

"They're showing an uncommon interest in our 'amper. Could be the last we'll see of it."

"They are almost upon us," said Mrs. Underwood quietly. "Let us not judge them, or their motives, until we have spoken. Let us hope they have some English, or at worst French."

The boat's bottom crunched on the shingle; the engine was cut off; the two passengers disembarked, pulling the little vessel clear of the water, removing the hamper and carrying it between them to where Mrs. Underwood, Jherek Carnelian, Inspector Springer, Captain Mubbers and the three surviving Lat awaited them. Jherek noted that they were male and female, but of about the same height.

Little of their faces could be seen above the high collars and below the goggles. When they were a couple of yards away they stopped and lowered the hamper. The female pushed back her goggles, revealing a heart-shaped face, large blue-grey eyes, as steady as Mrs. Underwood's, and a full mouth.

It was unsurprising that Mrs. Underwood took her for French.

" 
Je vous remercie bien
…" she began.

"Aha! " said the woman, without irony, "You are English, then."

"Some of us are," said Inspector Springer heavily. "These little ones are Latvians."

"I am Mrs. Persson. May I introduce Captain Bastable." The man saluted; he raised his own goggles. His face was tanned and handsome; his blue eyes were pale.

"I am Mrs. Underwood. This is Mr. Carnelian, Inspector Springer, Captain Mubbers — I'm afraid I've no idea of the other names. They do not speak English. I believe they are space-travellers from the distant future. Are they not, Mr. Carnelian?"

"The Lat," he said. "We were never entirely clear about their origins. But they did come in a space-ship. To the End of Time."

"You are from the End of Time, sir?" Captain Bastable spoke in the light, clipped tones familiar to Jherek as being from the nineteenth century.

"I am."

"Jherek Carnelian, of course," said Mrs. Persson. "A friend of the Duke of Queens, are you not?

And Lord Jagged?"

"You know them?" He was delighted.

"I know Lord Jagged slightly. Oh, I remember — you are in love with this lady, your — Amelia?"

"My Amelia!"

"I am not 'your Amelia', Mr. Carnelian," she said firmly. And she became suspicious of Mrs.

Persson.

Mrs. Persson was apologetic. "You are from 1896. I was forgetting. You will forgive me, I hope, Mrs. Underwood. I have heard so much about you. Your story is one of the greatest of our legends. I assure you, we are honoured to meet you in the flesh."

Mrs. Underwood frowned, guessing sarcasm, but there was none.

"You have heard —?"

"We are only a few, we gossip. We exchange experiences and tales, as travellers will, on the rare occasions when we meet. And the Centre, of course, is where we all congregate."

The young man laughed. "I don't think they're following you, Una."

"I babble. You will be our guests?"

"You have a machine here?" said Mrs. Underwood, hope dawning.

"We have a base. You have not heard of it? You are not yet members of the Guild, then?"

"Guild?" Mrs. Underwood drew her eyebrows together. "No."

"The Guild of Temporal Adventurers," explained Captain Bastable. "The GTA?"

"I have never heard of it."

"Neither have I," said Jherek. "Why do you have an association?"

Mrs. Persson shrugged. "Mainly so that we can exchange information. Information is of considerable help to those of us whom you could call 'professional time-travellers'." She smiled self-deprecatingly. "It is such a risky business, at best."

"Indeed it is," he agreed. "We should love to accept your invitation. Should we not, Mrs.

Underwood?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Persson." Mrs. Underwood was still not at ease, but she had control of her manners.

"We shall need to make two trips. I suggest, Oswald, that you take the Lat and Inspector Springer back with you and then return for us three."

Captain Bastable nodded. "Better check the hamper first. Just to be on the safe side."

"Of course. Would you like to look, Mrs. Underwood, and tell me if anything is missing?"

"It does not matter. I really think —"

"It is of utmost importance. If anything is lost from it, we shall search meticulously until it is found.

We have instruments for detecting almost everything."

She peered in. She sorted. "Everything here, I think."

"Fine. Time merely tolerates us, you know. We must not offend."

Captain Bastable, the Lat and Inspector Springer, were already in their boat. The motor whined again. The water foamed. They were away.

Mrs. Persson watched it disappear before turning back to Jherek and Mrs. Underwood. "A lovely day. You have been here some while?"

"About a week, I would say," Mrs. Underwood smoothed at her ruined dress.

"So long as one avoids the water, it can be very beautiful. Many come to the Lower Devonian simply for the rest. If it were not for the eurypterids — the water scorpions — it would be perfect. Of all Palaeozoic periods, I find it the nicest. And, of course, it is a particularly friendly age, permitting more anachronism than most. This is your first visit?"

"The first," said Mrs. Underwood. Her expression betrayed what propriety restrained her from stating, that she hoped it would be the last.

"It can be dull." Mrs. Persson acknowledged the implication. "But if one wishes to relax, to re-plot one's course, take bearings — there are few better at this end of Time." She yawned. "Captain Bastable and I shall be glad to be on our way again, as soon as our caretaking duties are over and we are relieved.

Another fortnight should see us back in some twentieth century or other."

"You seem to suggest that there are more than one?" said Jherek. "Do you mean that different methods of recording history apply, or —?"

"There are as many versions of history as there are dedicated time-travellers." Mrs. Persson smiled.

"The difficulty lies in remaining in a consistent cycle. If one cannot do so, then all sorts of shocks are likely — environmental readjustment becomes almost impossible — madness results. How many fashions in insanity, do you think, have been set by mentally disturbed temporal adventures? We shall never know!"

She laughed. "Captain Bastable, for instance, was an inadvertent traveller (it sometimes happens), and was on the borders of madness before we were able to rescue him. First one finds it is the future which does not correspond, and this is frightening enough, if you are not expecting it. But it is worse when you return — to discover that your past has changed. You two, I take it, are fixed to a single band. Count yourselves lucky, if you do not know what to expect of multiversal time-travelling."

Jherek could barely grasp the import of her words and Mrs. Underwood was lost completely, though she fumbled with the notion: "You mean that time-traveller we met, who referred to Waterloo Circus, was not from my time at all, but one which corresponded…?" She shook her head. "You cannot mean it. My time no longer exists, because…?"

"Your time exists. Nothing ever perishes, Mrs. Underwood. Forgive me for saying so, but you seem singularly ill-prepared for temporal adventuring. How did you come to choose the Lower Devonian, for instance?"

"We did not choose it," Jherek told her. "We set off for the End of Time. Our ship was in rather poor condition. It deposited us here — although we were convinced we went forward."

"Perhaps you did."

"How can that be?"

"If you followed the cycle round, you arrived at the end and continued on to the beginning."

"Time is cyclic, then?"

"It can be." She smiled. "There are spirals, too, as it were. None of us understands it very well, Mr.

Carnelian. We pool what information we have. We have been able to create some basic methods of protecting ourselves. But few can hope to understand very much about the nature of Time, because that nature does not appear to be constant. The Chronon Theory, for instance, which was very popular in certain cultures, has been largely discredited — yet seems to apply in societies which accept the theory.

Your own Morphail Theory has much to recommend it, although it does not allow for the permutations and complications. It suggests that Time has, as it were, only one dimension — as if Space had only one.

You follow me, Mr. Carnelian?"

"To some extent."

She smiled. "And 'to some extent' is all I follow myself. One thing the Guild always tells new members — 'There are no experts where Time is concerned'. All we seek to do is to survive, to explore, to make occasional discoveries. Yet there is a particular theory which suggests that with every one discovery we make about Time, we create two new mysteries. Time can never be codified, as Space can be, because our very thoughts, our information about it, our actions based on that information, all contribute to extend the boundaries, to produce new anomalies, new aspects of Time's nature. Do I become too abstract? If so, it is because I discuss something which is numinous — unknowable — perhaps truly metaphysical. Time is a dream — or a nightmare — from which there is never any waking.

We who travel in Time are dreamers who occasionally share a common experience. To retain one's identity, to retain some sense of meaning in one's own life, that is all the time-traveller can hope for — it is why the Guild exists. You are lucky that you are not adrift in the multiverse, as Captain Bastable was, for you can become like a drowning man who refuses to float, but flounders — and every wave which you set up in the Sea of Time has a habit of becoming a whole ocean in its own right."