Time Travel Omnibus Volume 2, page 47
part #2 of Time Travel Series
“Hey, if I knew that . . . Way I figure it, they’re maybe warping across space somehow—kind of like matter transference. The magazines have been talking about that kind of thing for years: they call them black funnels or something.
“But maybe they’re also warping across time progressions, too . . . without even realising they’re doing it. Then, as soon as they appear into our dimension or plane, one that operates on a different time progression . . . it’s like a chemical reaction and . . .”
I clapped my hands. “I know,” I said. “BOOM!”
“Right.”
“So what do we do?”
“Right now? Nothing. Right now, the balance has been restored. But the paradox will be repeated . . . around 2003, 2004.” He smiled at me. “Give or take.”
We went on walking and talking but that’s about all I can remember of that night.
The next day, or maybe the one after, we told Ed Brewster. And we made ourselves a pact.
We couldn’t bring ourselves to tell anyone about what had happened. Who would believe us? Where was the proof? A few boxes of slime? Forget it. And if we showed them the blackened stuff at the bottom of Darien Lake . . . well, it was just a heap of blackened stuff at the bottom of a lake.
But there was another reason we didn’t want to tell anyone outside of Forest Plains about what we’d done. Just like nobody else in town wanted to tell anyone. We were ashamed.
So we made a pact. We’d keep our eyes peeled—keep watching the skies, as the newspaperman said in The Thing movie . . .
And when something happens, we’ll know what to do.
What really gets to me—still, after all this time—is not just that there’s a bunch of aliens somewhere out there, maybe heading on a disaster course with Earth . . . but that, back on their own planet or dimension there’s another bunch of creatures listening to their messages . . . a bunch we killed on the streets of Forest Plains almost 40 years ago.
PALE ROSES
Michael Moorcock
Short summer-time and then, my heart’s desire,
The winter and the darkness: one by one
The roses fall, the pale roses expire
Beneath the slow decadence of the sun.
Ernest Dowson, “Transition”
I. IN WHICH WERTHER IS INCONSOLABLE
“You can still amuse people, Werther, and that’s the main thing,” said Mistress Christia, lifting her skirts to reveal her surprise.
It was rare enough for Werther de Goethe to put on an entertainment (though this one was typical—it was called “Rain”) and rare, too, for the Everlasting Concubine to think in individual terms to please her lover of the day.
“Do you like it?” she asked as he peered into her thighs.
Werther’s voice in reply was faintly, unusually animated. “Yes.” His pale fingers traced the tattoos, which were primarily on the theme of Death and the Maiden, but corpses also coupled, skeletons entwined in a variety of extravagant carnal embraces—and at the centre, in bone-white, her pubic hair had been fashioned in the outline of an elegant and somehow quintessentially feminine skull. “You alone know me, Mistress Christia.”
She had heard the phrase so often, from so many, and it always delighted her. “Cadaverous Werther!”
He bent to kiss the skull’s somewhat elongated lips.
His rain rushed through dark air, each drop a different gloomy shade of green, purple or red. And it was actually wet so that when it fell upon the small audience (the Duke of Queens, Bishop Castle, My Lady Charlotina, and one or two recently arrived, absolutely bemused, time travellers from the remote past) it soaked their clothes and made them shiver as they stood on the shelf of glassy rock overlooking Werther’s Romantic Precipice (below, a waterfall foamed through fierce, black rock).
“Nature,” exclaimed Werther. “The only verity!”
The Duke of Queens sneezed. He looked about him with a delighted smile, but nobody else had noticed. He coughed to draw their attention, tried to sneeze again, but failed. He looked up into the ghastly sky; fresh waves of black cloud boiled in: there was lightning now, and thunder. The rain became hail. My Lady Charlotina, in a globular dress of pink veined in soft blue, giggled as the little stones fell upon her gilded features with an almost inaudible ringing sound.
But Bishop Castle, in his nodding, crenellated tete (from which he derived the latter half of his name and which was twice his own height), turned away, saturnine and bored, plainly noting a comparison between all this and his own entertainment of the previous year, which had also involved rain, but with each drop turning into a perfect mannikin as it touched the ground. There was nothing in his temperament to respond to Werther’s rather innocent re-creation of a Nature long since departed from a planet which could be wholly re-modelled at the whim of any one of its inhabitants.
Mistress Christia, ever quick to notice such responses, eager for her present lover not to lose prestige, cried: “But there is more, is there not, Werther? A finale?”
“I had thought to leave it a little longer . . .”
“No! No! Give us your finale now, my dear!”
“Well, Mistress Christia, if it is for you.” He turned one of his power rings, disseminating the sky, the lightning, the thunder, replacing them with pearly clouds, radiated with golden light through which silvery rain still fell.
“And now,” he murmured, “I give you Tranquillity, and in Tranquillity—Hope . . .”
A further twist of the ring and a rainbow appeared, bridging the chasm, touching the clouds.
Bishop Castle was impressed by what was an example of elegance rather than spectacle, but he could not resist a minor criticism. “Is black exactly the shade, do you think? I should have supposed it expressed your Idea, well, perhaps not perfectly . . .”
“It is perfect for me,” answered Werther a little gracelessly.
“Of course,” said Bishop Castle, regretting his impulse. He drew his bushy red brows together and made a great show of studying the rainbow. “It stands out so well against the background.”
Emphatically (causing a brief, ironic glint in the eye of the Duke of Queens) Mistress Christia clapped her hands. “It is a beautiful rainbow, Werther. I am sure it is much more as they used to look.”
“It takes a particularly original kind of imagination to invent such—simplicity.” The Duke of Queens, well known for a penchant in the direction of vulgarity, fell in with her mood.
“I hope it does more than merely represent.” Satisfied both with his creation and with their responses, Werther could not resist indulging his nature, allowing a tinge of hurt resentment in his tone.
All were tolerant. All responded, even Bishop Castle. There came a chorus of consolation. Mistress Christia reached out and took his thin, white hand, inadvertently touching a power ring.
The rainbow began to topple. It leaned in the sky for a few seconds while Werther watched, his disbelief gradually turning to miserable reconciliation; then, slowly, it fell, shattering against the top of the cliff, showering them with shards of jet.
Mistress Christia’s tiny hand fled to the rosebud of her mouth; her round, blue eyes expressed horror already becoming laughter (checked when she noted the look in Werther’s dark and tragic orbs). She still gripped his hand; but he slowly withdrew it, kicking moodily at the fragments of the rainbow. The sky was suddenly a clear, soft grey, actually lit, one might have guessed, by the tired rays of the fading star about which the planet continued to circle, and the only clouds were those on Werther’s noble brow. He pulled at the peak of his bottle-green cap, he stroked at his long, auburn hair, as if to comfort himself. He sulked.
“Perfect!” praised My Lady Charlotina, refusing to see error.
“You have the knack of making the most of a single symbol, Werther.” The Duke of Queens waved a brocaded arm in the general direction of the now disseminated scene. “I envy you your talent, my friend.”
“It takes the product of panting lust, of pulsing sperm and eager ovaries, to offer us such brutal originality!” said Bishop Castle, in reference to Werther’s birth (he was the product of sexual union, born of a womb, knowing childhood—a rarity, indeed). “Bravo!”
“Ah,” sighed Werther, “how cheerfully you refer to my doom: to be such a creature, when all others came into this world as mature, uncomplicated adults!”
“There was also Jherek Carnelian,” said My Lady Charlotina. Her globular dress bounced as she turned to leave.
“At least he was not born malformed,” said Werther.
“It was the work of a moment to re-form you properly, Werther,” the Duke of Queens reminded him. “The six arms (was it?) removed, two perfectly fine ones replacing them. After all, it was an unusual exercise on the part of your mother. She did very well, considering it was her first attempt.”
“And her last,” said My Lady Charlotina, managing to have her back to Werther by the time the grin escaped. She snapped her fingers for her air car. It floated towards her, a great, yellow rocking horse. Its shadow fell across them all.
“It left a scar,” said Werther, “nonetheless.”
“It would,” said Mistress Christia, kissing him upon his black velvet shoulder.
“A terrible scar.”
“Indeed!” said the Duke of Queens in vague affirmation, his attention wandering. “Well, thank you for a lovely afternoon, Werther. Come along, you two!” He signed to the time travellers, who claimed to be from the eighty-third millennium and were dressed in primitive transparent “exoskin”, which was not altogether stable and was inclined to writhe and make it seem that they were covered in hundreds of thin, excited worms. The Duke of Queens had acquired them for his menagerie. Unaware of the difficulties of returning to their own time (temporal travel had, apparently, only just been re-invented in their age), they were inclined to treat the Duke as an eccentric who could be tolerated until it suited them to do otherwise. They smiled condescendingly, winked at each other, and followed him to an air car in the shape of a cube whose sides were golden mirrors decorated with white and purple flowers. It was for the pleasure of enjoying the pleasure they enjoyed, seemingly at his expense, that the Duke of Queens had brought them with him today. Mistress Christia waved at his car as it disappeared rapidly into the sky.
At last they were all gone, save herself and Werther de Goethe. He had seated himself upon a mossy rock, his shoulders hunched, his features downcast, unable to speak to her when she tried to cheer him.
“Oh, Werther,” she cried at last, “what would make you happy?”
“Happy?” His voice was a hollow echo of her own. “Happy?” An awkward, dismissive gesture. “There is no such thing as happiness for such as I!”
“There must be some sort of equivalent, surely?”
“Death, Mistress Christia, is my only consolation!”
“Well, die, my dear! I’ll resurrect you in a day or two, and then . . .”
“Though you love me, Mistress Christia—though you know me best—you do not understand. I seek the inevitable, the irreconcilable, the unalterable, the inescapable! Our ancestors knew it. They knew Death without Resurrection; they knew what it was to be Slave to the Elements. Incapable of choosing their own destinies, they had no responsibility for their own actions. They were tossed by tides. They were scattered by storms. They were wiped out by wars, decimated by disease, ravaged by radiation, made homeless by holocausts, lashed by lightnings . . .”
“You could have lashed yourself a little today, surely?”
“But it would have been my decision. We have lost what is Random, we have banished the Arbitrary, Mistress Christia. With our power rings and our gene banks we can, if we desire, change the courses of the planets, populate them with any kind of creature we wish, make our old sun burst with fresh energy or fade completely from the firmament. We control All. Nothing controls us!”
“There are our whims, our fancies. There are our characters, my moody love.”
“Even those can be altered at will.”
“Except that it is a rare nature which would wish to change itself. Would you change yours? I, for one, would be disconsolate if, say, you decided to be more like the Duke of Queens or the Iron Orchid.”
“Nonetheless, it is possible. It would merely be a matter of decision. Nothing is impossible, Mistress Christia. Now do you realize why I should feel unfulfilled?”
“Not really, dear Werther. You can be anything you wish, after all. I am not, as you know, intelligent—it is not my choice to be—but I wonder if a love of Nature could be, in essence, a grandiose love of oneself—with Nature identified, as it were, with one’s ego?” She offered this without criticism.
For a moment he showed surprise and seemed to be considering her observation. “I suppose it could be. Still, that has little to do with what we were discussing. It’s true that I can be anything—or, indeed, anyone—I wish. That is why I feel unfulfilled!”
“Aha,” she said.
“Oh, how I pine for the pain of the past! Life has no meaning without misery!”
“A common view then, I gather. But what sort of suffering would suit you best, dear Werther? Enslavement by Esquimaux?” She hesitated, her knowledge of the past being patchier than most people’s. “The beatings with thorns? The barbed-wire trews? The pits of fire?”
“No, no—that is primitive. Psychic, it would have to be. Involving—um—morality.”
“Isn’t that some sort of wall-painting?”
A large tear welled and fell. “The world is too tolerant. The world is too kind. They all—you most of all—approve of me! There is nothing I can do which would not amuse you—even if it offended your taste—because there is no danger, nothing at stake. There are no crimes, inflamer of my lust. Oh, if I could only sin!”
Her perfect forehead wrinkled in the prettiest of frowns. She repeated his words to herself. Then she shrugged, embracing him.
“Tell me what sin is,” she said.
II. IN WHICH YOUR AUDITOR INTERPOSES
Our time travellers, once they have visited the future, are only permitted (owing to the properties of Time itself) at best brief returns to their present. They can remain for any amount of time in their future, where presumably they can do no real damage to the course of previous events, but to come back at all is difficult for even the most experienced; to make a prolonged stay has been proved impossible. Half-an-hour with a relative or a loved one, a short account to an auditor, such as myself, of life, say, in the 75th century, a glimpse at an artefact allowed to some interested scientist—these are the best the time traveller can hope for, once he has made his decision to leap into the mysterious future.
As a consequence our knowledge of the future is sketchy, to say the least: we have no idea of how civilizations will grow up or how they will decline; we do not know why the number of planets in the Solar System seems to vary drastically between, say, half-a-dozen to almost a hundred; we cannot explain the popularity in a given age of certain fashions striking us as singularly bizarre or perverse. Are beliefs which we consider fallacious or superstitious based on an understanding of reality beyond our comprehension?
The stories we hear are often partial, hastily recounted, poorly observed, perhaps misunderstood by the traveller. We cannot question him closely, for he is soon whisked away from us (Time insists upon a certain neatness, to protect her own nature, which is essentially of the practical, ordering sort, and should that nature ever be successfully altered, then we might, in turn, successfully alter the terms of the human condition), and it is almost inevitable that we shall never have another chance of meeting him.
Resultantly, the stories brought to us of the Earth’s future assume the character of legends rather than history and tend, therefore, to capture the imagination of artists, for serious scientists need permanent, verifiable evidence with which to work, and precious little of that is permitted them (some refuse to believe in the future, save as an abstraction; some believe firmly that returning time travellers’ accounts are accounts of dreams and hallucinations and that they have not actually travelled in Time at all!). It is left to the Romancers, childish fellows like myself, to make something of these tales. While I should be delighted to assure you that everything I have set down in this story is based closely on the truth, I am bound to admit that while the outline comes from an account given me by one of our greatest and most famous temporal adventuresses, Miss Una Persson, the conversations and many of the descriptions are of my own invention, intended hopefully to add a little colour to what would otherwise be a somewhat spare, a rather dry recounting of an incident in the life of Werther de Goethe.
That Werther will exist, only a few entrenched sceptics can doubt. We have heard of him from many sources, usually quite as reliable as the admirable Miss Persson, as we have heard of other prominent figures of that Age we choose to call “the End of Time”. If it is this age which fascinates us more than any other, it is probably because it seems to offer a clue to our race’s ultimate destiny.
Moralists make much of this period and show us that on the one hand it describes the politeness of human existence or, on the other, the whole point. Romancers are attracted to it for less worthy reasons; they find it colourful, they find its inhabitants glamorous, attractive; their imaginations sparked by the paradoxes, the very ambiguities which exasperate our scientists, by the idea of a people possessing limitless power and using it for nothing but their own amusement, like gods at play. It is pleasure enough for the Romancer to describe a story; to colour it a little, to fill in a few details where they are missing, in the hope that by entertaining himself he entertains others.
Of course, the inhabitants at the End of Time are not the creatures of our past legends, not mere representations of our ancestors’ hopes and fears, not mere metaphors, like Siegfried or Zeus or Krishna, and this could be why they fascinate us so much. Those of us who have studied this Age (as best as it can be studied) feel on friendly terms with the Iron Orchid, with the Duke of Queens, with Lord Jagged of Canaria and the rest, and even believe that we can guess something of their inner lives.
