Michael Moorcock
City of the Beast
Chapter One
MY DEBT TO M. CLARCHET
THE Matter Transmitter is both villain and hero of this story (began Kane), for it took me to a world where I felt more at home than I shall ever feel here. It brought me to a wonderful girl whom I loved and who loved me-and then took it all away again.
But I had better begin nearer the beginning.
I was born, as I told you, in Ohio-in Wynnsville-a small, pleasant town that never changed much. Its only unusual feature was in the person of M. Clarchet, a Frenchman who had settled there shortly after the First World War. He lived in a large place on the outskirts of town. M. Clarchet was a cosmopolitan, a Frenchman of the old school-short, very straight-backed, with a typically French, waxed moustache and a rather military way of walking.
To be honest, M. Clarchet was something of a caricature to us and seemed to illustrate everything we had learned about the French in our dime novels and comic books. Yet I owe my life to M.
Clarchet, though I wasn't to realize it until many years after the old gentleman had passed on, and when I found myself suddenly transported to Mars … But again I am getting ahead of myself.
Clarchet was an enigma even to me though, as boy and youth, I probably knew him better than anyone else. He had been, he said, a fencing master at the Court of the Tsar of Russia before the Revolution and had had to leave in a hurry when the Bolsheviks took over.
He had settled in Wynnsville directly because of this experience. It had seemed to him at the time that the whole world was in chaos and was being turned upside down. He had found a small town that was never likely to change much-and he liked it. The way of life he led now was radically different from the one he had been used to, and it seemed to suit him.
We first met when I had accepted a dare by my young pals to climb the fence of his house and see if I could observe what M. Clarchet was up to. At that time we were all convinced he was a spy of some description! He had caught me, but instead of shooting me, as I half-expected, he had laughed good-naturedly and sent me on my way. I liked him at once.
Soon after that we kids had a phase which was a sequel to seeing Ronald Colman in The Prisoner of Zenda. We all became Ruperts and Rudolfs for a time. With long canes for swords, we fenced one another to exhaustion-not very skilfully but with a lot of enthusiasm!
On a sunny afternoon in early summer, it so happened that I and another boy, Johnny Bulmer, were duelling for the throne of Ruritania just outside M. Clarchet's house. Suddenly there came a great shout from the house and we wheeled in astonishment.
"Non! Non! Non!" The Frenchman was plainly exasperated. "That ees wrong, wrong, wrong! That ees not how a gentleman fences!"
He rushed from his garden and seized my cane, adopting a graceful fencing stance and facing a startled Johnny, who just stood there with his mouth open.
"Now," he said to Johnny, "you do ze same, oui?"
Johnny inelegantly copied his posture.
"Now, you thrust-so!" The cane darted out in a flicker of movement and stopped just short of Johnny's chest.
Johnny copied him-and was parried with equal swiftness. We were amazed and delighted by this time. Here was a man who would have been a good match for Rupert of Hentzau.
After a while M. Clarchet stopped and shook his head. "It ees no good with thees slicks-we must have real foils, non? Come!"
We followed him into the house. It was well furnished though not lavishly. In a special room at the top we found more to make us gasp.
Here was an array of blades such as we'd never even imagined! Now I know them to be foils and epees and sabres, plus a collection of fine, antique weapons-claymores, scimitars, Samurai swords, broadswords, Roman short swords-the gladiusand many, many more.
M. Clarchet waved a hand at the fascinating display of weapons. "Zere! My collection. Zey are sweet, ze little swords, non?" He took down a small rapier and handed it to me, handing a similar sword to Johnny. It felt really good, holding that well-balanced sword in my hand. I flexed my wrist, not quite able to get the balance. M. Clarchet took my hand and showed me the correct way of grasping it.
"How would you like to learn properly?" said M.
Clarchet with a wink. "I could teach you much."
Was it possible? We were going to be allowed to wield these swords-taught how to sword-fight like the best. I was amazed and delighted-until a thought struck me, and I frowned.
"Oh-we don't have any money, sir. We couldn't pay you and our moms and pops aren't likely tothey're mean enough as it is."
"I do not wish for payment. The skill you acquire from me will be reward enough! Here-I will show you zee simple parry first…"
And so he taught us. Not only did we learn how to fence with the modern conventional weaponsfoils, epees and sabres-but also with the antique and foreign weapons of all shapes, weights, sizes and balances. He taught us the whole of his marvellous art.
Whenever we could, Johnny and I attended M.
Clarchet's special Sword Room. He seemed grateful to us, in his way, for the opportunity to pass on his skill, just as we were to him for giving us the chance to learn. By the time we were around fifteen we were both pretty good, and I think I probably had the edge on Johnny, though I say it myself.
Johnny's parents moved to Chicago about that time so I became M. Clarchet's only pupil. When I wasn't studying physics at high school and later at university, I was to be found at M. Clarchet's, learning all I could. And at last the day came when he cried with joy. I had beaten him in a long and complicated duel!
"You are zee best, Mike! Better zan any I have known!"
It was the highest praise I have ever received. At university I went in for fencing, of course, and was picked for the American team in the Olympics. But it was a crucial time in my studies and I had to drop out at the last moment.
That was how I learned to fence, anyway. I thought of it in my more depressed moments as rather a purposeless sport-archaic and only indirectly useful, in that it gave me excellently sharp reactions, strengthened my muscles and so on. It was useful in the Army, too, for the physical discipline essential in Army training was already built in to me.
I was lucky. I did well in my studies and survived my military service, part of which was spent fighting the Communist guerrillas in the jungles of Vietnam. By the time I was thirty, I was known as a bright boy in the world of physics. I joined the Chicago Special Research Institute, and because of my ideas on matter transmission was appointed Director of the department responsible for developing the machine.
I remember we were working late on it, enlarging its capacity so that it could take a man.
The neon lights in the lab ceiling illuminated the shining steel and plastic cabinet, the great 'translator cone' directed down at it, and all the other equipment and instruments that filled the place almost to capacity. There were five of us workingthree technicians and Doctor Logon, my chief assistant.
I checked all the instruments while Logan and the men worked on the equipment. Soon all the gauges were reading what they should read, and we were ready.
I turned to Doctor Logan and looked at him. He said nothing as he looked back at me. Then we shook hands. That was all.
I climbed into the machine. They had tried to talk me out of it earlier but had given up by this time. Logan reached for the phone and contacted the team handling the 'receiver'. This was situated in a lab on the other side of the building.
Logan told the team we were ready and checked with them. They were ready, too.
Logan walked to the main switch. Through the little glass panel in the cabinet I saw him switch it on gravely.