To a man, the constables produced their truncheons, and were upon the Lat, who fought back with the tableware as well as their powerless instrument-weapons.
Mr. Jackson came strolling in. There were now no waiters to be seen. He hung up his own hat and coat, taking only a mild interest in the melee at the centre of the restaurant, and crossed to where Frank Harris sat moaning softly to himself, Donna Isobella sat clapping her hands and giggling, and Jherek Carnelian and Mrs. Underwood stood wondering what to do. Harold Underwood was waving his fists, leaping around the periphery of the fight shouting at Inspector Springer to do his duty (he did not seem to believe that the inspector's duty had much to do with arresting three-foot-high brigand-musicians from a distant galaxy).
"Good evening to you," said Mr. Jackson affably. He opened a slender gold case and extracted an Egyptian cigarette. Inserting it into a holder, he lit it with a match and, leaning against a pillar, proceeded to watch the fight. "I thought I'd find you here," he added.
Jherek was quite enjoying himself. "And I might have guessed that you would come, Jagged. Who would want to miss this?"
It seemed that none of his friends wished to do so, for now, their costumes blazing and putting to shame the opulence of the Cafe Royale, the Iron Orchid, the Duke of Queens, Bishop Castle and My Lady Charlotina appeared.
The Iron Orchid, in particular, was delighted to see her son, but when she spoke he discovered that he could not understand her. Feeling in his pockets, he produced the rest of his translation pills and handed them to the four newcomers. They were quick to realize the situation and each swallowed a pill.
"I thought at first it was another illusion from your deceptor-gun," the Iron Orchid told him, "but actually we are back in the Dawn Age, are we not, with you?"
"You are, indeed, tenderest of blooms. You see, I am reunited with Mrs. Underwood."
"Good evening," said Mrs. Underwood to Jherek's mother in a tone which might have contained a hint of coolness.
"Good evening, my dear. Your costume is beautiful. It is contemporary, I suppose?" The Iron Orchid turned in a swirl of fiery drapery. "And Jagged is here, too! Greetings to you, languid Lord of Canaria!"
Mr. Jackson smiled faintly in acknowledgement.
Bishop Castle gathered his blue gown about him and sat down next to Mr. Harris and Donna Isobella. "I am glad to be out of that wood, at any rate," he said. "Are you residents of this age, or visitors like myself?"
Donna Isobella beamed at him. "I am from Spain," she said. "I dance. Exotically, you know."
"How delightful. Are the Lat causing you much trouble?"
"The little beast-men? Oh, no. They and the police are entertaining themselves quite cheerfully, I think."
With a shaking hand, Mr. Harris poured himself a large glass of champagne. He did not offer any to the others. He drank rapidly.
My Lady Charlotina kissed Mrs. Underwood upon the cheek. "Oh, you can scarcely know the excitement you have caused us all, pretty ancestress. But your own age seems not without its diversions!" She went to join Bishop Castle at the table.
The Duke of Queens was exclaiming with great pleasure about the plush and gilt decor of the restaurant. "I am determined to make one," he announced. "What did you say it was called, Jherek?"
"The Cafe Royale."
"It shall flourish again, five times the size, at the End of Time!" proclaimed the Duke.
From the middle of the room came muffled cries of "Ferkit!" and "Eouw!" Neither Inspector Springer's team, nor Captain Mubbers', seemed to be getting the upper hand. More tables were turned over.
The Duke of Queens took careful note of the police uniforms. "Does this happen every evening? Presumably the Lat are a new addition to the programme?"
"I think the best they've done in the past are drunken revels of the conventional sort," said Mr. Jackson. "Though they are not so very different in essence, I suppose."
"The Cafe is well known," Donna Isobella was explaining to an intensely interested Bishop Castle, "for its Bohemian clientele. It is rather less formal than most restaurants of its class."
There came a queer whizzing noise now and a flash of light which blinded them all, then Brannart Morphail was hanging near the ceiling in a harness of pulsing yellow, with what appeared to be two rapidly spinning discs upon his back, threatening to collide with a large crystal chandelier. His medical boot waved back and forth in an agitated way as he slapped at part of the harness near his shoulder, evidently finding difficulty in controlling the machine.
"I warned you! I warned you!" he cried from on high. His voice was crackling, improperly modulated, as if he were using an inferior translator. It rose and fell. "All this manipulation of time is creating havoc! No good will come of it! Beware! Beware!"
Even the police and the Lat paused in their battle to stare up at the apparition.
Brannart Morphail, with a yell, began to float upon his back, his arms waving, his feet kicking. "It's the damned spacial co-ordinates every time!" he complained. He slapped the harness again and flipped over so that he was staring down at them, floating on his stomach. From the discs, the loud whizzing noise grew higher and more erratic. "Only machine I could get working to come here. Some stupid 95th-century idea of economy! Argh!" And he was on his back again.
Mr. Underwood had become very suddenly calm. He stood regarding Brannart Morphail through his pince-nez, his face very white, his body rigid. Occasionally his lips moved.
"It's all your doing. Jherek Carnelian!" One of the discs stopped working altogether and Brannart Morphail began to drift lopsidedly across the ceiling, banging against the chandeliers and making them ring. "You can't make these uncontrolled jaunts here and there through time without causing the most appalling eddies in the megaflow! Look what's happened now. I came to stop you, to warn you — aaah!" The scientist kicked savagely, trying to extricate himself from a velvet pelmet near the window.
In a low, unsteady voice, Mr. Harris was talking to My Lady Charlotina who was stroking his head. "All my life," he was saying, "I've been accused of telling tall stories. Who's going to believe this one?"
"Brannart's right, of course," said Mr. Jackson, still leaning comfortably against the pillar. "I wonder if the risks will be worth it?"
"Risks?" said Jherek, watching as Mrs. Underwood went towards her husband.
"I can't understand why the Effect has not begun to take place!" complained Brannart Morphail, floating freely again, but still unable to get the second disc working. He noticed Mr. Jackson for the first time. "What's your part in this, Lord Jagged? Something whimsical and cunning, no doubt."
"My dear Brannart, I assure you…"
"Bah! Oof!" The disc began to whirl and the scientist was wrenched upwards and to one side. "Neither Jherek nor that woman should still be here — nor should you, Jagged! Go against the Logic of Time and you bring doom to all!"
"Doom…" murmured Mr. Underwood, unaware that his wife had reached him and was shaking his shoulder.
"Harold! Speak to me!"
He turned his head and he was smiling gently. "Doom," he said again. "I should have realized. It is the Apocalypse. Do not worry, my dear, for we shall be saved." He patted her hand. She burst into tears.
Mr. Jackson approached Jherek who was watching this scene with anxious interest. "I think, perhaps, it would be wise to leave now," said Mr. Jackson.
"Not without Mrs. Underwood," said Jherek firmly.
Mr. Jackson sighed and shrugged. "Of course not. Anyway, it is important that you remain together. You are so rare…"
"Rare?"
"A figure of speech."
Mr. Underwood began to sing, oblivious of his wife's tears. He sang in a surprisingly rich tenor voice. "Jesu, lover of my soul./ Let me to thy bosom fly./ While the nearer waters roll,/ While the tempest still is high;/ Hide me, O my Savior, hide,/ Till the storm of life is past;/ Safe into the haven guide/ O receive my soul at last."