"How lovely!" cried the Iron Orchid. "A primitive ritual, such as the rotted cities recall!"
"I suspect is it more of a sorcerous summoning," said Bishop Castle, who took a special interest in such ancient customs. "We might even say some sort of holey ghost." He explained kindly to a rapt Donna Isobella: "So-called because they could be seen only imperfectly. They were partly transparent, you know."
"Aren't we all on such occasions?" said Donna Isobella. She smiled winningly at Bishop Castle who leaned over and kissed her on the lips.
"Beware!" groaned Brannart Morphail, but they had all lost interest in him. The Lat and the constables had resumed their fight.
"I must say I like your little century," said the Duke of Queens to Jherek Carnelian. "I can see why you come here."
Jherek was flattered, in spite of his usual scepticism concerning the Duke's taste. "Thank you, darling Duke. I didn't make it, of course."
"You discovered it, however. I should like to come again. Is it all like this?"
"Oh, no, there's a great deal of variety." He spoke a little vaguely, his eyes on Mr. and Mrs. Underwood. Mrs. Underwood, still weeping, held her husband's hand and joined in the song. "Cover my defenceless head/ With the shadow of thy wing." Her descant was a perfect counter-part to his tenor. Jherek found himself oddly moved. He frowned. "There's leaves, and horses, and sewage farms."
"How do they grow sewage?"
"It's too complicated to explain." Jherek was reluctant to admit his ignorance, particularly to his old rival.
"Perhaps, if you have a moment, you could take me on a short tour of the main features?" suggested the Duke of Queens hesitantly. "I would be extremely grateful, Jherek." He spoke in his most ingratiating voice and Jherek realized that, at long last, the Duke of Queens was acknowledging his superior taste. He smiled condescendingly at the Duke. "Of course," he said, "when I have a moment."
Mr. Harris had fallen head down onto the tablecloth. He had begun to snore rather violently.
Jherek took a step or two towards Mrs. Underwood, but then thought better of it. He did not know why he hesitated. Bishop Castle looked up. "Join us, jaunty Jherek, please. After all, you are our host!"
"Not exactly," said Jherek, but he seated himself on the other side of Donna Isobella.
The Lat had been driven into the far corner of the Cafe Royale, but they were putting up a spirited resistance. Not a policeman taking part in the fray was short of at least one bitten hand and bruised shin.
Jherek found himself unable to pay any attention at all to the conversation at the table. He wondered why Mrs. Underwood wept so copiously as she sang. Mr. Underwood's face, in contrast, was full of joy.
Donna Isobella moved a fraction closer to Jherek and he caught the mingled scents of violets and Egyptian cigarettes. Bishop Castle had begun to kiss her hand, the nails of which were painted to match her dress.
The whizzing noise from overhead grew louder again and Brannart Morphail drifted in, chest once more towards the floor. "Get back to your own times, while you may!" he called. "You will be stranded — marooned — abandoned! Take heed! Take hee-ee-eeeed!" And he vanished. Jherek, for one, was glad to see him go.
Donna Isobella flung back her head and flashed a bright smile at Jherek, apparently replying to something Bishop Castle had said, but addressing Jherek. "Love love, my love," she announced, "but never commit the error of loving a person. The abstraction offers all the pleasure and nothing whatsoever of the pain. Being in love is so much preferable to loving someone ."
Jherek smiled. "You sound a bit like Lord Jagged over there. But I'm afraid I am already trapped."
"Besides," said Bishop Castle, insistently keeping his hold of the lady's hand, "who is to say which is sweeter — melancholia or mindless ecstasy?"
They both looked at him in mild astonishment.
"I have my own preferences," she said, "I know ." She returned her full attention to Jherek, saying huskily: "But there — you are so much younger than I."
"Is that so?" Jherek became interested. He had understood that, through no choice of their own, these people had extremely short life-spans. "Well, then, you must be at least five hundred years old."
Donna Isobella's eyes blazed. Her lip curled. She made to speak and then changed her mind. She turned her back on him. She laughed rather harshly at something Bishop Castle murmured.
He noticed, on the far side of the room, a shadowy figure whom he did not recognize. It was clad in some kind of armour, and stared about in consternation.
Lord Jagged had noticed it, too. He drew his fine brows together and puffed thoughtfully on his cigarette.
The figure disappeared almost immediately.
"Who was that, Jagged?" enquired Jherek.
"A warrior from a period six or seven centuries before this one," said Mr. Jackson. "I can't be mistaken. And look!"
A small child, the outline of her body flickering a little, stared about her in wonderment, but was there for only a matter of seconds before she had vanished.
"Seventeenth century," said Jagged. "I am beginning to take Brannart's warnings seriously. The whole fabric of Time is in danger of diffusing completely. I should have been more careful. Ah, well…"
"You seem concerned, Jagged."
"I have reason to be," said Lord Jagged. "You had better collect Mrs. Underwood immediately."
"She is singing, at present, with Mr. Underwood."
"So I see."
There came a chorus of whistlings from the street and into the restaurant burst a score of uniformed policemen, their truncheons drawn. The leader presented himself to Inspector Springer and saluted. "Sergeant Sherwood, sir."
"In the nick of time, sergeant." Inspector Springer rearranged his ulster and placed his battered bowler hard upon his head. "We're cleaning up a den of forrin' anarchists 'ere, as you can observe. Are the vans outside?"
"Plenty of vans for this little lot, inspector." Sergeant Sherwood cast a loathing eye upon the assembled company. "I allus knew wot they said abart this place was true!"
"An' worse. I mean, look at 'em." Inspector Springer indicated the Lat who had given up the fight and were sitting sulkily in a corner, nursing their bruises. "You'd 'ardly believe they was yuman, would yer?"
"Ugly customers, right enough. Not English, o' course."
"Nar! Latvians. Typical Eastern European political troublemakers. They breed 'em like that over there."
"Wot? special?"
"It's somefin' to do with the diet," said Inspector Springer. "Curds an' so forth."
"Oo-er. I wouldn't 'ave your job, inspector, for a million quid."
"It can be nasty," agreed Inspector Springer. "Right. Let's get 'em all rounded up."
"The — um — painted women, too?"
"By all means, sergeant. Every one of 'em. We'll sort out 'oo's 'oo at the Yard."
Mr. Jackson had been listening to this conversation and now he turned to Jherek with a shrug. "I fear there is little we can do for the moment," he said philosophically. "We are all about to be carried off to prison."
"Oh, really?" Jherek cheered up.
"It will be nice to be a prisoner again," he said nostalgically. He identified gaol with one of his happiest moments, when Mr. Griffiths, the lawyer, had read to him Mrs. Amelia Underwood's declaration of her love. "Perhaps they'll be able to furnish us with a time machine, too."
Lord Jagged did not seem quite as cheerful as Jherek. "We shall be needing one very much," he said, "if our problems are not to be further complicated. In more ways than one, I would say, time is running out."