The End of All Songs - Michael Moorcock, ebook, CALIBRE SFF 1970s, Temp 2
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
//-->The Dancers at the End of Time Book 3The End of all SongsByMichael MoorcockMichael Moorcock was born in London in 1939, and began editing amateur magazines at the ageof eleven, writing, illustrating and printing them under the grandiose imprint of "MJM Publications". Atfifteen he sold his first short stories and articles, and at sixteen he became editor ofTarzan Adventures,moving on later to edit theSexton Blake Library.He has earned his living as a writer / editor ever since,with a spell as a blues singer / guitarist in Northern Europe in the early '60s and some travelling in theUSA, Scandinavia, Germany, France etc. In 1964 he became editor ofNew Worlds,then a conventionalSF magazine, and managed to turn it into a showcase for speculative and experimental fiction, poetry andillustration, leading to awards from both the British SF Association and the Arts Council of Great Britain.The various anthologies he has edited includeThe Best SF Stories from New Worldsseries andTheTraps of Time,and he has also published poetry, journalism, criticism and short stories in a variety ofmagazines and newspapers. His novels range from fantasy and SF entertainments (the Elric stories,TheIce Schooner, The Warlord of the Air,etc.) to serious — though unconventional — fiction(Breakfastin the Ruins,the Jerry Cornelius stories, etc.). Virtually all his fiction is interconnected in some way(through re-appearing characters). Michael Moorcock won the SWFA Nebula Award in 1967 forBehold the Man.He also records his own songs as well as performing with the rock bandHawkwind.Other titles in the story of the Champion Eternal published by Mayflower Books are:ElricTHE STEALER OF SOULSSTORMBRINGERTHE SINGING CITADELCorumTHE KNIGHT OF THE SWORDSTHE QUEEN OF THE SWORDSTHE KING OF THE SWORDSErekosëTHE ETERNAL CHAMPIONPHOENIX IN OBSIDIAN*THE CHAMPION OF GARATHORM*THE QUEST FOR TANELORNHawkmoon The History of the RunestaffTHE JEWEL IN THE SKULLTHE MAD GOD'S AMULETTHE SWORD OF THE DAWNTHE RUNESTAFFThe Chronicles of Castle BrassCOUNT BRASS*THE CHAMPION OF GARATHORM*THE QUEST FOR TANELORNThe Dancers at the End of TimeAN ALIEN HEATTHE HOLLOW LANDSOther titles available:THE TIME DWELLERTHE WINDS OF LIMBOTHE SHORES OF DEATHTHE BLOOD-RED GAMETHE FINAL PROGRAMMEBEHOLD THE MANTHE BLACK CORRIDOR* Interconnected seriesMichael MoorcockThe End of All SongsVolume Three of a Trilogy"The Dancers at the End of Time"MAYFLOWERGRANADA PUBLISHINGLondon Toronto Sydney New YorkPublished by Granada Publishing Limited in Mayflower Books 1977Reprinted 1978ISBN 0 583 12105 5First published in Great Britain by Hart-Davis, MacGibbon Ltd 1976Copyright © Michael Moorcock 1976Granada Publishing LimitedFrogmore, St Albans, Herts AL2 2NFand3 Upper James Street, London W1R 4BP1221 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020. USA117 York Street, Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia100 Skyway Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M9W 3A6Trio City, Coventry Street, Johannesburg 2001, South AfricaCML Centre, Queen & Wyndham, Auckland 1, New ZealandMade and printed in Great Britain by Richard Clay (The Chaucer Press) LtdBungay, SuffolkSet in Linotype BaskervilleThis book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent,re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding orcover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition beingimposed on the subsequent purchaser.For John Clute and Tom DischAcknowledgementsApart from Alfred Austin's, all verses quoted in the text are the work of Ernest Wheldrake. Themajority are fromPosthumous Poems,published in 1881 and never reprinted.The fire is out, and spent the warmth thereof,(This is the end of every song man sings!)The golden wine is drunk, the dregs remain,Bitter as wormwood and as salt as pain;And health and hope have gone the way of loveInto the drear oblivion of lost things,Ghosts go along with us until the end;This was a mistress, this, perhaps, a friend.With pale, indifferent eyes, we sit and waitFor the dropt curtain and the closing gate:This is the end of all the songs man sings.Ernest DowsonDregs1899Contents1 In Which Jherek Carnelian and Mrs. Amelia Underwood Commune, to some Degree, withNature2 In Which Inspector Springer Tastes the Delights of the Simple Life3 A Lower Devonian Tea4 A Fresh Quest — On the Trail of the Hamper5 At the Time Centre6 Discussions and Decisions7 En Route for the End of Time8 All Travellers Returned: A Celebration9 The Past is Honoured: The Future Reaffirmed10 In Which The Iron Orchid is not Quite Herself11 A Few Quiet Moments in the Menagerie12 In Which Lord Mongrove Reminds Us of Inevitable Doom13 The Honour of an Underwood14 Various Alarums, a Good Deal of Confusion, a Hasty Excursion15 In Which Jherek Carnelian and Mrs. Underwood find Sanctuary of Sorts, and Mr. UnderwoodMakes a New Friend16 The Skull Beneath the Paint17 Some Confusion Concerning the Exact Nature of the Catastrophe18 In Which Truths are Revealed and Certain Relationships are Defined19 In Which Differences of Opinion are Expressed and Relationships Further Defined20 In Which Lord Jagged of Canaria Exhibits a Frankness not Previously Displayed21 A Question of Attitudes22 Inventions and Resurrections23 Amelia Underwood Transformed24 The Vision in the City25 The Call to Duty26 Wedding Bells at the End of Time27 Conversations and Conclusions1In Which Jherek Carnelian and Mrs. Amelia UnderwoodCommune, to some Degree, with Nature"I really do think, Mr. Carnelian, that we should at leasttrythem raw, don't you?"Mrs. Amelia Underwood, with the flat of her left hand, stroked thick auburn hair back over her earand, with her right hand, arranged her tattered skirts about her ankles. The gesture was almost petulant;the glint in her grey eye was possibly wolfish. There was, if nothing else, something over-controlled in themanner in which she perched primly upon her block of virgin limestone and watched Jherek Carnelian ashe crouched, elbows and knees pressed in the sand of a Palaeozoic beach, and sweated in the heat ofthe huge Silurian (or possibly Devonian) sun.Perhaps for the thousandth time he was trying to strike two of his power-rings together to make aspark to light the heap of half-dried ferns he had, in a mood of ebullience long since dissipated, arrangedseveral hours before."But you told me," he murmured, "that you could not bear to consider … There! Was that a spark?Or just a glint?""A glint," she said, "I think.""We must not despair, Mrs. Underwood." His optimism was uncharacteristically strained. Again hestruck ring against ring.Around him were scattered the worn and broken fragments of fronds which he had earlier tried torub together at her suggestion. As power-ring clacked on power-ring, Mrs. Underwood winced. In thesilence of this Silurian (if it was Silurian) afternoon the sound had an effect upon her nerves she would notpreviously have credited; she had never seen herself as one of those over-sensitive women whopopulated the novels of Marie Corelli. She had always considered herself robust, singularly healthy. Shesighed. Doubtless the boredom contributed something to her state of mind.Jherek echoed her sigh. "There's probably a knack to it," he admitted. "Where are the trilobites?"He stared absently around him at the ground."Most of them have crawled back into the sea, I think," she told him coldly. "There are twobrachiopods on your coat." She pointed."Aha!" Almost affectionately he plucked the molluscoidea from the dirty black cloth of hisfrock-coat. Doubtfully, he peered into the shells.Mrs. Underwood licked her lips. "Give them to me," she commanded. She produced a hat-pin.His head bowed, Pilate confronting the Pharisees, he complied."After all," she told him as she poised the pin, "we are only missing garlic and butter and we shouldhave a meal fit for a French gourmet." The utterance seemed to depress her. She hesitated."Mrs. Underwood?""Should we say grace, I wonder?" She frowned. "It might help. I think it's the colour…""Too beautiful," he said eagerly. "I follow you. Who could destroy such loveliness?""That greenish, purplish hue pleases you?""Not you?""Not infood,Mr. Carnelian.""Then in what?""Oh…" Vaguely. "In — no, not even in a picture. It brings to mind the excesses of thePre-Raphaelites. A morbid colour.""Ah.""It might explain your affinities…" She abandoned the subject. "If I could conquer…""A yellow one?" He tried to tempt her with a soft-shelled creature he had just discovered in hisback pocket. It clung to his finger; there was the sensation of a kiss.She dropped molluscs and hat-pin, covered her face with her hands and began to weep."Mrs. Underwood!" He was at a loss. He stirred the pile of fronds with his foot. "Perhaps if I wereto use a ring as a prism and direct the rays of the sun through it we could…"There came a loud squeak and he wondered at first if one of the creatures were protesting. Anothersqueak, from behind him. Mrs. Underwood removed her fingers to expose red eyes which now widenedin surprise."Hi! I say — Hi, there!"Jherek turned. Tramping through the shallows, apparently oblivious of the water, came a mandressed in a seaman's jersey, a tweed Norfolk jacket, plus-fours, heavy woollen stockings, stoutbrogues. In one hand he clutched a stick of a peculiarly twisted crystalline nature. Otherwise he appearedto be a contemporary of Mrs. Underwood's. He was smiling. "I say, do you speak English of any kind?"He was bronzed. He had a full moustache and signs of a newly sprouting beard. He beamed at them. Hecame to a stop, resting his knuckles on his hips. "Well?"Mrs. Underwood was confused. "We speak English, sir. Indeed we are — at least I am — English,as you must be.""Beautiful day, isn't it?" The stranger nodded at the sea. "Nice and calm. Must be the earlyDevonian, eh? Have you been here long?"
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]