The Whispering Swarm

  The sciences were bursting with new ideas and applications. At a time when few of us thought about how to miniaturise computers, we worked out some of the strangest ways of miniaturising notional environments via computers. We created the RPG. We were pretty much a perfect team. Everyone pooled their best. We never thought in terms of intellectual property, just controlling our copyrights enough to get a reasonable income. The ’60s and even the ’70s were a tremendous time to be in London. Sex, drugs, rock and roll. We saw generous hearts exploited by greed. They say it wasn’t really like that. They weren’t there. It was a buzz. We mixed not only with talented contemporaries but people of previous generations we admired.

  We experimented with sex. Sex without consequence. The notion of a sexually transmitted worldwide epidemic had occurred only to SF writers and even those thought they were inventing metaphors. We were all enjoying ourselves a lot just then. My life was a cloud of good things. I had never dreamed of success or had unsatisfied sexual frustrations! All the good things of the world were coming my way. I was starting to take them for granted. Whole bins full of loonies and colonies of hippies bought and read my work. Life would have been pretty perfect if it weren’t for the whispering voices in my head—insistent, irresistible voices sounding alien words. Strange, unfamiliar vowels in no known language. They did not seem to threaten, yet I found them threatening. Tinnitus might be blamed but I began to go mad wondering if I could perhaps trace the languages and learn them. Were they warning me? Were they coming up from my unconscious? If so, what did they represent? Now I had to take the supernatural into account, too. I was no Puritan, but experience had taught me there were real consequences to actions and that wishing for something didn’t make it happen. Was I warning myself of consequences to a lifestyle that wasn’t costing me very much at all? When I said there was always a victim in a threesome, I hadn’t really been thinking one would be me.

  About a year after that brief return to the Alsacia there came a knock at the front door. Helena was downstairs with her friend Jenny so I went to answer. Standing there was a tall Chinese man in a dark blue uniform with gold buttons and trim who took off his matching cap, bowed and said:

  ‘Mr Moorcock?’

  ‘Yes—I—’

  ‘A car for you.’ He spoke perfect Oxford English without affectation or mockery, though I thought at first he said ‘I care for you.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You’ll need a small bag.’

  ‘Um…’ I looked past him at the street.

  Where the tourist buses usually stopped now lounged a long green Lagonda. I had, of course, seen the car once or twice before and knew where she came from. But oh, what a beautiful machine! She might have been driven out of the factory that day. No wonder they called them classics. She was as English as they made them, down to the particular rake of her mudguards, the long, tapering boot, the arrogant tilt of her bonnet. Just enough deco to emphasise her elegance. I had ridden in some sweet, famous cars but she was the best.

  In a bit of a daze I packed a few things. As soon as I’d told Helena, I was off in the green Lagonda with a warm wind in my hair. Suddenly I was the happiest man in the world. I felt intensely secure and privileged. I had no intention of staying long at the Sanctuary. I’d begun to take so many things for granted. I lived in the world of the beautiful people. I had a hat with feathers in it, just like the Cavaliers. My hair was long, my beard trim. I had big boots and belts and fancy silk jackets. I had a Rickenbacker twelve-string. I had a beautiful partner who rolled expert joints and cared for me as tenderly as she cared for a beloved pet. And if I felt euphoric in that Lagonda, I had grown habitually used to luxurious cars, a certain amount of euphoria, and I knew in my bones that soon I would not be bothered by the Swarm until I rode back in that beautiful leather upholstery, a liveried chauffeur bringing me home.

  ‘May I ask who sent you?’ I asked from the backseat, leaning forward and talking to the bloke in uniform. ‘Was it Father Grammaticus?’

  ‘The car belongs to Mrs Melody, sir.’ Although very formal, the dignified chauffeur spoke English with patient grace. ‘The lady’s mother.’

  ‘Mother?’ I was more than curious. ‘The lady?’

  The driver was very forthcoming. ‘So I believe, sir. She married a man called Melody. An anglicisation, of course. It’s Persian. He was in furs. Jewish, I think. Or a Copt, maybe. She met him in San Francisco. I hardly know him. I, by the way, am Prince Lu Wing.’

  I added under my breath, ‘Prince Lu Wing? I thought they’d abolished aristocracy in China.’ The name was curiously familiar.

  I knew next to nothing of Chinese dynasties and aristocracy except that Fu Manchu had planned to re-establish his family on the throne of China. Mao had seen an end to all that. Maybe this guy was from Taiwan or Macao or one of those other disputed bits of China? I had almost certainly read his name somewhere. It was just as likely to have been in an old Detective Weekly from the ’30s—The Terror of the Tongs.

  I had known Rolls-Royces, Bentleys, Daimlers, Bristols, Mercedes, Jaguars, Duesenbergs, as well as my own wonderful Nash. I loved big high-performance cars and enjoyed every possible form of modern transport, including airships, seaplanes and gyrocopters, and had been stoned in most of them, but I’d known nothing quite as comfortable as that relatively short run in the dark green Lagonda. The car got a lot of attention as, glittering enamel and brass, she swung out up Ladbroke Grove, paused at the lights and accelerated up Holland Park Avenue and Bayswater Road. We purred down Park Lane like the King of Wonderland. I felt like waving to the people we passed. I rolled a joint and was beautifully stoned by the time, ladylike in her dark green livery, she sashayed into the Strand, flew along Fleet Street and, finally, swept down to Carmelite Inn Chambers, through the gates to stop at last just outside The Swan With Two Necks.

  It had been a wonderful ride! I was content to luxuriate in that powerful atmosphere of leather and oil. Then Prince Lu Wing opened the door for me and I stepped down into the inn’s courtyard strewn with straw and horse droppings. In my bell-bottoms and five-inch heels, my patchwork coat of many colours, I picked my way to a small door on the southern side which led along a passage to a snug private bar where an astonishing-looking woman stood waiting for me.

  I could not believe that this was Moll’s mother smiling up at me. The woman was short, well figured, dark and lush, with full, bright red lips. Her curved peacock eyes were exotically emphasised with kohl. Her black hair dripped in thick glossy waves around her bare brown neck. Mrs Melody wore a cape of red plush, a full-bosomed grey silk blouse. She drank with relish from a two-pint pewter shant almost half her size. Her wide, oval face was jovial as she exchanged a joke with Jemmy Cornwall, now a serving barman. He winked back as he bent behind the counter. The woman spread her arms. Arriving behind me, after a moment’s hesitation, Molly walked into them. Then she turned and kissed me lightly on the lips before returning to her mother’s embrace.

  ‘Hello, darling.’ Molly’s mother hugged her, kissing her on both cheeks. Her voice was husky with the hint of what was probably an American accent. She stared directly and frankly into my face. Unexpectedly I felt a guilty frisson of desire. She turned to Moll with a challenging smile. ‘And this is your young man, is it?’

  Those fascinating eyes! Wise, knowing, tolerant, with perhaps a hint of ironic malice. Sexuality that was almost greed. Her figure, though tiny, was full and lush and her subtle scent reminded me of every woman I had ever desired. I had never before been much attracted to women of exotic appearance. I could not say how I might have behaved if circumstances had been different. Short as she was, she gave the impression of substance. Her sense of fashion was all her own, seemingly drawn from several eras. She wore a wide-brimmed feathered Gainsborough hat. Like mine, it rivalled those of the musketeers. Her grey blouse was edged scarlet under a small purple bolero-style jacket. Her skirt was deep blue and flared just below the knee. Her black-and-red shoes had ve
ry high heels, bringing her head just about up to my shoulder. She wore several rings, oddly cut and with large diamonds, emeralds, sapphires and rubies. Her gold, Egyptianate necklace fell in three long loops, spaced by small oblongs of lacquered platinum. It seemed ancient and might have been some ancestral badge of rank.

  I could easily have taken her for one of those beautiful but cruel priestesses, the kind of woman found in the novels of H. Rider Haggard or Edgar Rice Burroughs. You saw her in illustrations, frequently with a long sacrificial knife raised high above the breast of some titled English hero. You were well off as long as she liked you. She bore almost no physical resemblance to her daughter yet she had a shared quality with Molly I instinctively recognised. Her exotic taste went well with her dark, olive skin. Her eyes were oval, deep brown, almost black, slightly oriental. Her dramatically curving crimson lips were like fresh, warm blood. Although not conventionally pretty, Mrs Melody had a lush warmth and a flirtatious manner which seemed genuinely unconscious.

  I was a bit confused by the instant sexual attraction I felt for Mrs Melody and glanced at Molly, who was plainly displeased. Maybe I was not the first man to find Mrs Melody as desirable as her daughter? In spite of their subtle similarities it was hard to believe that this woman really was Molly’s mum. Molly was about five foot six and slim and increasingly dressing down as I dressed up, disdaining the flower-child Laura Ashley fringes and big lashes which were a poor alternative.

  People say I’m loyal by nature, and I am. I give that loyalty a little too liberally, it’s true. Sadly, like most of us, I cannot speak for the extraordinary power of human lust to overcome human morality and determine our fates. I could tell by Molly’s expression that she dared me to make a pass at her ma. It was a relief to have such a firm incentive to stay on the straight and narrow.

  Claude Duval made a dramatic entrance from the common room. In all his silks and extravagant linen, his long fair hair and beard glinting in the light, he had a slightly sinister look and broke my mood, exclaiming his delighted surprise. This was a beloved old friend. ‘Ah!’

  He bowed to kiss Mrs Melody’s hand and murmured something in French I could not catch. They were about the same height, both in heels. She responded with a throaty chuckle suggesting a private joke between them. Obviously they had a history. Duval, well-mannered as ever, greeted Molly with an even deeper bow, a less lingering kiss on her hand. He clapped my shoulder with almost painful bonhomie, and ordered fresh drinks from Jemmy who appeared to be enjoying the situation as he pumped ale, poured wine and spirits and all the while hummed some current tune to himself. It was usually a variant of ‘Tom, Tom, the Piper’s Son’.

  Duval and Mrs Melody spoke of cities whose names all sounded exotic to me, of events which had taken place years before. Then their tone became more urgent as they talked about ‘the Treasure’, ‘the African’, ‘High India’ and ‘our good friend’. Molly doubtless knew what they were saying. Some kind of Thieves’ Cant? She did not tell me.

  Then Lu Wing entered, no longer in chauffeur’s uniform but wearing a high-buttoned, deep blue silk tunic, an entourage of smooth, modern men of south China at his heels, ready, I heard him say, to do any further work required of them. The conversation turned to a more distant moment when his father died and he would claim the crown of the Wing emirates, to rule over a subcontinent and its colonies again. Sending his men off, he said, upon their errands and to visit their many relatives in Limehouse, Lu Wing leaned against the bar, as relaxed as he had probably been during his student days at Oxford.

  ‘Thanks for the lift,’ I said.

  ‘Would you have come, otherwise?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Prince Rupert would have been disappointed. His Persian Cosmolabe is assembled. It was why I brought you. I believe you expressed a desire to see it.’

  I had almost forgotten. Now I felt a sudden buzz of fresh curiosity.

  In the brass behind Lu Wing I caught a reflected glimpse of Molly wearing an expression I did not recognise.

  26

  THE MYSTERIES

  In a long, deep cellar I had previously known nothing about, squeezing past stacked kegs and spare pumps and all the accumulated paraphernalia of a busy old pub, we found Prince Rupert of the Rhine. His handsome features were given an almost demonic glow in the light from the single oil lamp his servant held. Wearing a white smock, he bent over part of some large apparatus of astonishing complexity. While it clearly followed a design similar to the machine shown to me long ago by the abbot, it bore almost no resemblance to any kind of instrument I had ever seen, even at Greenwich Observatory. I had almost forgotten the abbot’s Cosmolabe. The whole experience felt like a dream. I remembered the slender wires of copper, gold and silver, the globes of all different sizes, the handfuls of tiny jewels which might be planets, even galaxies. Again, I looked at the thing and marvelled. A model not of the solar system but of something greater, extending across more dimensions than three. What could it possibly represent?

  His servant now went around the cellars igniting flambeaux. Their light skipped and flickered on the walls, casting vast shadows. The prince resembled triumphant Satan as silently he pointed out features of the tall, impossibly intricate object in brass, platinum, gold and precious gems. The thing could have been spun by an inspired spider. Mrs Melody already stood on the other side of it, staring from dark gold-flecked eyes as if she feared something. Molly continued to show a certain wariness of her mother and placed herself between Prince Rupert and Prince Lu Wing while, a little embarrassed, I went to stand next to Mrs Melody. I feared I might be affected by her powerful sexuality. My attention, however, was soon completely absorbed by that astonishing machine. Prince Rupert was delighted by our responses. ‘I am awaiting the boy with the remaining piece,’ he told us. ‘Jemmy will bring him down.’ He was in a state of heightened excitement. His eyes burned like coals, reflecting the unstable light of the flambeaux. This, he muttered, was the culmination of all he’d lived and worked for. ‘My Cosmolabe! More and less representing worlds physical and metaphysical! Radiant Time, my good friends! You, young Master Maur’s Cocke, are already familiar with the mysteries it manipulates and the rarified reasoning it represents!’

  Like the one Father Grammaticus had shown me already, the instrument or machine—I hardly knew how to describe it—was not a representation of our planetary system at all. The memories blazed back into my mind. Until now all orreries, even those showing far stars, had made our sun the centre. Attached to nearly invisible wires I saw clusters of tiny pearls, jade and diamonds. All reflected the restless light of the fiery torches. I imagined each jewel represented not a world, but a galaxy. These in turn had shadows of different colours. Auras. Between all these there circled wide bands of gold and brass imprinted with enameled black figures and between these ran thousands of fine silver wires forming impossibly intricate webs. ‘Undiscovered territories to wear the English crown. New worlds.’

  ‘The gateway to Heaven?’ He didn’t hear her.

  ‘Once he regains the crown, the king has promised money for continuing experiments.’

  There was stillness in my head. No voices. No murmuring. Only now did I realise how free I could be from the Whispering Swarm. Was this what sent those sounds out to me? And silenced them, too? The constant movement of the machine threatened to hypnotise me. I imagined I could hear music, the deep notes of a cello changing as the ghostly lines of the web shivered and shifted in the light of massive candles. The bright tiny drops fell through the golden strands like tears. It drew me further in. I stepped close, then felt a hand on my shoulder. Duval drew me back a pace and winked. I heard voices coming from the passage leading into the cellar and then Jemmy Cornwall and a much smaller figure entered. A dwarf, I thought at first. No. A small boy.

  ‘Good! You’ve brought me your uncle’s piece, have you, lad?’ Prince Rupert stretched his hand towards a boy, not much more than six or seven, who stood beside Jemmy. T
he boy’s eyes were wide. He clutched a box in his long-fingered hands.

  ‘Yes, your worship.’

  ‘At last! Providence be praised!’

  ‘My uncle sends his respects, sir,’ fluted the lad. ‘Coming out of Water Lane, sir, I saw…’

  ‘Yes, indeed. A wonderful artifact. Only Mr Tompion himself could make it!’

  ‘Sir?’ the boy piped again, his wondering eyes still on the hypnotic machine. ‘I saw, coming down Water Lane…’ His voice trailed a little nervously as Prince Rupert still ignored him, tearing off the paper covering a beautiful wooden box.

  ‘Good. Very good.’ He opened the box carefully and looked into it with reverence. ‘Excellent!’

  ‘I saw ’em, sir!’

  ‘I’m glad you did, Tom.’ Prince Rupert clearly meant to silence the boy. He wanted no interruption. ‘Your uncle’s a clever man!’

  As we all stared intently, the prince turned and very gently took from the box what looked like a copper sphere, about twice the size of a cricket ball. He crossed quickly to one of the dancing torches, fished a taper from his pocket and ignited it. Then, holding the taper in his teeth, he carefully opened a tiny door in the ball. Removing the burning taper from his mouth he inserted it into the ball which immediately began to emit vivid chemical light. This light was far brighter than that of the torches. The ball was some kind of dark lantern. The light only shone from one side. Prince Rupert crossed the cellar’s flagstones to his Cosmolabe. With the sphere in his hand he reached deep into that complex arrangement of wires, rods and metal bands. When he withdrew his arm, I saw he had suspended the thing at the very centre, probably from a prepared wire hanging from one of the curved overhead brass rods. Half the ball was a deep, matte black, while the other hemisphere poured out light, illuminating the side it faced. I had no idea how the thing was made to work. I would say it was almost a yin and yang symbol. Was it meant to represent the moon? Too bright.