again. Like most tycoons of inherited wealth he had never
learned to disguise his boredom.
'Hope so. Supposed to be.' The Doctor seemed a little
puzzled as to what was really on Mr Banning-Cannon's
mind.
'Well. Have fun. If your group and mine are all taking the
ISS Gargantua the morning after tomorrow, I expect we'll be
seeing a good deal of each other.' The tycoon made to get
up. He had much else concerning him and he looked like a
man with a weight on his shoulders. 'But if you should hear
of any arachnophobia experts within the next few hours,
point them in my direction, would you? I'm staying at the
Claremont. Floor 144a.'
The Doctor shook hands. 'And you're Mr...?'
'Banning-Cannon.'
'Of course. Oh, here's my - here's Miss Pond. Amy this
i s - '
'Nice to meet you young lady.' Mr B-C was relieved. He
shook hands with the pretty redhead in the short, pleated
silk frock, noting the firmness of her grip, the glint of edged
steel in her otherwise amiable gaze. He guessed that here at
least this doctor fellow was a man he didn't have to worry
about as a contender for Jane's hand. Then he narrowed his
eyes, looking suspiciously over the Doctor's shoulder.
Another young man, clad in the glaring green blazer and
multicoloured hat of a local, was ambling in his direction.
Something about him caused the planet-maker to think he
recognised and possibly feared him. What was he going to
ask for? Mr B-C measured the distance between himself and
the pavilion. In a fair race he was not going to win. Even
as he considered the odds, he saw his lady wife leave the
pavilion and walk off in deep conversation with Jane. Having
failed to get Hari to the condition of a male peacock rattling
his quills in the mating season, Jane had parted sadly from
Lord Sherwood and sought her mother's company in order
to discuss a costume for the next day's party.
Suddenly another notion flickered in the corners of Urquart
Banning-Cannon's calculating mind. Waving a dismissive
hand at the departing Doctor and his pretty friend, he waited
until the next young man drew alongside. To his surprise
it was Bingo Lockesley, Lord Sherwood, who opened the
conversation.
'Mr Banning-Cannon?'
'Mmph?'
'My name's Lockesley.'
'Uh huh?'
'I was wondering -'
Here it came. A request for his daughter's hand. His eyes
hardened. 'Mm?'
'- if you and your family would care to be my guests over
at Lockesley Hall this evening? A little celebration of today's
victory?'
Mr B-C was puzzled. 'I thought...'
'That I was throwing the Omar's Garden Party tomorrow?
That's more a sort of municipal thing paid for by the County,
you understand.'
'Aha!' Again Mr B-C knew momentary relief. 'Well, I'm
not sure of my wife's plans...'
'OK, sir. The invitation's there. Nothing very fancy. The
Lockesley fortunes aren't what they were but...'
Mr Banning-Cannon pricked up his ears. Now he uttered
a silent 'Aha!' Maybe the lively hand of Providence had fallen
at last on his noble shoulders. His first notion was beginning
to take a slightly more concrete shape. Now if this rather
personable if apparently dim young fellow needed money,
he might have found just the right ally. But they would
have to work fast. 'If you're a drinking man, Mr Lockesley, I
wonder if you'd join me somewhere quiet. I have a business
matter I'd like to discuss with you.'
'Um, well, I'm not exactly—'
'Half an hour of your time and the chance to help a fellow
soul out of a bit of a black hole.'
Lord Sherwood shrugged cheerfully. 'That sounds like a
variant of the Lockesley motto, sir. What about the pavilion?
It should be empty by now!'
'Lead on, young Lockesley!' Urquart Banning-Cannon
began to see a possible light at the end of his own particular
tunnel of torment. He felt as if his troubles were over already.
His ship of grief had her rockets warmed and rumbling and
was close to escaping for ever the gravity of his world of
woe, or so he believed as he flung a benevolent arm around
the peer's shoulders and, jingling his change in his trouser
pocket, strolled amiably in the direction of stimulating
refreshment.
Lord Lockesley's other motive in making contact had
been to issue invites to the various parties involved in his
best pal's own particular spot of romantic drama in order
perhaps to ease love's rocky path for his friend. He also
hoped to get back into Hari's good books before the two rival
teams and the B-C's tour group embarked for Sagittarius
aboard the same vessel come the dawn after next. A few
moments later, in the deserted darkness of the pavilion bar,
he listened with his mouth hanging open while this perfect
stranger sketched out a plot which had its origins in the only
literature the desperate patriarch had ever enjoyed, namely
the adventures of Sexton Blake. Many years earlier Urquart
Banning-Cannon had learned that V copies of The Sexton
Blake Library made a sound investment. He had dallied with
the idea of creating a series of Mystery Worlds based on the
detective fiction of Earth's distant past only to be pipped at
the post by his great rival, his brother-in-law Tarbutton, who
was cleaning up with a concession of role-playing worlds
based on the adventures of Sherlock Holmes, once known as
'Sexton Blake's office boy'.
Now Mr B-C dragged his chair a little nearer, looked both
ways to ensure he wasn't overheard, and pressed his lips
close to his listener's ear.
'How,' the worldwright began, 'would you like to own
this planet?'
Inadvertently he had struck imaginative pay dirt. Lord
Sherwood's ambition had always been to break free of the
concession owner, restore the monarch and remould his
planet into something a little less brash and dependent on
tourism for its chief income.
'Go on,' he said, unable to resist such bait. 'You do mean
the whole world? Lock, stock and barrel? No longer dictated
to by - if you'll forgive me - a bunch of money-grubbing
shareholders?'
'Renamed, remodelled, in any way you like.'
'So what's the catch? Oh, no!'
Lord L began to rise, certain he had spotted the viper in
the haystack. 'I'm afraid I couldn't! In fact I'm pretty insulted
that you should think I would!'
Urquart Banning-Cannon was not used to being refused
even before he got his proposal out, except by Mrs B-C, of
course.
'Couldn't what?' he gasped in surprise.
'Throw the match. Though I say it myself, I'm our best
archer. We'd never win the Silver Arrow, as I'm sure you've
realised, without my bowmanship. I'm not boasting, sir. Wish
I were. Just luck, you know, what? Nothing would please
me
more than to have that burden lifted from my shoulders. But
I won't do it, Mr B-C, no matter what you offer! In fact I have
to inform you that it's a pretty disgusting proposition, and if
it weren't for the feelings of a brother player I would expose
you immediately to the AG AC!'
Urquart had heard that these English peers were a bit
barmy, the problem of inevitable inbreeding which no
terraforming company had yet to crack. But this behaviour
was positively certifiable. Paranoia at full blast.
'I suppose you saw her buying it in the store?' he opined.
'Store?' Bingo was getting the hint that he had grasped the
wrong end of the whackit.
'The Diana of Loondoon franchise in Forest Mall?'
'Which is?'
'Damn you, Sherwood or Lockesley or Lord or whatever
you call yourself! I'm talking about that infernal hat shop
and you know it!'
'You're not trying to bribe me to take a fall in the big
tournament?'
'Do what?'
'Throw the match.'
'Throw it where?'
'I mean...' Bingo gave up on any explanation, knowing
it would sail over this amateur's head. He changed his tack.
'Well, if you don't want me to try to lose the last game in
Miggea in the All-Galaxy Silver Arrow Tour, what were you
going to suggest?'
It was Mr B-C's turn to feel his jaw muscles slacken. 'Eh?
Why should I want you to do that?'
'It's well known that your lady wife has what some still
call "a gambling problem". If she had put a lot of money on
the other team to win, well, you can see why someone close
to her would like to improve her chances.'
'My wife has kicked the gambling habit. She hasn't held
so much as a tiddlywinks cup in her hand in five years. She
is a strong-minded and intelligent woman. Once she has
made a decision she sticks to it, as I know all too well to my
cost. Anyway, if that's all it was, I shouldn't care. She could
put her whole fortune on you or your rivals as far as I'm
concerned and you wouldn't hear as much as an "I told you
so" from me as that team inevitably lost, since she is one of
the unluckiest gamblers I know.'
'Then what's so valuable to you you're willing to hand
me over a fine, expensively terraformed planet which my
family has been trying to buy for about seven thousand years
without a hint of success?'
Mr B-C saw that the Earl of Sherwood had recovered from
his fit, if fit it was. He understood the trigger had been the
notion that he was asking his companion to do something
completely against the Code of the Sherwoods. Upon
consideration, this lifted his opinion of the young man's
character. Here was a partner in crime who, once his word
was given, could almost certainly be trusted. He relaxed a
little and began to murmur his proposition, suggesting not
only the temporary theft of The Hat but a general appearance
of burglary to put his spouse off the scent.
Lord Sherwood listened in thoughtful silence. Ownership
of the whole planet would allow him to offer Hari a good
job, maybe a bit of land. This would enable his pal to propose
to Flapper. He could also, he imagined with a deep sigh of
satisfaction, restore the monarchy and put a Virgin King back
on the throne. King Richard was already on a nearby planet
fighting some sort of local unholy war involving balloons.
He could be brought back at any moment. It would make
sense, of course, to maintain a parliamentary democracy and
ensure that any future selection of a sovereign would be done
according to a planet-wide general election. Furthermore, he
thought dreamily, there would be no loss of tourist revenues.
He knew from experience that all the galaxy loved a monarch.
He could easily drum up a few colourful ceremonies - the
Hanging of the Guard could be one such, and there were
plenty of others on his V-joumal...
'So what does this hat look like? What's its size? Petite?
Grande? Anything she's worn already?'
To Lord Sherwood's increasing sympathy, Mr Banning-
Cannon began to describe the horrible hat. His language
boiled with passion and colour. It throbbed with authentic
disgust. When the would-be thief-maker had finished, Bingo
Lockesley had begun to feel that kidnapping the garish
confection was no mere question of one crook doing a deal
with another. It had become a question of noble necessity.
Rising at last from his chair he stuck out a steady hand.
'I'm your man, sir. Never let it be said that a Lockesley lets
down a fellow creature in their hour of need! It's a deal.'
Indeed, thought Bingo seriously, even without the
proffered lure, it was a chap's solemn duty to do what his new
boss proposed. Urquart had revealed a side of his character
that was both compassionate and sporting. Mrs B-C would
only temporarily lose the company of her freshly purchased
monster.
The hat would be returned to her perhaps with a witty,
courteous note attached as soon as his garden party was
over, and Mr B-C could rest easy, knowing that the hat could
not be worn in public for some time after the Gargantua had
reached Flynn.
As he left the pavilion, Lord Bingo relished the deep breaths
of air he gulped from his surroundings, still smelling strongly
of freshly cut grass, and looked up at a sky of deepening blue
in which a glorious westerly sun was beginning to fall slowly
towards the horizon. The plans had been discussed and
finalised. The Banning-Cannons would be invited to spend
their last nights on the planet at Lockesley Hall, as would the
Gentlemen. The Tourists had already been invited and had
refused in, Bingo thought, a slightly surly manner, but he
wasn't worried about that. He was already in his imagination
remodelling and renaming the old homestead. He was
thinking of calling the whole world Knots, the city on Old
Old Earth from which, legend said, his DNA had originally
come. But the Virgin King would be the rightful ruler. Bingo
had no ambitions in that direction. Every merry monarch
required a serious subject. A grand title would be required,
of course: Richard, King of Knots and Ruggery, had a certain
ring to it. The Ancient Dynasty of Terra would begin anew. A
magnificent new era would glorify the galaxy!
And all because, reflected Lord Sherwood, strolling
cheerfully home through the gloom, a lady's husband had
taken exception to one hat in thousands. On such slender
threads, after all, did the plots of great histories hang.
Chapter 4
White
BACK AT THE SHERWOOD ranch, things were developing at a rapid
pace. Mrs B-C, hearing in her mind's ear a title for her little
girl (Earlette?) was ecstatic and had checked out of the
Claremont and into Lockesley Hall at what some might
consider unseemly speed. Finally, she congratulated herself,
for it was
she who had trained him, Urquart had done
something right. Overseeing the arrival and distribution of
her luggage, she was in several heavens at the same time.
Sunset being a little extended on this planet, the sky was
still a deep royal blue with a few well-formed clouds adding
dramatic effect to an already splendid scene. Lockesley Hall
cast an impressive shadow. Her Gothic-Baroque towers and
battlements gave the nearby lake and surrounding parkland
a phantasmagoric atmosphere, while the perfume of various
night-scented lavenders, stocks and jasmines lulled one even
further into euphoria.
V-ing ahead, Lord Sherwood had ordered a few simple
dishes. His cook was told to break out the best foie gras,
the finest smoked salmon and grade A caviar, also the great
haunch of Boeuf de Campagne and its attendants which his
grandfather had left in his will, stipulating it be cooked and
eaten only when Independence seemed within reach. The
Sherwoods had been royalist Virginistas for centuries. One
couldn't take culinary risks when the soul of one's home
planet was at stake. By a single scarcely criminal act, little
more than a prank, really, he could buy that soul back and
restore honour and virtue to the family name.
Admittedly, a small, still voice did from time to time
whisper in his ear and warn of the potential consequences of
what it insisted on calling 'the deed'.
At such moments Sherwood's outer voice answered his
inner voice rather irritably, pointing out that he was not
going to murder the King of Scotland or anyone else for that
matter and that Banquo's ghost was unlikely to turn up as his
guests tackled the meat and potatoes. As for three witches,
they could only lend Olde Worlde charm to the scene and
they were a very long way from Dunsinane. Besides which,
this was not a melodrama. It was more of a romantic comedy,
in which star-crossed lovers would be reconciled, fortunes
restored, parents overjoyed and any hint of Grand Guignol
wiped from the slate of events. The same small, still voice
continued to insist that thievery was specifically understood
to be a crime, no matter how much the poor, as it were,
benefitted from the robbing of the rich. What was more, as
Lord Sherwood's ancestral voices all agreed, the laws of
hospitality were pretty generally defied when your host
slipped into your bedroom during the hours of darkness and