The Coming of the Teraphiles

  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