"You are not disturbed, dearest Amelia, by this city?"

"I find the place improbable. I failed to realize, listening only to talk of such settlements, how vast and how, well, how unlike cities they were!"

Mr. Underwood stood some distance away, on the other side of the little plaza. Green globes of fuzzy light, about the size of tennis balls, ran up and down his outstretched arms; he watched them with childlike delight; behind him the air was black, purple, dark green shot with crimson, as chemicals expanded and contracted in a kind of simulation of breathing, giving off their vapours; bronze sparks showered nearby, pinkish energy arced from one tower to another; steel sang. The city murmured to itself, almost asleep, certainly drowsy. Even the narrow rivulets of mercury, criss-crossing the ground at their feet, seemed to be running slowly.

"The cities protect themselves," Jherek explained. "I have seen it before. No weapon can operate within them, no weapon can harm them from without, because they can always command more energy than any weapon brought against them, you see. It was part of their original design."

"This resembles a manufactory more than it does a township," she remarked.

"It is actually," he told her, "more in the nature of a museum. There are several such cities on the planet; they contain what remains of our knowledge."

"These fumes — are they not poisonous?"

"Not to Man. They could not be."

She accepted his assurance, but continued wary, as he led them from the plaza, through an arcade of lurid yellow and mauve metallic fronds, faintly reminiscent of those they had seen in the Palaeozoic; a strange greyish light fell through the fronds and distorted their shadows. Mr. Underwood wandered some distance behind them, softly singing.

"We must consider," she whispered, "how Harold is to be saved."

"Saved for what?"

"From his insanity."

"He seems happier in the city."

"He believes himself in Hell, no doubt. Just as I once believed. Inspector Springer should never have brought him."

"I am not altogether sure that the inspector is quite himself."

"I agree, Mr. Carnelian. All this smacks of political panic at home. There is thought to be considerable interest in Spiritualism and Freemasonry among certain members of the Cabinet, at the present time. There is even some talk that the Prince of Wales…"

She continued in this vein for a while, mystifying him entirely. Her information, he gathered, was gleaned from a broadsheet which Mr. Underwood had once acquired.

The arcade gave way to a chasm running between high, featureless buildings, their walls covered with chemical stains and peculiar semi-biological growths, some of which palpitated; ahead of them was something globular, glowing and dark, which rolled away from them as they advanced and, as they reached the end of the chasm, vanished. Here the vista widened and they could see across a plain littered with half-rotted metal relics to where, in the distance, angry flames spread themselves against an invisible wall.

"There!" he said. "That must be the Lat's weapons at work. The city throws up its defences. See, I told you that we should be safe, dear Amelia."

She glanced over her shoulder to where her husband sat upon a structure that seemed part of stone and part of some kind of hardened resin. "I wish you would try to be more tactful, Mr. Carnelian.

Remember that my husband is within earshot. Consider his feelings, if you will not consider mine!"

"But he has relinquished you to me. He said as much. By your customs that is sufficient, is it not?"

"He divorces me, that is all. I have a right to choose or reject any husband I please."

"Of course. But you choose me. I know."

"I have not told you that."

"You have, Amelia. You forget. You have mentioned more than once that you love me."

"That does not mean — would not mean — that I would necessarily marry you, Mr. Carnelian.

There is still every chance that I may return to Bromley — or at least to my own time."

"Where you will be an outcast. You said so."

"In Bromley. Not everywhere." But she frowned. "I can imagine the scandal. The newspapers will have published something, to be sure. Oh, dear."

"You seemed to be enjoying life at the End of Time."

"Perhaps I would continue to do so, Mr. Carnelian, were I not haunted, very definitely, by the Past." Another glance over her shoulder. "How is one ever to relax?"

"This is a fluke. It is the first time anything like it has ever occurred here."

"Besides, I would remind you that, according to Bishop Castle (not to mention the evidence of our own eyes) your world is being destroyed about your ears."

"For the moment, only. It can soon be replaced."

"Lord Mongrove and Yusharisp would have us believe otherwise."

"It is hard to take them seriously."

"For you, perhaps. Not for me, Mr. Carnelian. What they say makes considerable sense."

" Opportunities for redemption must therefore be few in such an ambience as you describe,"

said quite another voice, a low, mellow, slightly sleepy voice.

"There are none," said Mr. Underwood, "at least that I know of."

" That is interesting. I seem to recall something of the theory, but most of the information I would require was stored elsewhere, in a sister city, whose co-ordinates I cannot quite recollect. I am of a mind to believe, however, that you are either a manifestation of this city's delusions (which proliferate notoriously, these days) or else that you are deluded yourself, a victim of too much morbid fascination with ancient mythologies. I could be mistaken — there was a time when I was infallible, I think. I am not sure that your description of this city tallies with the facts which remain at my command. You could argue, I know, that I myself am deluded as to the truth, yet my evidence would seem to tally with my instincts, whereas you, yourself, make intellectual rather than instinctive assumptions; that at least is what I gather from the illogicalities so far expressed in your analysis. You have contradicted yourself at least three times since you sat down on my shell."

It was the compound of rock and resin that spoke. "One form of memory bank," murmured Jherek.

"There are so many kinds, not always immediately recognizable."

" I think," continued the bank, " that you are still confused and have not yet ordered your thoughts sufficiently to communicate properly with me. I assure you that I will function much more satisfactorily if you phrase your remarks better."

Mr. Underwood did not seem offended by this criticism. "I think you are right," he said. "I am confused. Well, I am mad, to be blunt."

" Madness may only be the expression of ordinary emotional confusion. Fear of madness can cause, I believe, a retreat into the very madness one fears. This is only superficially a paradox.

Madness may be said to be a tendency to simplify, into easily grasped metaphors, the nature of the world. In your own case, you have plainly been confounded by unexpected complexities, therefore you are inclined to retreat into simplification — this talk of Damnation and Hell, for instance — to create a world whose values are unambivalent, unequivocal. It is a pity that so few of my own ancestors survive for they, by their very nature, would have responded better to your views. On the other hand it may be that you are not content with this madness, that you would rather face the complexities, feel at ease with them. If so, I am sure that I can help, in a small way."

"You are very kind," said Mr. Underwood.

" Nonsense. I am glad to be of service. I have had nothing to do for the best part of a million years. I was in danger of growing 'rusty'. Luckily, having no mechanical parts, I can remain dormant for a long time without any especially deleterious effects. Though, as part of a very complex system, there is much information I can no longer call upon."

"Then you are of the opinion that this is not the afterlife, that I am not here as punishment for my sins, that I shall not be here for eternity, that I am not, as it were, dead."

" You are certainly not dead, for you can still converse, feel, think and experience physical needs and discomforts…"

The bank had a penchant for abstract conversation which seemed to suit Mr. Underwood, though Jherek and Amelia became quickly bored listening to it. "It reminds me of an old schoolmaster I once had," she whispered, and she grinned. "It is just what Harold needs really, at present."

The vivid splashes of light no longer spread across the horizon and the scene darkened. No sun could be observed in the lurid sky, across which clouds of queerly coloured gases perpetually drifted.

Behind them, the city seemed to stir, shuddering with age and strain, groaning almost complainingly.

"What would happen to you if your cities collapsed?" she asked him.

"That is impossible. They are self-perpetuating."

"There is no evidence of that." Even as she spoke, two of the metallic structures fell into the dust and became dust themselves.

"Yet they are," he told her. "In their own way. They have been like this for millennia, somehow surviving. We see only the surface. The essence of the cities is not so tangible, and that is as robust as ever."

She accepted what he said with a shrug. "How long must we remain here, then?"

"You sought escape from the Lat, did you not? We remain here until the Lat leave the planet."

"You do not know when that will be?"

"It will be soon, I am sure. Either they will become bored with the game or we will. Then the game will end."

"With how many dead?"

"None, I hope."

"You can resurrect everyone?"

"Certainly."

"Even the denizens of your menageries?"

"Not all. It depends how solidly they have made an impression on our own memories, you see. Our rings work from our minds, to achieve the reconstructions."

She did not pursue the topic. "We seem as thoroughly marooned now at the End of Time as we did at the Beginning," she said moodily. "How few are our moments of ordinary living…"

"That will change. These are particularly agitated days. Brannart explained that the chronological fluctuations are unusually persistent. We must all agree to stop travelling through time for a while, then everything will be back to normal."

"I admire your optimism, Mr. Carnelian."

"Thank you, Amelia." He began to walk again. "This is the very city where I was conceived, the Iron Orchid told me. With some difficulty, it seems."

She looked back. Mr. Underwood still sat upon the memory bank, deep in conversation. "Should we leave him?"

"We can return for him later."

"Very well."

They stepped upon thin silver surfaces which creaked as they crossed, but did not crack. They ascended a flight of ebony stairs, towards an ornamental bridge.

"It would seem fitting," said Jherek, "if I were to propose formally to you here, Amelia, as my father proposed to my mother."

"Your father?"

"A mystery my mother chooses to perpetuate."

"So you do not know who —"

"I do not."

She pursed her lips. "In Bromley such a fact would be sufficient to put a complete bar on marriage, you know."

"Truly?"

"Oh, yes."

"But we are not in Bromley," she added.

He smiled. "Indeed, we are not."

"However…"

"I understand."

"Please, continue…"

"I was saying that it would seem fitting that I should ask you, here in this city where I was conceived, for your hand in marriage."

"Should I ever be free to give it, you mean?"

"Exactly."

"Well, Mr. Carnelian, I cannot say that this is sudden. But…"

"Mibix dug frishy hrunt!" said a familiar voice, and across the bridge came marching Captain Mubbers and his men, armed to the teeth and looking not a little put out.