Mongrove had been delighted to receive Yusharisp. He had embraced, and almost smothered, the little round space-traveller, beginning immediately to question him on all aspects of his message of doom.

The space-traveller had been pleased by the reception, though he was still under the impression that he was soon to be helped to leave the planet. That was why Jherek Carnelian had made the transaction as quickly as possible and left with his new treasure while Mongrove and Yusharisp were still deep in conversation.

Mrs. Amelia Underwood had been stiffened for easy transportation (without her realising that she was to belong to Jherek now) and shipped aboard the locomotive.

Jherek had lost no time in returning to his ranch and there depositing Mrs. Underwood in what in ancient times had always been the most important section of the house, the cellar. The cellar was immediately above his bedroom and contained towering transparent tanks of carnelian- and pearl-coloured wine. It was also the prettiest room in the house and he felt Mrs. Underwood would be pleased to wake up in such lovely surroundings.

Laying her upon an ottoman bed in the exact centre of the room, Jherek adjusted Mrs. Underwood so that she would sleep and awake slowly and naturally the following morning.

He then went to his own bedroom, impatient to prepare himself for when he next encountered her, determined that he should this time make a good impression. Though it was still many hours until morning, he began to make his plans. He intended to wear something ordinary and give up trying to please her by imitation, since she had made no comment on his earlier costume. He made a solid holograph of himself and dressed it in several different styles, making the holograph move about the room wearing the styles until he was satisfied and had selected the one he wanted.

He would wear everything — robes, shoes, hair, eyebrows and lips — in white. He would blend in well with the main décor of the cellar, particularly if he wore only one ring, the rich, red garnet, which clung to the third finger of his right hand like a drop of fresh blood.

Jherek wondered if Mrs. Underwood would like to change into something different. The grey suit, the white blouse and the straw hat were beginning to look rather crumpled and faded. He decided to construct some clothes for her and take them with him as one of his courting gifts. He had seen enough of the literature of the period to know that the offering of such a gift was a necessary part of the courting ritual and would surely be welcome.

He must think of another gift, too. Something traditional. And music. There must be music playing in the background…

When he had made his plans, there were still several hours left and they gave him time to review recent events. He felt a little nervous. My Lady Charlotina was bound to want to repay him for his trick, his theft of her alien. At present he did not want to be interrupted in his courtship and if My Lady Charlotina decided to act at once it could prove inconvenient. He had hoped, of course, to have more time before she discovered his deception. However, it could not be helped. He could only hope now that her vengeance would not take too complicated or prolonged a form.

He lounged in his eight-poster, his body sunk in white cushions, and waited impatiently for morning, refusing to speed up the period of time by a second, for he knew that time-travellers were often thrown out by such things.

He contemplated his situation. He did find Mrs. Underwood most attractive. She had a beautiful skin. Her face was lovely. And she seemed quite intelligent, which was pleasant. If she fell in love with him tomorrow (which was pretty inevitable, really) there were all sorts of games they could play — separations, suicides, melancholy walks, bitter-sweet partings and so on. It really depended on her and how her imagination worked with his. The important thing at present was to get the groundwork done.

He slept for a little while, a relaxed, seraphic smile upon his handsome lips.

Then, in the morning, Jherek Carnelian went a-courting.

In his translucent white robes, with his milk-white hair all coiffed and curled, with his white lips smiling, a bunch of little chocolates on long leafy stalks in one hand, a silver "suitcase" full of clothing in the other, he paused outside the cellar door (of genuine silk stretched on a frame of plaited gold) and stamped twice on the floor in lieu of a knock (how had they managed to knock on the doors? One of many such mysteries). The stamping also had the effect of making the music begin to play. It was a piece by a composer who was a close contemporary of Mrs. Underwood's. His name was Charles St. Ives, the Cornish Caruso, and his pleasant counter-melodies, though unsophisticated, were probably just the sort of thing that Mrs. Underwood would enjoy.

Jherek made the music soft, virtually unhearable at first.

"Mrs. Amelia Underwood," he said. "Did you hear me knock? Or stamp?"

"I would be grateful if you went away," said her voice from the other side of the door. "I know who you are and I can guess why I have been abducted — and to where. If you intend to soften my resolve by inducing madness in me, you shall not have that satisfaction. I will destroy myself first! Monster."

"My servo brought you breakfast, did it not? I trust it was to your taste."

Her tone was mocking, a little strained. "I have never been overfond of raw beef, sir. Neither is neat whisky my idea of a suitable breakfast drink. At least in my other prison I received the food I requested."

"Request, then. I'm sorry, Mrs. Amelia Underwood. I was sure I had it right. Perhaps in your region of the world at that time the customs were dissimilar… Still, you must tell me —"

"If I am to be a prisoner here, sir," she said firmly, "I shall require for breakfast two slices of lightly toasted bread, unsalted butter, Chetwynd's Cheshire Marmalade, café au lait and, occasionally, two medium boiled eggs."

He made a gesture with his red ring. "It is done. Programmed."

Her voice continued:

"For luncheon — well, that will vary. But, since the climate is constantly far too warm, salads of various varieties shall form the basis of the meals. No tomatoes. They are bad for the complexion. I will specify the varieties later. On Sundays — roast beef, mutton, pork or veal. Venison from time to time, in season (though it's inclined to heat the blood, I know) and game when suitable. Mutton cutlets. Stewed ox-cheek and so forth. I'll make you a list. And Yorkshire pudding with the beef, and horseradish sauce, of course, et cetera. Mint sauce with the mutton. Apple sauce with the pork. Peppercorns or sage and onion with the veal, perhaps, though I have certain preferences regarding veal which I will also list. For dinner…"

"Mrs. Amelia Underwood!" cried Jherek Carnelian in confusion. "You shall have every food you wish, any dish which delights you. You shall eat turkeys and turtles, heads, hearts and haunches, gravies and gateaux, fish, fowl and beast shall be created and shall die for the pleasure of your palate! I swear to you that you shall never breakfast off beef and whisky again. And now, Mrs. Underwood, may I please come in?"

There was a note of surprise in her voice. "You are the gaoler, sir. You may do as you please, I am sure!"

The music of Charles St. Ives ( Three New Places in England) grew louder and Jherek stepped backward and then plunged through the silk, catching his foot in a trailing fragment of the stuff and hopping forward without much style, noticing that she was covering her ears and crying:

"Awful! Awful!"

"You are not pleased with the music? It is of your time."

"It is cacophony."

"Ah, well." He snapped his fingers and the music died. He turned and reformed the silk in its frame.

Then, with a sweeping bow which rivalled one of Lord Jagged's, he presented himself in all his whiteness to her.

She was dressed in her usual costume, although her hat lay on the neatly made twelve foot long ottoman. She stood framed against a tank of sparkling champagne, her hands folded together under her breasts, her lips pursed. She really was the most beautiful human being apart from himself that Jherek had ever seen. He could have imagined and created nothing better. Little strands of chestnut hair fell over her face. Her grey-green eyes were bright and steady. Her shoulders were straight, her back stiff, her little booted feet together.

"Well, sir?" she said. Her voice was sharp, even cold. "I see you have abducted me. If you have my body, I guarantee that you shall not have my soul!"

He hardly heard her as he drank in her beauty. He offered her the bunch of chocolates. She did not accept them. "Drugs," she said, "shall not willingly pass my lips."

"Chocolates," he explained. He indicated the blue ribbon bound around their stalks. "See? Blue ribbon."

"Chocolates." She peered at them more closely. For a moment she seemed almost amused, but then her face resumed its set, stern expression. She would not take them. At last he was forced to make the chocolates drift over to the ottoman and settle beside her hat. They went well together. He disseminated the suitcase so that the contents tumbled to the floral floor.

"And what is this?"

"Clothes," he said, "for you to wear. Aren't they pretty?"

She looked down at the profusion of colours, the variety of materials. They scintillated. Their beauty was undeniable and all the colours suited her. Her lips parted, her cheeks flushed. And then she spurned the clothes with her buttoned boot. "These are not suitable clothes for a well-bred lady," she said. "You may take them away."

He was disappointed. He was almost hurt. "But —? Away?"

"My own clothes are perfectly satisfactory. I would like the opportunity to wash them, that is all. I have found nowhere in this — this cell — that offers — washing facilities."

"You are not bored, Mrs. Amelia Underwood, with what you are wearing?"

"I am not. As I was saying. Regarding the facilities…"

"Well." He made a gesture with his ring. The clothes at her feet rose into the air, altering shape and colour until they, too, drifted to the ottoman. Beside the chocolates and the straw hat there now lay neatly side by side six identical outfits (complete with straw boaters) each exactly the same as the one she presently wore.

"Thank you." She seemed just a fraction less cool in manner. "That is much better." She frowned. "I wonder if, after all, you are not…"

Grateful that at last he had done something to meet with her approval, he decided to make his announcement. Gathering his robes around him, he went carefully down on one knee upon the curtains of fresh flowers which covered the floor. He placed his two hands upon his heart. He raised his eyes to heaven in a gaze of adoration.

"Mrs. Amelia Underwood!"

She took a startled step backward and bumped against a wine tank. It made a faint sloshing.

"I am Jherek Carnelian," he continued. "I was born. I love you!"

"Good heavens!"

"I love you more than I love life, dignity, or deities," he went on. "I shall love you until the cows come home, until the pigs cease to fly. I, Jherek Carnelian…"

"Mr. Carnelian!" She was stunned, it seemed, by his devotion. But why should she be stunned?

After all, everyone was always declaring their love to everyone else in her time! "Get up, sir, please. I am a respectable woman. I believe that perhaps you are under some misunderstanding considering the position I hold in society. That is, Mr. Carnelian — I am a housewife. A housewife from, in fact, Bromley, in Kent, near London. I have no — no other occupation, sir."

"Housewife?"

He looked imploringly at her for an explanation. "Misunderstanding?"

"I have, I emphasise — no — other — calling."

He was puzzled. "You must explain."

"Mr. Carnelian. Earlier I was trying to hint — to touch upon a rather delicate matter concerning the, ah, appointments. I cannot find them."

"Appointments?" Still on one knee he glanced around the cellar, at the great tanks of wine, the jacaranda trees, the sarcophagi, the stuffed alligators and bears, the mangles, the wurlitzer. "I'm afraid I do not follow…"

"Mr. Carnelian." She coughed and lowered her eyes to the floor, murmuring: "The bathroom."

"But Mrs. Amelia Underwood, if you wish to bathe, there are the tanks of wine. Or I can bring aphid's milk, if you prefer."

Evidently in some embarrassment, but with her manner becoming increasingly insistent, she said: "I do not wish to bathe, Mr. Carnelian. I am referring" — she took a deep breath — "to the water closet."

Realisation dawned. How obtuse he was. He smiled helpfully. "I suppose it could be arranged. I can easily fill a closet with water. And we can make love. Oh, in water. Liquid!"

Her lip trembled. She was plainly in distress. Had he again misinterpreted her? Helplessly he stared up at her. "I love you," he said.

Her hands leapt to her face. Her shoulders began to heave. "You must hate me dreadfully." Her voice was muffled. "I cannot believe that you do not understand me. As another human being … Oh, how you must hate me!"

"No!" He rose with a cry. "No! I love you. Your every desire will be met by me. Whatever is in my power to do I shall do. It is simply, Mrs. Amelia Underwood, that you have not made your request explicit. I do not understand you." He spread his arms to indicate everything in the room. "I have carefully reconstructed a whole house in the fashion of your own time. I have done everything, I hope, to suit you.

If you will only explain further, I will be happy to make what you ask." He paused. She was lowering her hands from her face and offering him a peculiar, searching look. "Perhaps a sketch?" he suggested.

She covered her face again. Again her shoulders began to heave.

It took some time before he could discover from her what she wanted. She told him in halting, nervous tones. She blushed deep scarlet.

He laughed delightedly when he understood.

"Such functions have long since been dispensed with by our people. I could restructure your body slightly and you would not need…"

"I will not be interfered with!"

"If that is your desire."

At last he had manufactured her "bathroom," according to her instructions and put it in one corner of the cellar. Then, at her further request, he boxed it in, adding a touch or two of his own, the vermilion marble, the green baize.

The moment it was finished, she ran inside and closed the door with a slam. He was reminded of a small, nervous animal. He wondered if the box offered her a sense of security which the cellar could not.

How long would she remain in the appointment? Forever, like a menagerie specimen which refused to leave its environment? How long could she stay there, hidden behind the marble door, refusing to see him? After all, she must fall in love with him soon.

He waited for what seemed to him to be a very long time indeed. Then he weakened and called:

"Mrs. Amelia Underwood?"

Her voice came sharply from the other side of the door. "Mr. Carnelian, you have no tact! I may have mistaken your intentions, but I cannot ignore the fact that your manners are abominable!"

"Oh!" He was offended. "Mrs. Amelia Underwood! I am known for my tact. I am famous for it. I was born!"

"So was I, Mr. Carnelian. I cannot understand why you keep harping on the fact. I am reminded of some tribesmen we had the misfortune to meet when my father, my mother and myself were in South America. They had some similar phrase…"

"They were impolite?"

"It does not matter. Let us say that yours is not the kind of tact an English gentlewoman recognises.

One moment."

There came a gurgling noise and at last she emerged. She looked a little fresher, but she gave him a glance of puzzled displeasure.

Jherek Carnelian had never experienced anything particularly close to misery before, but he was beginning to understand the meaning of the word as he sighed with frustration at his inability to communicate with Mrs. Underwood. She was forever misunderstanding his intentions. According to his original calculations they should at this moment be together in the ottoman exchanging kisses and so forth and pledging eternal love to each other. It was all extremely upsetting. He determined to try again.

"I want to make love to you," he said reasonably. "Does that mean nothing? I am sure that people constantly made love to each other in your age. I know they did. Everything I have studied shows that it was one of the chief obsessions of the time!"

"It is not something we speak about, Mr. Carnelian."

"I want to — to — What do you say instead?"

"There is, Mr. Carnelian, such a thing as the institution of Christian marriage." Her tone, while softening, also became rather patronising. "Such love as you speak of is sanctioned by society only if the two people involved are married. I believe you might not be the monster I thought you. You have, in your fashion, behaved in an almost gentlemanly way. I must conclude, therefore, that you are merely misguided. If you wish to learn proper behaviour, then I shall not stand in the way of your learning it. I will do my best to teach you all I can of civilised comportment."

"Yes?" He brightened. "This marriage. Shall we do that, then?"

"You wish to marry me?" She gave a tiny, icy laugh.

"Yes." He began to lower himself to his knees again.

"I am already married," she explained. "To Mr. Underwood."

"I have married, too," he said, unable to interpret the significance of her last statement.

"Then we cannot marry, Mr. Carnelian." She laughed again. "People who are already married must remain married to those people to whom they are — ah — already married. To whom are you married?"

"Oh," he smiled and shrugged, "I have been married to many people. To my mother, of course, the Iron Orchid. She was the first, I think, being the closest to hand at the time. And then (second, if not first) Mistress Christia, the Everlasting Concubine. And My Lady Charlotina. And to Werther de Goethe, but that came to very little as I recall. And most recently to Lord Jagged of Canaria, my old friend. And perhaps a hundred others in between."

"A — a hundred others?" She sat down suddenly upon the ottoman. "A hundred?" She gave him a queer look. "Do you understand me correctly, Mr. Carnelian, when I speak of marriage. Your mother?

A male friend? Oh dear!"

"I do not understand you, I am sure. Marriage means making love, does it not." He paused, trying to think of a more direct phrase. "Sexual love," he said.

She leaned back on the ottoman, one delicate hand against her perfect brow. She spoke in a whisper. "Please, Mr. Carnelian! Stop at once. I wish to hear no more. Leave me, I beg you."

"You do not wish to marry me now?"

"Leave…" She pointed a trembling finger at the door. "Leave…"

But he continued patiently: "I love you, Mrs. Amelia Underwood. I brought chocolates — clothes. I made the — the appointments — for you. I declared my everlasting affection. I have stolen for you, cheated and lied for you." He paused, apologetically. "I admit I have not yet lost the respect of my friends, but I am trying to think of a way to accomplish that. What else must I do, Mrs. Amelia Underwood?"

She rallied a little. She sat upright on the couch and took a very deep breath. "It is not your fault,"

she said, staring fixedly into the middle distance. "And it is my duty to help. You have asked for my help.

I must give it. It would be wicked and un-Christian of me to do otherwise. But, frankly, it will be a herculean task. I have lived in India. I have visited Africa. There are few areas of the Empire I have not, in my time, seen. My father was a missionary. He devoted his life to teaching savages the Christian virtues. Therefore…"

"Virtue." Eagerly he shuffled forward on his knees. "Virtue? That is it. Will you teach me Virtue, Mrs. Amelia Underwood?"

She sighed. She had a dazed look on her face now as she looked down at him. It seemed as if she were about to faint. "How can a Christian refuse? But now you must leave, Mr. Carnelian, while I consider the full implications of this situation."

Again he got to his feet.

"If you say so. I think we're making progress, aren't we? When I have learned virtue — may I then become your lover?"

She made a weary gesture. "If only you had a bottle of sal volatile, I think it could make all the difference at this moment."

"Yes? You shall have it. Describe it."

"No, no. Leave me now. I must proceed, I suppose, as if you were not trying to make a joke of my situation, though I have my suspicions. So, until I have complete evidence to the contrary … Oh, dear."

She fell back on the ottoman again, having just enough strength to adjust her grey skirt so that its hem did not reveal her ankle.

"I will return later," he promised. "To begin my lessons."

"Later," she gasped. "Yes…"

He stepped, with a rippling of silk, through the door. He turned and bowed a low, gallant bow.

She stared at him glassily, shaking her head from side to side and running her hand through her chestnut curls.

"My own dear heart," he murmured.

She felt for the pendant watch lying on her shirt front. She opened the case and looked at the time.

"I shall expect lunch," she said, "at exactly one o'clock."

Almost cheerfully Jherek returned to his bedroom and flung himself upon his cushions.

The courtship was, he had to admit, proving more difficult, more complicated, than he had at first imagined. At least, though, he was soon to learn the secret of that mysterious Virtue. So he had gained something by his acquisition of Mrs. Underwood.

His reverie was interrupted by Lord Jagged of Canaria's voice murmuring in his ear:

"May I speak to you, my tasty Jherek, if you are not otherwise engaged? I am below. In your main compartment."

"Of course." Jherek got up. "I'll join you directly."

Jherek was pleased that Jagged had come. He needed to tell his friend all that had so far taken place between himself and his lady love. Also he wished to seek Lord Jagged's advice on his next moves.

Because really, when he thought about it, this was all Lord Jagged's idea…

He slipped down into the main room and found Lord Jagged leaning against the bole of the aspidistra, a fruit in his hand. He was nibbling the fruit with a certain clinical interest but no great pleasure.

He was dressed in ice blue fog which followed the contours of his body and rose around his pale face in a kind of hood. His limbs were entirely hidden. "Good morning, Jherek," he said. He disseminated the fruit. "And how is your new guest?"

"At first she was unresponsive," Jherek told him. "She seemed to think I was unsympathetic. But I think I have broken down her reserve at last. It will not be long before the curtain rises on the main act."

"She loves you as you love her?"

"She is beginning to love me, I think. She is taking an interest in me, at any rate."

"So you have not made love?"

"Not yet. There are more rituals involved than you and I guessed. All kinds of things. But it is extremely interesting."

"You remain in love with her, of course?"

"Oh, of course, Desperately. I'm not one to back out of an affectation just like that, Lord Jagged.

You know me better, I hope."

"I do. I apologise," murmured the Lord of Canaria, displaying his sharp, golden teeth.

"But, if the story is to assume true dramatic, even tragic, dimensions, she must, of course, learn to love me. Otherwise the thing becomes a farce, a low comedy, and barely worth pursuing at all!"

"Agreed — oh, agreed! " said Jagged. And his smile was strange.

"She is to teach me the customs of her people. She is to prepare me for the main ritual which is called 'marriage'. Then, doubtless, she will pledge her own love and the thing can begin in earnest."

"And how long will all this take?"

"Oh, at least a day or two," said Jherek seriously. "Perhaps a week." He remembered another matter. "And how did My Lady Charlotina take my, um, crime? "

"Extremely well." Lord Jagged strode about the room, leaving little clouds of blue fog behind him.

"She has vowed — let me see — everlasting vengeance upon you. She is even now contemplating the most exquisite form of revenge. The possibilities! You should have been there last night. You would never guess some of them. Retribution, my darling Jherek, will strike at the best possible dramatic moment for you, rest assured. And it will be cruel! It will be apt. It will be witty!"

Jherek was hardly listening. "She is very imaginative," he said.

"Highly."

"But she plans nothing immediate?"

"I think not."

"Good. I would rather have time to establish the ritual between Mrs. Amelia Underwood and myself before I have to think of My Lady Charlotina's vengeance."

"I understand." Lord Jagged lifted his fine head and looked through the wall. "You're neglecting the scenery a bit, aren't you? Your herds of buffalo haven't moved for quite a while. And your parrots seem to have disappeared altogether. Still, I suppose that is in keeping with someone who is nurturing an obsession."

"I must, however, extinguish that sunset." Jherek removed the sunset and the scenery was suddenly flooded with ordinary sunlight, from the sun. It clashed a little, but he didn't mind. "I'm becoming bored with all the peripheral stuff, I think."

"And why shouldn't you be? And who is this come to see you?"

An ornithopter, awkward and heavy, came lumbering through the sky, its huge metal wings clashing as they flapped unevenly earthward. It slumped into the corral near Jherek's locomotive. A small figure emerged from the machine.

"Why!" exclaimed Lord Jagged of Canaria. "It's Brannart Morphail himself. On an errand from My Lady Charlotina perhaps? The opening sally?"

"I hope not."

Jherek watched the hunchbacked scientist limp slowly up the steps to the verands. When he did not use a vehicle, Brannart Morphail insisted on limping everywhere. It was another of his idiosyncracies. He came through the door and greeted the two friends.

"Good morning, Brannart," said Lord Jagged, moving forward and clapping the scientist upon his hump. "What brings you from your laboratories?"

"You remember, I hope, Jherek," said the chronologist, "that you agreed to let me see that time-machine today. The new one?"

Jherek had forgotten entirely his hasty — and lying — conversation with Morphail the previous evening.

"The time machine?" he echoed. He tried to remember what he had said. "Oh, yes." He decided to make a clean breast of it. "I'm sorry to say that that was a joke, my dear Morphail. A joke with My Lady Charlotina. Did you not hear about it?"

"No. She seemed pensive when she returned, but I left soon afterward on account of her losing interest in me. What a pity." Brannart ran his fingers through his streaky, multi-hued beard and hair, but he had accepted the news philosophically enough. "I had hoped…"

"Of course you had, my crusty," said Lord Jagged, tactfully stepping in. "Of course, of course, my twisted, tattered love. But Jherek does have a time-traveller here."

"The Piltdown Man?"

"Not exactly. A slightly later specimen. 19th century isn't it, Jherek?" said Lord Jagged. "A lady."

"19th century England," said Jherek, a trifle pedantically, for he was proud of his thorough knowledge of the period.

But Brannart was disappointed. "Came in a conventional machine, eh? Did she? 19th — 20th — 21st century or thereabouts. The kind with the big wheels, was it?"

"I suppose so." Jherek had not thought to ask her. "I didn't see the machine. Have you seen it, Lord Jagged?"

Lord Jagged shrugged and shook his head.

"When did she arrive?" old Morphail asked.

"Two or three days ago."

"No time-machine has been recorded arriving then," Morphail said decisively. "None. We haven't had one through for more than a score of days. And even the last few barely stayed long enough to register on my chronographs. You must find out from your time-traveller, Jherek, what sort of machine she used. It could be important. You could help me, after all! A new kind of machine. Possibly not a machine at all. A mystery, eh?" His eyes were bright.

"If I can help, I'll be pleased to. I feel I have already brought you here on a fool's errand, Brannart,"

Jherek assured the scientist. "I will find out as soon as possible."

"You are very kind, Jherek." Brannart Morphail paused. "Well, I suppose…"

"You'll stay to lunch?"

"Ah. I don't lunch, really. And my experiments await. Await. Await." He waved a thin hand.

"Good-bye for now, my dears."

They saw him to his ornithopter. It began to clank skyward after a few false starts. Jherek waved to it, but Lord Jagged was looking back at the house and frowning. "A mystery, eh?" said Jagged.

"A mystery?" Jherek turned.

"A mystery, too," said Lord Jagged. He winked at Jherek.

Wearily, Jherek returned the wink.