Kindle me to constant fire,
Lest the nail be but a nail!
Give me wings of great desire,
Lest I look within and fail!
Red of heat to white of heat,
Roll we to the Godhead's feet!
Beat, beat! white of heat,
Red of heat, beat, beat!
 
      George Meredith
      "Song of Theodolinda"

      The incidents involving Mr Jherek Carnelian and Mrs Amelia Underwood, their adventures in Time, the machinations of, among others, the Lord of Canaria, are already familiar to those of us who follow avidly any fragment of gossip coming back from the End of Time.
      We know, too, why it is impossible to learn further details of how life progresses there since the inception of Lord Jagged's grand (and some think pointless) scheme, details of which have been published in the three volumes jointly entitled The Dancers at the End of Time and in the single volume, companion to this, called Legends from the End of Time.
      Time travellers, of course, still visit the periods immediately preceding the inception of the scheme. They bring us back those scraps of scandal, speculation, probable fact and likely lies which form the bases for the admittedly fanciful reconstructions I choose to term my "legends from the future" — stories which doubtless would cause much amusement if those I write about were ever to read them (happily, there is no evidence that the tales survive our present century, let alone the next few million years).
      If this particular tale seems more outrageous and less likely than any of the others, it is because I was gullible enough to believe the sketch of it I had from an acquaintance who does not normally journey so far into the future. A colleague of Mrs Una Persson in the Guild of Temporal Adventurers, he does not wish me to reveal his name and this, happily, allows me to be rather more frank about him than would have been possible.
      My friend's stories are always interesting, but they are consistently highly coloured; his exploits have been bizarre and his claims incredible. If he is to be believed, he has been present at a good many of the best-known key events in history, including the crucifixion of Christ, the massacre at My Lai, the assassination of Naomi Jacobsen in Paris and so on, and has often played a major role.
      From his base in West London (20th century, Sectors 3 and 4) my friend has ranged what he terms the "chronoflow", visiting periods of the past and future of this Earth as well as those of other Earths which, he would have us accept, co-exist with ours in a complex system of intersecting dimensions making up something called the "multiverse".
      Of all the temporal adventurers I have known, my friend is the most ready to describe his exploits to anyone who will listen. Presumably, he is not subject to the Morphail Effect (which causes most travellers to exercise the greatest caution regarding their actions and conversations in any of the periods they visit) mainly because few but the simple-minded, and those whose logical faculties have been ruined by drink, drugs or other forms of dissipation, will take him seriously.
      My friend's own explanation is that he is not affected by such details; he describes himself rather wildly as a "chronic outlaw" (a self-view which might give the reader some insight into his character). You might think he charmed me into believing the tale he told me of Miss Mavis Ming and Mr Emmanuel Bloom, and yet there is something about the essence of the story that inclined me to believe it — for all that it is, in many ways, one of the most incredible I have heard. It cannot, of course, be verified readily (certainly so far as the final chapters are concerned) but it is supported by other rumours I have heard, as well as my own previous knowledge of Mr Bloom (whose earlier incarnation appeared in a tale, told to me by one of my friend's fellow Guild members, published variously as The Fireclown and The Winds of Limbo, some years ago).
      The events recorded here follow directly upon those recorded in Legends from the End of Time and in effect take up Miss Ming's story where we left it after her encounter with Dafnish Armatuce and her son Snuffles.
      As usual, the basic events described are as I had them from my source. I have re-arranged certain things, to maintain narrative tensions, and added to an earlier, less complete, draft of my own which was written hastily, before all the information was known to me. The "fleshing-out" of the narrative, the interpretations where they occur, many of the details of conversations, and so on, must be blamed entirely on your auditor.
      In the previous volume to this one I have already recounted something of the peculiar relationship existing between Miss Ming and Doctor Volospion: the unbearable bore and that ostentatious misanthrope.
      Why Doctor Volospion continued to take perverse pleasure in the woman's miserable company, why she allowed him to insult her in the most profound of ways — she who spent the greater part of her days avoiding any sort of pain — we cannot tell. Suffice it to say that relationships of this sort exist in our own society and can be equally puzzling.
      Perhaps Doctor Volospion found confirmation of all his misanthropism in her; perhaps she preferred this intense, if unpleasant, attention to no attention at all. She confirmed his view of life, while he confirmed her very existence.
      But it is the purpose of a novel, not a romance, to speculate in this way and it is no part of my intention to dwell too much upon such thoughts.
      Here, then, for the reader's own interpretation (if one is needed), is the tale of Miss Ming's transformation and the part which both Doctor Volospion and Emmanuel Bloom had in it.
 
      MICHAEL MOORCOCK
      Ladbroke Grove,
      November, 1975

      The peculiar effect of one sun rising just as another set, causing shadows to waver, making objects appear to shift shape and position, went more or less entirely unobserved by the great crowd of people who stood, enjoying a party, in the foothills of a rather poorly finished range of mountains erected some little time ago by Werther de Goethe during one of his periodic phases of attempting to re-create the landscape, faithful to the last detail, of Holman Hunt, an ancient painter Werther had discovered in one of the rotting cities.
      Werther, it is fair to say, had not been the first to make such an attempt. Werther, however, held to the creed that an artist should, so far as his powers allowed, put up everything exactly as he saw it in the painting. Werther was a purist. Werther volubly denied the criticisms of those who found such literal work bereft of what they regarded as true artistic inspiration. Werther's theories of Fidelity to Art had enjoyed a short-lived vogue (for a time the Duke of Queens had been an earnest acolyte) but his fellows had soon tired of such narrow disciplines.
      Werther, alone, refused to renounce them.
      As the party progressed one of the suns eventually vanished while the other rose rapidly, reached zenith, and stopped. The light became golden, autumnal, misty. Of the guests but three had paused to observe the phenomenon: they were Miss Mavis Ming, plump and eager in her new dress; Li Pao, bland in puritanical denim; and Abu Thaleb, their host, svelte and opulent, splendidly overdressed.
      "Whose suns?" murmured Abu Thaleb appreciatively. "How pretty. And subtle. Rivals, perhaps…"
      "To your own creations?" asked Li Pao.
      "No, no — to one another."
      "They could be Werther's," suggested Miss Ming, anxious to return to their interrupted topic. "He hasn't arrived yet. Go on, Li Pao. You were saying something about Doctor Volospion."
      A fingered ear betrayed Li Pao's embarrassment. "I spoke of no-one specifically, Miss Ming." His round Chinese face became expressionless.
      "By association," Abu Thaleb prompted, a somewhat sly smile manifesting itself within his pointed beard, "you spoke of Volospion."
      "Ah! You would make a gossip of me. I disdain such impulses. I merely observed that only the weak hate weakness; only the wounded condemn the pain of others." He wiped a stain of juice from his severe blouse and turned his back on the tiny sun.
      Miss Ming was arch. "But you meant Doctor Volospion, Li Pao. You were suggesting…"
      A tide of guests flowed by, its noise drowning what remained of her remark, and when it had passed, Li Pao (perhaps piqued by an element of truth) chose to show impatience. "I do not share your obsession with your protector, Miss Ming. I generalized. The thought can scarcely be considered a specific one, nor an original one. I regret it. If you prefer, I retract it."
      "I wasn't criticising, Li Pao. I was just interested in how you saw him. I mean, he has been very kind to me, and I wouldn't like anybody to think I wasn't aware of all he's done for me. I could still be in his menagerie couldn't I? But he showed his respect for me by letting me go — that is, asking me to be his guest rather than — well, whatever you'd call it."
      "He is a model of chivalry." Abu Thaleb stroked an eyebrow and hid his face with his hand. "Well, if you will excuse me, I must see to my monsters. To my guests." He departed, to be swallowed by his party, while Li Pao's imploring look went unnoticed.
      Miss Ming smoothed the front of Li Pao's blouse. "So you see," she said, "I was only curious. It certainly wasn't gossip I wanted to hear. But I respect your opinions, Li Pao. We are fellow 'prisoners', after all, in this world. Both of us would probably prefer to be back in the past, where we belong — you in the 27th century, to take your rightful position as chairman or whatever of China, and me in the 21st to, to…" Inspiration left her momentarily. She contented herself with a coy wink. "You mustn't pay any attention to little Mavis. There's no malice in her."
      "Aha." Li Pao closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.
      Miss Ming's sky-blue nail traced patterns on the more restrained blue of his chest. "It's not in Mavis's nature to think naughty thoughts. Well, not that sort of naughty thought, at any rate!" She giggled.
      "Yaha?" It was almost inaudible.
      From somewhere overhead came the distant strains of one of Abu Thaleb's beasts. Li Pao raised his head as if to seek the source. He contemplated heaven.
      Miss Ming, too, looked up. "Nothing," she said. "It must have come from over there." She pointed and, to her chagrin, her finger indicated the approaching figure of Ron Ron Ron who was, like herself and Li Pao, an expatriate (although in his case from the 140th century). "Oh, look out, Li Pao. It's that bore Ron coming over…"
      She was surprised when Li Pao expressed enthusiastic delight. "My old friend!"
      She was sure that Li Pao found Ron Ron Ron just as awful as everyone else did but, for his sake, she smiled as sweetly as she could. "How nice to see you!"
      Ron Ron Ron had an expression of hauteur on his perfectly oval face. This was his usual expression. He, too, seemed just a little surprised by Li Pao's effusion. "Um?"
      The two men contemplated one another. Mavis plainly felt that it was up to her to break the ice. "Li Pao was just saying — not about Doctor Volospion or anybody in particular — that the weak hate weakness and won't — what was it, Li Pao?"
      "It was not important, Miss Ming. I must…" He offered Ron Ron Ron a thin smile.
      Ron Ron Ron cleared his throat. "No, please…"
      "It was very profound," said Miss Ming. "I thought."
      Ron Ron Ron adjusted his peculiar jerkin so that the edges were exactly in line. He fussed at a button. "Then you must repeat it for me, Li Pao." The shoulders of his jerkin were straight-edged and the whole garment was made to the exact proportions of a square. His trousers were identical oblongs; his shoes, too, were exactly square. The fingers of his hands were all of the same length.
      "Only the weak hate weakness…" murmured Miss Ming encouragingly, "and…"
      Li Pao's voice was almost a shriek: "…only the wounded condemn the pain of others. You see, Ron Ron Ron, I was not —"
      "An interesting observation." Ron Ron Ron put his hands together under his chin. "Yes, yes, yes. I see."
      "No!" Li Pao took a desperate step forwards, as if to leave.
      "By the same argument, Li Pao," began Ron Ron Ron, and Li Pao became passive, "you would imply that a strong person who exercised that strength is, in fact, revealing a weakness in his character, eh?"
      "No. I…"
      "Oh, but we must have a look at this." Ron Ron Ron became almost animated. "It suggests, you see, that indirectly you condemn my efforts as leader of the Symmetrical Fundamentalist Movement in attempting to seize power during the Anarchist Beekeeper period."
      "I assure you, that I was not…" Li Pao's voice had diminished to a whisper.
      "Certainly we were strong enough," continued Ron Ron Ron. "If the planet had not, in the meantime, been utilized as a strike-base by some superior alien military force (whose name we never did learn), who killed virtually all opposition and enslaved the remaining third of the human race during the duration of its occupation — not much more than twenty years, admittedly — before they vanished again, either because our part of the galaxy was no longer of strategic importance to them or because their enemies had defeated them, who knows what we could have achieved."
      "Wonders," gasped Li Pao. "Wonders, I am sure."
      "You are kind. As it was, Earth was left in a state of semi-barbarism which had no need, I suppose, for the refinements either of Autonomous Hiveism or Symmetrical Fundamentalism, but given the chance I could have —"
      "I am sure. I am sure." Li Pao's voice had taken on the quality of a labouring steam-engine.
      "Still," Ron Ron Ron went on, "I digress. You see, because of my efforts to parley with the aliens, my efforts were misinterpreted —"
      "Certainly. Certainly."
      "— and I was forced to use the experimental time-craft to flee here. However, my point is this…"
      "Quite, quite, quite…"
      Miss Ming shook her head. "Oh, you men and your politics. I…"
      But she had not been forceful enough. Ron Ron Ron's (or Ron's Ron's Ron's, as he would have preferred us to write) voice droned on, punctuated by Li Pao's little gasps and sighs. She could not understand Li Pao's allowing himself to be trapped in this awful situation. She had done her best, when he seemed to want to talk to Ron Ron Ron, to begin a conversation that would interest them both, knowing that the only thing the two men had in common was a past taste for political activity and a present tendency, in their impotence, to criticize the shortcomings of their fellows here at the End of Time. But now Li Pao showed no inclination at all to take Ron Ron Ron up on any of his points, which were certainly of no interest to anyone but the Symmetrical Fundamentalist himself. She knew what it was like with some people; if a string was pulled in them, they couldn't stop themselves going on and on. A lot of those she had known, back home in 21st century Iowa, had been like that.
      Again, thought Mavis, it was up to her to change the subject. For Li Pao's sake as well as her own.
      "… they never did separate properly, you see," said Ron Ron Ron.
      "Separate?" Miss Ming seized the chance given her by the pause in his monologue. She spoke brightly. "Properly? Why, that's like my Swiss cheese Plant. The one I used to have in my office? It grew so big! But the leaves wouldn't separate properly. Is that what happened to yours, Ron Ron Ron?"
      "We were discussing strength," said Ron Ron Ron in some bewilderment.
      "Strength! You should have met my ex. I've mentioned him before? Donny Stevens, the heel. Now say what you like about him, but he was strong! Betty — you know, that's the friend I told you about? — more than a friend really…" She winked. "… Betty used to say that Donny Stevens was prouder of his pectorals than he was of his prick! Eh?" She shook with laughter.
      The two men looked at her in silence.
      Li Pao sucked his lower lip.
      "And that was saying a lot, where Donny was concerned," Mavis added.
      "Ushshsh…" said Li Pao.
      "Really?" Ron Ron Ron spoke in a peculiar tone.
      The silence returned at once. Dutifully, Mavis tried to fill it. She put a hand on Ron Ron Ron's tubular sleeve.
      "I shouldn't tell you this, what with my convictions and all — I was polarized in '65, became an all-woman woman, if you get me, after my divorce — but I miss that bastard of a bull sometimes."
      "Well…" Ron Ron Ron hesitated.
      "What this world needs," said Mavis as she got into her stride, "if you ask me, is a few more real men. You know? Real men. The girls around here have got more balls than the guys. One real man and, boy, you'd find my tastes changing just like that…" She tried, unsuccessfully, to snap her fingers.
      "Ssssss…" said Li Pao.
      "Anyway," Mavis was anxious to reassure him that she had not lost track of the original topic, "It's the same with Swiss cheese plants. They're strong. Any conditions will suit them and they'll strangle anything that gets in their way. They use — they used to use, I should say — the big ones to fell other trees in Paraguay. I think it's Paraguay. But when it comes to getting the leaves to separate, well, all you can say is that they're bastards to train. Like strong men, I guess. In the end you have to take 'em or leave 'em as they come."
      Mavis laughed again, waiting for their responding laughter, which did not materialize. She was valiant:
      "I stayed with my house-plants, but I left that stud to play in his own stable. And how he'd been playing! Betty said if I tried to count the number of mares he'd serviced while I thought he was stuck late at the lab I'd need a computer!"
      Li Pao and Ron Ron Ron now stood side by side, staring at her.
      "Two computers!" She had definitely injected a bit of wit into the conversation and given Li Pao a chance to get on to a subject he preferred but evidently neither of them had much of a sense of humour. Li Pao now glanced at his feet. Ron Ron Ron had a silly fixed grin on his face and was just grunting at her, even though she had stopped speaking. She decided to soldier on:
      "Did I tell you about the busy Lizzie that turned out to be poison ivy? We were out in the country one day, this was before my divorce — it must have been just after we got married — either '60 or '61 — no, it must have been '61 definitely because it was spring — probably May…"
      "Look!"
      Li Pao's voice was so loud that it startled Mavis.
      "What?"
      "There's Doctor Volospion." He waved towards where the crowd was thickest. "He was signalling to you, Miss Ming. Over there!"
      The news heartened her. This would be her excuse to get away. But she could not, of course, show Li Pao how pleased she was. So she smiled indulgently. "Oh, let him wait. Just because he's my host here doesn't mean I have to be at his beck and call the whole time!"
      "Please," said Ron Ron Ron, removing a small, pink, even-fingered hand from a perfectly square pocket. "You must not let us, Miss Ming, monopolize your time."
      "Oh, well…" She was relieved. "I'll see you later, perhaps. Byee." Her wink was cute; she waggled her fingers at them. But as she turned to seek out Doctor Volospion it seemed that he had disappeared. She turned back and to her surprise saw Li Pao sprinting away from Ron Ron Ron towards the foot of one of Abu Thaleb's monsters, perhaps because he had seen someone to whom he wished to speak. She avoided Ron Ron Ron's eye and set off in the general direction indicated by Li Pao, making her way between guests and wandering elephants who were here in more or less equal numbers.
      "At least I did my best," she said. "They're very difficult men to talk to."
      She yawned. She was already beginning to be just a trifle bored with the party.

      The elephants, although the most numerous, were not the largest beasts providing the party's entertainment; its chief feature being the seven monstrous animals who sat on green-brown haunches and raised their heavy heads in mournful song.
      These beasts were the pride of Abu Thaleb's collection. They were perfect reproductions of the singing gargantua of Justine IV, a planet long since vanished in the general dissipation of the cosmos (Earth, the reader will remember, had used up a good many other star systems to rejuvenate its own energies).
      Abu Thaleb's enthusiasm for elephants, and all that was elephantine, was so great that he had changed his name to that of the ancient Commissar of Bengal solely because one of that legendary dignitary's other titles had been Lord of All Elephants.
      The gargantua were more in the nature of huge baboons, their heads resembling those of Airedale terriers (now, of course, long-extinct) and were so large that the guests standing closest to them could not see them as a whole at all. Moreover, so high were these shaggy heads above the party that the beautiful music of their voices was barely audible.
      Elsewhere, the commissar's guests ate from trays carried upon the backs of baby mammoths, or leaned against the leather hides of hippopotami which kneeled here and there about the grounds of Abu Thaleb's vast palace, itself fashioned in the shape of two marble elephants standing forehead to forehead, with trunks entwined.
      Mavis Ming paused beside a resting oryx and pulled a tiny savoury doughnut or two from its left horn, munching absently as the beast's huge eyes regarded her. "You look," she remarked to it, "as fed up as I feel." She could find no-one to keep her company in that whole cheerful throng. Almost everyone she knew had seemed to turn aside just as she had been about to greet them and Doctor Volospion himself was nowhere to be seen.
      "This party," she continued, "is definitely tedious."
      "What a supehb fwock, Miss Ming! So fwothy! So yellah!"
      Sweet Orb Mace, in flounces and folds of different shades of grey, presented himself before her, smiling and languid. His eyebrows were elaborately arched; his hair incredibly ringleted, his cheeks exquisitely rouged. He made a leg.
      The short-skirted yellow dress, with its several petticoats, its baby-blue trimmings (to match her eyes, her best feature), was certainly, Mavis felt, the sexiest thing she had worn for a long while, so she was not surprised by his compliment.
      She gave one of her little-girl trills of laughter and pirouetted for him.
      "I thought," she told him, "that it was high time I felt feminine again. Do you like the bow?" The big blue bow in her honey-blonde hair was trimmed with yellow and matched the smaller bows on her yellow shoes.
      "Wondahful!" pronounced Sweet Orb Mace. "It is quite without compahe!"
      She was suddenly much happier. She blew him a kiss and fluttered her lashes. She warmed to Sweet Orb Mace, who could sometimes be such good company (whether as a man or a woman, for his moods varied from day to day), and she took his arm, confiding: "You know how to flatter a girl. I suppose you, of all people, should know. I'll tell you a secret. I've been a bit cunning, you see, in wearing a full skirt. It makes my waist look a little slimmer. I'm the first to admit that I'm not the thinnest girl in the world, but I'm not about to emphasize the fact, am I?"
      "Wemahkable."
      Amiably, Sweet Orb Mace strolled in harness while Mavis whispered further secrets. She told him of the polka-dot elephant she had had when she was seven. She had kept it for years, she said, until it had been run over by a truck, when Donny Stevens had thrown it through the apartment window into the street, during one of their rows.
      "I could have taken almost anything else," she said.
      Sweet Orb Mace nodded and murmured little exclamations, but he scarcely seemed to have heard the anecdote. If he had a drawback as a companion it was his vagueness; his attention wavered so.
      "He accused me of being childish," exclaimed Mavis putting, as it were, twice the energy into the conversation, to make up for his failings. "Ha! He had the mental age of a dirty-minded eleven-year-old! But there you go. I got more love from that elephant than I ever got from Donny Stevens. It's always the people who try to be nice who come in for the nasty treatment, isn't it?"
      "Wather!"
      "He blamed me for everything. Little Mavis always gets the blame! Ever since I was a kid. Everybody's whipping boy, that's Miss Mavis Ming! My father…"
      "Weally?"
      She abandoned this line, thinking better of it, and remained with her original sentiment. "If you don't stand up for yourself, someone'll always step on you. The things I've done for people in the past. And you know what almost always happens?"
      "Natuwally…"
      "They turn round and say the cruellest things to you. They always blame you when they should really be blaming themselves. That woman — Dafnish Armatuce — well…"
      "Twagic."
      "Doctor Volospion said I'd been too easy-going with her. I looked after that kid of hers as if it had been my own! It makes you want to give up sometimes, Sweet Orb. But you've got to keep on trying, haven't you? Some of us are fated to suffer…"
      Sweet Orb Mace paused beside a towering mass of ill-smelling hairy flesh which moved rhythmically and shook the surrounding ground so that little fissures appeared. It was the gently tapping toe of one of Abu Thaleb's singing gargantua. Sweet Orb Mace stared gravely up, unable to see the head of the beast. "Oh, cehtainly," he agreed. "Pwetty tune, don't you think?"
      She lifted an ear, but shrugged. "No, I don't."
      He was mildly surprised.
      "Too much like a dirge for my taste," she said. "I like something catchy." She sighed, her mood returning to its former state. "Oh, dear! This is a very boring party."
      He became astonished.
      "This pwofusion of pachyderms bohwing? Oh, no! I find it fascinating, Miss Ming. An extwavagance of elephants, a genewosity of giants!"
      She could not agree. Her eye, perhaps, was jaundiced.
      Sweet Orb Mace, sensing her displeasure, became anxious. "Still," he added, "evewyone knows how easily impwessed I am. Such a poah imagination of my own, you know."
      She sighed. "I expected more."
      "Monsters?" He glanced about, as if to find her some. "Awgonheaht Po has yet to make his contwibution! He is wumouhed to be supplying the main feast."
      "I didn't know." She sighed again. "It's not that. I was hoping to meet some nice person. Someone — you know — I could have a real relationship with. I guess I expected too much from that Dafnish and her kid — but it's, well, turned me on to the idea. I'm unfulfilled as a woman, Sweet Orb Mace, if you want the raw truth of it."
      She looked expectantly at her elegantly poised escort.
      "Tut," said Sweet Orb Mace abstractedly. "Tut, tut." He still stared skywards.
      She raised her voice. "You're not, I guess, in the mood yourself. I'm going to go home if things don't perk up. If you feel like coming back now — or dropping round later…? I'm still staying at Doctor Volospion's."
      "Weally?"
      She laughed at herself. "I should try to sound more positive, shouldn't I? Nobody's going to respond well to a faltering approach like that. Well, Sweet Orb Mace, what about it?"
      "It?"
      She was actually depressed now.
      "I meant…"
      "I pwomised to meet O'Kala Incarnadine heah," said Sweet Orb Mace. "I was suah — ah — and theah he is!" carolled her companion. "If you will excuse me, Miss Ming…" Another elaborate bending of the body, a sweep of the hand.
      "Oh, sure," she murmured.
      Sweet Orb Mace rose a few feet into the air and drifted towards O'Kala Incarnadine, who had come as a rhinoceros.
      "The way I'm beginning to feel," said Miss Ming to herself, "even O'Kala Incarnadine's looking attractive. Bye, bye, Sweet Orb. No sweat. Oh, Christ! This boredom is killing!"
      And then she had seen her protector, her host, her mentor, her guardian angel and, with a grateful "Hi!", she flew.
      Doctor Volospion was sighted at last! He seemed at times like this her only stability. He it was who had first found her when, in her time machine, dazed and frightened, she had arrived at the End of Time. Doctor Volospion had claimed her for his menagerie, thinking from her conversation that she belonged to some religious order (she had been delirious) and had discovered only later that she was a simple historian who believed that she had returned to the past, to the Middle Ages. He had been disappointed but had treated her courteously and now allowed her the full run of his house. She did not fit into his menagerie, which was religious in emphasis, consisting of nuns, prophets, gods, demons, and so forth, and could have founded her own establishment, had she wished, but she preferred the security of his sometimes dolorous domicile.
      She slowed her pace. Doctor Volospion was hailing the Commissar of Bengal, whose howdah-shaped golden air car was drifting back to the ground (apparently Abu Thaleb had been feeding his gigantic pets).
      "Coo-ee!" cried Miss Ming as she approached.
      But Doctor Volospion had not heard her.
      "Coo-ee."
      He joined in conversation with Abu Thaleb.
      "Coo-ee, Doctor!"
      Now the sardonic, saturnine features turned to regard her. The sleek black head moved in a kind of bow and the corners of the thin, red mouth lifted.