The Condition of Muzak by Michael Moorcock Page B

within the palace grounds and the bishop had almost completed his inventory of the building’s contents. The two of them strolled between peacocks and birds of paradise and pedigree Sinhalese bantams, over the lawn towards the larger fountains which cast faint, flickering arabesques everywhere on grass and shrubs. The bishop was eating something sticky from one of Jerry’s silver plates, holding the plate in his left hand while with his right he lifted the honey-flavoured food to his glistening lips. “What a riot of colour, those flowers and shrubs!” Flies were settling hopefully on his mitre. “America and Europe are getting along famously again. Say what you will about President Boyle, he’s a dedicated internationalist. He’s given the British authorities his whole support.”
    “It’s the Islamic influence, I suppose,” murmured Jerry. “I’ve always been a bit prone…”
    “Security is at a premium, Mr Cornelius. Of course, it’s given a tremendous boost to the navy. Britannia Resurgent!”
    “We’re a bit behind the times here.” Jerry prised a determined mosquito from his cheek. “I’m afraid.”
    “How we’d all love to live in the past, particularly a past so splendid.” Bishop Beesley expressed sympathy. He waved a cake. No-one understands all this better than I.”
    Jerry was doing his best to remember what had been going on. “I don’t think I could go back to Britain,” he said. “Not now.”
    “I would be the first to admit that there are, for certain people, difficulties. But with the proper papers you’d be quite safe. Restrictions aren’t merely negative, you know. They work for you, too.”
    “They don’t like me over there any more.” He made a vague gesture towards the West. “Do they?”
    “Nonsense. You can prove a change of heart!”
    Jerry laughed. He put both his hands into a lattice of water, causing the fountain to alter its note. “That’s the only thing that hasn’t changed, vicar.”
    “Come, come, come.” Bishop Beesley clapped him on the back. For a few moments his fingers adhered to the silk of Jerry’s pale blue kurta then came away with a small sucking sound. “You must be positive!”
    Jerry said doubtfully: “I’ll try. I have tried.”
    “I’ll get my daughter to have a chat with you. She’s helped you in the past, hasn’t she?”
    “I can’t recall…”
    “It will come back.” Bishop Beesley looked around for somewhere to put his empty plate. In the end he found a green soapstone sundial. “There isn’t a great deal of time to spare. The box is still in England, I take it.”
    “Oh, yes,” said Jerry dreamily, to be agreeable. He was incapable, just now, of thinking that far ahead.
    “And with the box in the right hands, mankind will prosper again. A major war will be averted. The world will greet you as a saviour!”
    “I thought I’d already turned the job down.” Jerry found some seed in his pockets and began to throw it to the birds. From one of the upper floors of the palace came the strains of King Pleasure singing ‘Golden Days’. “That’s a bit anachronistic, isn’t it? Or is it me?”
    For a moment Bishop Beesley’s huge face became sober. “There is no need…”
    “Well, that’s a relief, at any rate.” Jerry rambled on. Ahead of him, on the other side of an ornamental hedge, two sailor hats drew down for cover. “What does Una say?” He sniffed a sweet magnolia blossom. “She’s the brains of the outfit.”
    “I don’t know how she feels but, as you say, she’s an intelligent woman. My daughter’s dealing with her. They are more sympatico.”
    “She’d feel all right about going back to Blighty. She wants to. Maybe you should just take her.”
    “Does she know where the box is?”
    “I’m sure she does.”
    Bishop Beesley wiped his face with a red spotted handkerchief. He flicked at the flies and returned it to his back pocket. He inspected his left gaiter. “Is that a scorpion?” He