As she turned, her face was a black mirror reflecting the delicate radiation. "Ah, at last!"
They entered a landscape that none chose to change; not merely because it was so fine, but also because it might have been unwise to tamper with the sources of their power. Cities like Shanalorm had been built over the course of many centuries and they were very old. It had been said that they were capable of converting the energy of the entire cosmos, that the universe could be created afresh by means of their mysterious engines, but no one had ever dared to test this pronouncement. Though few had bothered to do so in the past couple of millennia (it was currently considered vulgar) it was certainly possible to make any number of new stars or planets. The cities would last as long as Time itself (which was not that long, if Yusharisp, the little alien who had gone into space with Lord Mongrove, was to be believed).
Beneath its canopy of violet light, which did not seem to penetrate to the city itself, Shanalorm lay dreaming. Some of its bizarre buildings had melted and remained in a semi-liquid state, their outlines still discernible; other buildings were festering — machine mould and energy-moss undulated across their shells, bright yellow-green, bile-blue and reddish-brown, groaning and whispering as it sought fresh seepages from the power-reservoirs; peculiar little animals, indigenous to the cities, scuttled in and out of openings which might have been doors and windows, through shadows of pale blue, scarlet and mauve, cast by nothing visible; they swam through pools of glittering gold and turquoise, feasting off half-metallic plants which in turn were nurtured by queer radiations and cryptically structured crystals. And all the while Shanalorm sang to itself, a thousand interweaving songs, hypnotic harmonies. Once, it was said, the whole city had been sentient, the most intelligent being in the universe, but now it was senile and even its memories were fragmented. Images flickered here and there among the rotting jewel-metal of the buildings; scenes of Shanalorm's glories, of its inhabitants, of its history. It had had many names before it was called Shanalorm.
"Isn't it pretty, Jherek!" cried the Iron Orchid. "Where shall we have our picnic?"
Jherek stroked part of the landau's rail and the carriage began to spiral very slowly down until it was floating between the towers, skimming just above the roofs of blocks and domes and globes which shone with a thousand indefinable shades. "There?" He indicated a pool of ruby-coloured liquid overhung with old trees, their long, rusted branches touching the surface. A soft, red-gold moss crept down to the bank and tiny, tinkling insects made sparkling trails of amber and amethyst through the air.
"Oh, yes! It's perfect!"
As he landed the carriage and she stepped daintily out, she raised a finger to her lips, staring around at the scene with an expression of faint recognition.
"Is this…? Could it be…? Jherek, you know, I believe this is where you were conceived , my egg. Your father and I were walking" — she pointed at a complex of low buildings on the opposite shore, just visible through a drifting, yellow mist — "over there! When the conversation turned, as it will in such places, to the customs of the ancients. I think we were discussing the Dead Sciences. As it happened, he had been studying some old text on biological restructuring, and we wondered if it was still possible to create a child according to Dawn Age practices." She laughed. "The mistakes we made at first! But eventually we got the hang of it and here you are — a creature of quality, the product of skilled craftsmanship. Possibly that is why I cherish you so deeply, with such pride."
Jherek took her hand of gleaming jet. He kissed the tips of her fingers. Gently, he stroked her back. He could say nothing, but his hands were gentle, his expression tender. He knew her well enough to know that she was strangely excited.
They lay down together on the comfortable moss, listening to the music of the city, watching the insects dancing in the predominantly violet light.
"It is the peace, I believe, that I treasure most," murmured the Iron Orchid, moving her head luxuriously against his shoulder, "the antique peace. Have we lost something, do you think, that our forefathers possessed, some quality of experience? Werther believes that we have."
Jherek smiled. "It is my understanding, most glorious of blooms, that individuals are given to individual experiences. We can make of the past anything we choose."
"And of the future?" said she dreamily, inconsequently.
"If Yusharisp's warnings are to be taken seriously, then the future fades; there is scarcely any left."
But he had lost her attention. She got up and walked to the edge of the pool. Below the surface warm colours writhed and, entranced for the moment, she stared at them. "I should regret…" she began, then paused, shaking her dusky hair. "Ah, the smells , Jherek. Are they not sublime?"
He raised himself to his feet and went to join her, a billowing cloud of white as he moved. He took a deep breath of the chemical atmosphere and his body glowed. He looked across the pool at the outline of the city, wondering how it had changed since it had been populated by humankind, when people had lived their lives among its engines and its mills, before it had become self-sufficient, no longer needing tending. Did it ever suffer loneliness, he thought, or miss what must have seemed to it, at last, the clumsy, affectionate attentions of the engineers who had brought it to life? Had Shanalorm's inhabitants drifted away from the city, or had the city rejected them? He put an arm around his mother's shoulders, but he realized that it was himself shivering, touched for a moment by an inexplicable chill.
"They are sublime," he said.
"Not dissimilar, I suppose, to the one you visited — to London?"
"It is a city," he agreed, "and they do not alter much in their essentials." And he felt another pang, so he laughed and said: "What shall be the colours of our meal today?"
"Ice white and berry-blue," she said. "Those little snails with their azure shells — where are they from? And plums! What else? Aspirin in jelly?"
"Not today. I find it a trifle insipid. Shall we have a snow-fish of some sort?"
"Absolutely!" Removing her gown, she flicked it out over the moss and it became a silvery cloth. Together they arranged the food, seating themselves on opposite sides of the cloth.
But when it was ready Jherek did not feel hungry. To please his mother, he sampled some fish, a sip or two of mineral water, a morsel of heroin, and was glad when she herself became bored with the meal and suggested that they disseminate it. No matter how much he tried to give his whole heart to his mother's enthusiasm, he found that he still could not purge himself of a vague feeling of unease. He knew that he would like to be elsewhere but knew, too, that there was nowhere in the world he could go and be rid of his sense of dissatisfaction. He noticed that she was smiling.
"Jherek! You sag, my dear! You mope! Perhaps the time has come to forget your role — to give it up in favour of one which can be better realized?"
"I cannot forget Mrs. Underwood."
"I admire your resolution. I have told you so already. I merely remind you, from my own knowledge of the classics, that passion, like a perfect rose, must finally fade. Perhaps it is time to begin fading a little?"
"Never."
She shrugged. "It is your drama and you must be faithful to it, of course. I would be the first to question the wisdom of veering from the original conception. Your taste, your tone, your touch — they are exquisite. I shall argue no further."
"It appears to go beyond taste," said Jherek, picking at a piece of bark and making it thrum gently against the bole of the tree. "It is difficult to explain."
"What truly important work of art is not?"