The Land Leviathan

PROLOGUE: IN SEARCH OF OSWALD BASTABLE

If I were ever to write a book of travel, no matter how queer the events it described, I am sure I would never have the same trouble placing it with a publisher as I had when I tried to get into print Oswald Bastable's strange tale of his visit to the future in the year 1973. People are not alarmed by the unusual so long as it is placed in an acceptable context. A book describing as fact the discovery of a race of four-legged, three-eyed men of abnormal intelligence and supernatural powers who live in Thibet would probably be taken by a krge proportion of the public as absolutely credible. Similarly, if I had dressed up Bastable's story as fiction I am certain that critics would have praised me for my rich imagination and that a reasonably wide audience would have perused it in a couple of summer afternoons and thought it a jolly exciting read for the money, then promptly forgotten all about it.

Perhaps it is what I should have done, but, doubtless irrationally, I felt that I had a duty to Bastable to publish his account as it stood.

I could, were I trying to make money with my pen, write a whole book, full of sensational anecdotes, concerning my travels in China - a country divided by both internal and external pressures, where the only real law can be found in the territories leased to various foreign powers, and where a whole variety of revolutionists and prophets of peculiar political and religious sects squabble continuously for a larger share of that vast and ancient country; but my object is not to make money from Bastable's story. I merely think it is up to me to keep my word to him and do my best to put it before the public.

Now that I have returned home, with some relief, to England, I have become a little more optimistic about China's chances of saving herself from chaos and foreign exploitation. There has been the revolution resulting in the deposing of the last of the Manchus and the setting up of a republic under Sun Yat-sen, who seems to be a reasonable and moderate leader, a man who has learned a great deal from the political history of Europe and yet does not seem content just to ape the customs of the West. Possibly there is hope for China now. However, it is not my business here to speculate upon China's political future, but to record how I travelled to the Valley of the Morning, following Bastable's somewhat vague description of its location. I had gathered that it lay somewhere in Shantung province and to the north of Wuchang (which, itself, of course, is in Hupeh). My best plan was to go as directly as possible to Shantung and then make my way inland. I consulted all the atlases and gazetteers, spoke to friends who had been missionaries in that part of China, and got a fairly clear idea of where I might find the valley, if it existed at all.

Yet I was still reluctant to embark upon what was likely to be a long and exhausting expedition. For all that I had completely believed Bastable, I had no evidence at all to substantiate my theory that he had gone back to the Valley of the Morning, which, by 1973, would contain the Utopian city built by General Shaw, the Warlord of the Air, and called Ch'ing Che'eng Ta-chia (or, in English, roughly Democratic Dawn City). Even if he had gone there - and found nothing -he could easily have disappeared into the vastness of the Asian continent and as easily have perished in one of the minor wars or uprisings which constantly ravaged those poor and strife-ridden lands.

Therefore I continued to lead my conventional life, putting the whole perplexing business of Captain Bastable as far into the back of my mind as possible, although I would patiently send his original manuscript to a fresh publisher every time it came back from the last. I also sent a couple of letters to The Times in the hope that my story of my meeting with Bastable would attract the attention of that or some other newspaper, but the letters were never published, neither, it seemed, were any of the popular monthlies like the Strand interested, for all that their pages were full of wild and unlikely predictions of what the future was bound to hold for us. I even considered writing to Mr H. G. Wells, whose books Anticipations and The Discovery of the Future created such a stir a few years ago, but Mr Wells, whom I understood to be a full-blooded Socialist, would probably have found Bastable's story too much out of sympathy with his views and would have ignored me as cheerfully as anyone else. I did draft a letter, but finally did not send it.

It was about this time that it was brought to my attention that I was beginning to earn a reputation as something of a crank. This was a reputation I felt I could ill afford and it meant that I was forced, at last, to come to a decision. I had been noticing, for several months, a slightly odd atmosphere at my London club. People I had known for years, albeit only acquaintances, seemed reluctant to pass the time of day with me, and others would sometimes direct looks at me which were downright cryptic. I was not particularly bothered by any of this, but the mystery, such as it was, was finally made clear to me by an old friend of mine who was, himself, a publisher, although he concentrated entirely on poetry and novels and so I had never had occasion to submit Bastable's manuscript to him. He knew of it, of course, and had initially been able to give me the names of one or two publishers who might have been interested. Now, however, he approached me in the library of the club where, after lunch, I had gone to read for half an hour. He attracted my attention with a discreet cough.

'Hope you don't mind me interrupting, Moorcock.'

'Not at all.' I indicated a nearby chair. 'As a matter of fact I wanted a word with you, old boy. I'm still having trouble placing that manuscript I mentioned…'

He ignored my offer of a chair and remained standing.

'That's exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. I've been meaning to speak to you for a month or two now, but to tell you the truth I've had no idea of how to approach you. This must sound like damned interference and I'd be more than grateful if you would take what I have to say in the spirit it's meant."

He looked extraordinarily embarrassed, squirming like a schoolboy. I even thought I detected the trace of a blush on his cheeks.

I laughed.

'You're making me extremely curious, old man. What is it?'

'You won't be angry - no - you've every reason to be angry. It's not that I believe -'

'Come on, out with it.' I put my book down and gave him a smile. 'We're old friends, you and I,'

'Well, Moorcock, it's about Bastable's manuscript. A lot of people - mainly in publishing, of course, but quite a few of them are members of the club - well, they think you've been duped by the chap who told you that story.'

'Duped?' I raised my eyebrows.

He looked miserably at the carpet. 'Or worse,' he murmured.

'I think you'd better tell me what they're saying.' I frowned. 'I'm sure you mean well and I assure you that I'll take anything you have to say in good part. I've known you too long to be offended.'

He was plainly relieved and came and sat down in the next chair. 'Well,' he began, 'most people think that you're the victim of a hoax. But a few are beginning to believe that you've turned a bit - a bit eccentric. Like those chaps who predict the end of the world all the time, or communicate with the astral plane, and so on. You know what I mean, I suppose.'

My answering smile must have seemed to him a bit grim. 'I know exactly what you mean. I had even considered it. It must seem a very rum go to someone who never met Bastable. Now you mention it, I'm not surprised if I'm the gossip of half London. Why shouldn't people think such things about me? I'd be tempted to think them myself aboutyou if you came to me with a story like Bastable's. As it is, you've been extremely tolerant of me!'

His smile was weak as he tried to acknowledge my joke. I went on:

'So they think I'm a candidate for Colney Hatch, do they? Well, of course, I've absolutely no proof to the contrary. If only I could produce Bastable himself. Then people could make up their own minds about the business.'

'It bos become something of an obsession,' suggested my friend gently. 'Perhaps it would be better to drop the whole thing?'

'You're right - it is an obsession. I happen to believe that Bastable was telling the truth.'

'That's as may be…'

'You mean I should stop my efforts to get the account into print."

There was a hint of sorrow in his eyes. 'There isn't a publisher in London, old man, who would touch it now. They have their reputations to think of. Anyone who took it would be a laughing-stock. That's why you've had so much trouble in placing it. Drop it, Moorcock, for your sake and everyone else's.'

'You could be right.' I sighed. 'Yet, if I could come up with some sort of proof, possibly then they would stop laughing.'

'How could you find the proof which would convince them?'

'I could go and look for Bastable in China and tell him the trouble he's caused me. I could hope that he would come back to London with me - talk to people himself. I could put the matter into his hands and let him deal with his own manuscript. What would you say to that?'

He shrugged and made a gesture with his right hand. 'I agree it would be better than nothing.'

'But your own opinion is that I should forget all about it. You think I should burn the manuscript and have done with it, once and for all?'

"That's my opinion, yes. For your own sake, Moorcock -and your family's. You're wasting so much of your time - not to mention your capital.'

'I know that you have my interests at heart,' I told him, 'but I made a promise to Bastable (although he never heard me make it) and I intend to keep it, if I can. However, I'm glad that you spoke to me. It took courage to do that and I appreciate that it was done with the best of intentions. I'll think the whole thing over, at any rate.'

'Yes,' he said eagerly, 'do think it over. No point in fighting a losing battle, eh? You took this very decently, Moorcock. I was afraid you'd chuck me out on my ear. You had every right to do so.'

Again I laughed. 'I'm not that much of a lunatic, as you can see. I haven't lost all my common sense. But doubtless anyone with common sense would listen to me and become convinced that I was a lunatic! Whether, however, I have enough common sense to put the whole obsession behind me is quite another matter!'

He got up. 'Let's stop talking about it. Can I buy you a drink?'

For the moment it was obviously politic to accept his offer so that he should not think I had, after all, taken offence. ‘I’d be glad of one,' I said. 'I hope the other members aren't afraid that I'm about to run riot with a meat-axe or something!'

As we left the library he clapped me on the shoulder, speaking with some relief. 'I don't think so. Though there was some talk of chaining down the soda syphon a week or two ago.'

I only went back to the club once more during that period and it was noticeable how much better the atmosphere had become. I determined, there and then, to give up all inamediate attempts to get Bastable's story published and I began to make concrete plans for a trip to China.

And so, one bright autumn morning, I arrived at the offices of the Peninsular amp; Oriental Steam Navigation Company and booked the earliest possible passage on a ship called the Mother Gangd, which, I gathered, was not the proudest ship of that particular line, but would be the first to call at Weihaiwei, a city lying on the coast of that part of Shantung leased to Britain in 1898. I thought it only sense to begin my journey in relatively friendly country where I could seek detailed advice and help before pressing on into the interior.

Mother Gangd took her time. She was an old ship and she had evidently come to the conclusion that nothing in the world was urgent enough to require her to hurry. She called at every possible port to unload one cargo and to load another, for she was not primarily a passenger ship at all. It was easy to see why she rid herself of some of her cargoes (which seemed completely worthless), but hard to understand why the traders in those small, obscure ports should be prepared to exchange something of relative value for them.

I was prepared for the slowness of the journey, however, and spent much of my time working out the details of my plans and poring over my original shorthand notes to see if Bastable had told me anything more which might offer a clue to his whereabouts. I found little, but by the time I disembarked I was fit (thanks to my habit of taking plenty of exercise every day on board) and rested and ready for the discomforts which must surely lie ahead of me.

The discomfort I had expected, but what I had not anticipated was the extraordinary beauty and variety of even this relatively insignificant part of China. It struck me as I went up on deck to supervise the unloading of my trunks and I believe I must have gasped.

A huge pale blue sky hung over a city which was predominantly white and red and gold - a collection of ancient Chinese pagodas and archways mixed with more recent European building. Even these later buildings had a certain magic to them in that light, for they had been built of local stone and much of the stone contained fragments of quartz which glittered when the sun struck them. The European buildings were prominent on the waterfront where many trading companies had built their offices and warehouses and the flags of a score of different Western nations fluttered on masts extended into the streets, while the names of the various companies were emblazoned in their native alphabets and often translated into the beautiful Chinese characters, in black, silver or scarlet.

Chinese officials in flowing robes moved with considerable difficulty through throngs of sweating, near-naked coolies, British and Chinese policemen,.soldiers and white-suited Europeans, sailors from a dozen different countries - all mingled casually and with few outward signs of discomfort in what seemed to me, the newcomer, like some huge, dreamlike rugger scrum.

A young Chinese boy in a pigtail took me in charge as I left the ship and shepherded me through the throng, finding me a rickshaw and piling me and my luggage aboard until the wickerwork groaned. I put what I hoped was an adequate tip into his outstretched hand and he seemed delighted, for he grinned and bowed many times, uttering the words 'God bless, God bless' over and over again before he told the celestial between the rickshaw's shafts that I wanted to go to the Hotel Grasmere, recommended by P. amp; O. as about the best British hotel in Weihaiwei.

With a lurch the rickshaw set off, and it was with some astonishment that I realized a moment or two later that I was being pulled by a slip of a girl who could not have been much older than sixteen. She made good speed through the crowded, narrow streets of the city and had deposited me outside the Grasmere within twenty minutes.

Again my donation was received with near ecstacy, and it occurred to me that I was probably being over-generous, that a little money would go a very long way for the average Chinese living in Shantung.

The hotel was better than I had expected, with excellent service and pretty modern facilities. The rooms were pleasant and comfortable overlooking an exotic Chinese garden full of small, delicate sculptures, huge, richly coloured blooms and foliage of a score of different shades of green so that the whole thing looked like a jungle fancifully painted by some symbolist aesthete. The scents of the flowers, particularly during the morning and the evening, were overpowering. Electric fans (drawing their power from the hotel's own up-to-date generator) cooled the rooms, and there were screens at the windows to keep the largest of the insects at bay. I rather regretted I would only be staying a short time in the hotel.

The morning after my arrival, I paid a visit on the British Consul, a youngish chap connected, I gathered, to one of our best families. A little on the languid, foppish side, he gave the impression of being infinitely bored with China and all things Chinese, but his advice seemed sound and he put me in touch with a local man who made regular trading visits into the hinterland of the province and who agreed, for a sum of money, to escort me all the way to the Valley of the Morning. This chap was a tall, slightly stooped Chinese of early middle-age, who carried himself with the utmost dignity and, while wearing plain cotton garments of the simplest sort, managed to convey the feeling (in me, at least) that he had not always been a mere merchant. I could not help but be reminded of the aristocratic merchant-adventurers of earlier European times and, indeed, it was soon revealed to me that Mr Lu Kan-fon betrayed a singularly fine command of English and French, knew German and Spanish pretty well and could communicate adequately in Dutch. I also gathered that he had a good knowledge of Japanese. Moreover, he had read a great deal in all of these languages, and, English aside, had a far better familiarity with the literature of those countries than had I. He had been educated, he said, by a European missionary who had taught him much of what he now knew, but I found the explanation inadequate, though I was too polite, of course, to tax him on it. I suspected him of being either a dishonoured aristocrat (perhaps from Peking) or the younger son of an impoverished family. The court intrigues of the Manchus and their followers were notorious and it was quite probable that he had, at some time, played a game of politics in Peking which he had lost. However, it was none of my business if he wished to disguise his past or his origins, and I was relieved for my part to know that I would be travelling in the company of a cultured companion whose English was almost as fluent as my own (I had privately dreaded the difficulties of communicating with a guide in the wilds of China, for my knowledge of Mandarin and Cantonese has never been particularly good).

Mr Lu told me that his little caravan would not be leaving Weihaiwei for several days, so, accordingly, I spent the rest of the week in the city and did not waste it (as I saw it!) but assiduously inquired of anyone named Bastable, or answering Bastable's description, who might have been there. I received no information of any obvious value, but at least felt content that I had not made the ironic mistake of going off to look for a man who could, by the laws of coincidence, be found living in the next room to mine in the hotel!

At the end of the week I took a rickshaw to Mr Lu's large and rambling emporium near the centre of the Old Town, bringing with me the bare necessities I would need on the long journey. The rest of the party had already assembled by the time I arrived. They awaited me in a spacious stableyard which reminded me somewhat of a medieval English inn yard. Riding horses and pack animals were being loaded and harnessed, their hooves churning the ground to mud. Chinese, dressed in stout travelling-garments of heavy cotton, wool and leather, shouted to one another as they worked, and I noted that there was not a man, save for Lu Kan-fon himself, who did not have a serviceable modern rifle over his shoulder and at least one bandolier of cartridges strapped about him.

Lu saw me and came over to instruct his servants in the distribution of my luggage on the pack horses, apologizing for the confusion and the condition of the horse I was to ride (it was a perfectly good beast). I indicated the arms which his men bore.

'I see that you are expecting trouble, Mr Lu.'

He shrugged slightly. 'One has to expect trouble in these times, Mr Moorcock. Those guns, however, should ensure that we see little of it I'

I was relieved that the horsemen were to ride with us. Outside the city I might well have mistaken them for the very bandits we feared. I reflected that if we were to meet any bandits who looked half as fierce as our own men, I would be more than a little perturbed!

At last we set off, Mr Lu at the head of the caravan. Through the crowded, bustling streets we rode, moving very slowly, for there seemed to be no established right of way - one took one's chances. I was expecting that we would head for the gates of the Old City, but instead we turned towards the more modern sections of the city and eventually arrived at the railway station (which might have been transported stone by stone from London, save for the Chinese words decorating it) and I found that we were riding directly through an archway and on to one of the main platforms where a train was waiting.

Mr Lu plainly enjoyed my surprise, for he smiled quietly and said: "The first lap will be by train - but in case the train should meet obstacles, we take our horses with us. You call it insurance?'

I smiled back. 'I suppose we do.'

Horses and riders went directly into waiting goods trucks. I learned from Mr Lu that our entourage would travel with their animals, while we walked a little further along the train to where a first-class compartment had been prepared for us (Mr Lu seemed to have considerable influence with the railway company and I gathered that he travelled this route fairly frequently).

We settled into a carriage which would have put most British carriages to shame and were immediately served with tea and light refreshments.

It was then that Mr Lu, taking mild and humorous pleasure in mystifying me slightly, revealed the destination of the train. 'With luck, we should get as far as Nanking,' he told me. 'Under ordinary circumstances the journey would not take us more than three days, but we must be prepared for some delays.'

'What would be the cause of such delays?' I sipped the delicious tea.

'Oh, there are many causes.' He shrugged. 'Bandits blow up the lines. Peasants use the sleepers and the sections of rail for their own purposes. Then again there is the general incompetence of the company employees - and that's probably the greatest problem of them all!'

This incompetence was demonstrated very quickly. Our train was due to leave at noon, but in fact did not leave the station until just after four. However, any impatience I might have felt was soon dissipated by the sights of the interior which greeted me after the city was behind us. Immense stretches of flat paddy-fields, interrupted by the occasional low hill around which a village was invariably built, shimmered in the soft light of the Chinese sun. Here was revealed the real, immutable wealth of China - her rice. The value of silver might fluctuate; industries would fail or prosper at the whim of the rest of the world; cities and states could rise and fall; conquerors would come and go, but China's rice and China's hardy peasantry were eternal. That, at any rate, is how it seemed to me then. I had never seen farming of any kind of such a scale as this. For miles and miles in all directions the fields stretched, predominantly green or yellow, intersected with low earthen dykes and somewhat broader ribbons of silver which were the irrigation canals, and above all this was the wide, hazy blue sky in which hung a few whisps of pale, lonely cloud.

The train chugged on, and while the landscape changed hardly at all it did not become boring. There was always something to see - a little group of scantily dressed peasants in their wide-brimmed straw hats and their pigtails, waving cheerfully to the train (I always waved back!) - a sampan making its way slowly up a canal - an ancient bridge which looked like a perfect work of art to me and yet which was plainly just a bridge built for an ordinary road between one tiny township and another. Sometimes, too, I saw pagodas, small walled cities (some virtually in ruins) with those highly ornate many-tiered gates typical of Chinese architecture, houses decorated with red and green tiles, with ceramic statuary, with bronzework and with mirror glass which made some of them seem as if they burned with a strange silver fire. When the train came, as it frequently did, to a sudden jerking stop, I had plenty of opportunities to study these sights in detail. It was on the third day, when we had made something over half of our journey to Nanking, that I began to notice significant changes in the demeanour of the people in the towns and villages we passed. The peasants rarely waved to the trains and were inclined to look upon us with a certain amount of apprehension and even downright suspicion. Moreover, it soon became obvious that there were a great many people about who were not local to the areas. I saw several detachments of cavalry on the roads we passed, and once thought I saw an infantry division moving through the paddy-fields. Elsewhere there was evidence of, at very least, some sort of martial law in operation - more than once I saw peasants being stopped, questioned and searched by men in uniforms of a variety of descriptions. There was no question in my mind that this part of China was being disputed over, probably by at least three factions, amongst them the central authority. I had heard tales of the petty warlords who had sprung up in the last few years, claiming all sorts of honours, titles and rights - each one claimed to represent the forces of law and order, none would admit to being little more than a rapacious bandit - now it looked as if I was witnessing the truth of the tales for myself. The long journey to Nanking passed without incident, however, and we disembarked from the train with some relief.

Nanking is a great and splendid city (if a little dilapidated here and there) and deserves a fuller description than I have space for. It is the capital of Kiangsu Province and one of China's major cities (it has, on occasions, been the capital). It lies at the foot of an impressive range of mountains whose slopes are thickly wooded and richly cultivated with terraced fields, and it is built on the banks of the mighty Yangtze Kiang river. It is at once one of China's most ancient cities and one of the most modern - ideal for trade, surrounded by some of the most fertile agricultural land in the world, it has a number of flourishing industries. Its financiers are famous for their wealth and their power and Nanking cuisine is highly regarded. In contrast to most Chinese towns, Nanking's ramparts are irregular, spreading from the river, along the banks of Lake Xuan-wu, to the Hill of the Rain of Flowers. The naval shipyards and the market places are on the west of the city, between the ramparts and the river. Again one finds a strange mixture of the old Chinese architecture - impressive, complicated buildings embellished with intricate ceramic work - and more modern buildings, some of them very dull, but some of them wonders of late Victorian Gothic which, fortunately, is beginning to disappear in Europe to be replaced by the more gracious architecture of those influenced by the Art Nouveau movements. There is much shipping on the river - sampans, junks and steamers used for every possible purpose - as ferry-boats, trading vessels, military craft and so on. There is a racecourse, an immense number of gardens, some large and ornate, some small and simple. There are libraries, museums, schools and art galleries, the consulates of all the great European powers, luxurious hotels, temples, palaces, wide avenues lined with trees. I regretted greatly that our stay there was not to be longer, and made the best use of my time while Lu conducted his business; seeing as much of interest in the city as possible. I also called at the British Consulate to apprehend them of my movements, inquire after Bastable and collect some cash I had arranged to be cabled there.

The second stage of our journey was by steamer, and still the horses had not been used! I began to envy the beasts -they seemed to be the most underworked animals I had ever come across. Stables had been prepared for them in the hold' of the big paddle-steamer and they seemed content to return to their cramped quarters while Lu and myself retired to the merchant's stateroom where lunch was immediately forthcoming. The steamer left on time and we were soon heading up the broad Yangtze Kiang on our way to Wuhan, which would be our next stopping-place. I was fretting somewhat, for the journey was extremely roundabout, yet I was assured by Mr Lu that this was the safest route and the one most likely to get me to my ultimate destination, for this part of China in particular was in a highly unstable political state. He had learned, in fact, that an army under General Zhang Xun, was rumoured to be advancing on the city and that there might well be heavy fighting in the outskirts. I had noted the number of soldiers occupying the streets around the centre and could well believe that we had narrowly missed being mixed up in a war.

At any other time I would have been delighted to have remained there and witnessed the sport, but it was important to me that Bastable be located and I could not risk losing as competent a guide and travelling companion as Lu Kan-fon. I had heard something of General Zhang Xun and gathered that he was a rascal of the first water, that his men had created terrible havoc in other parts of the province, stealing anything they could lay hands on, burning villages, molesting women and so forth.

Soon Nanking and her problems had disappeared behind us and it seemed that we were the only moving object in the whole wide world at times, for as the river broadened we saw fewer and fewer other vessels. The paddles of the steamer swept us along slowly but surely with a heartening and steady beat. Our smoke drifted low behind us, hanging over the water which was sometimes deep and blue, sometimes shallow and yellow. There were hills on both sides of us now and the variety of shades of green would have put even the lovely English landscape to shame. Indeed I was reminded of the English landscape the more I saw of China. The only difference was the scale. What would have been a view stretching for a mile or two in England became a scene stretching for scores of miles in China! Like England, too, there was a sense of most of the landscape having been nurtured and cultivated for all of Time, used but used lovingly and with respect for its natural appearance.

It was on the third day of our journey upriver that the first serious incident took place. I was leaning on the rail of the ship, looking towards the west bank (which was closest) and enjoying my first pipe of the day when I suddenly heard a sharp report and, looking in the direction from which the sound had seemed to come, noticed a white puff of smoke. Peering more carefully, I made out several riders armed with rifles. More reports followed and I heard something whizz through the rigging over my head. I realized that we were being shot at and hastily ran along the deck to the wheelhouse with the intention of warning the Dutch skipper of the boat.

Old Cornelius, the skipper, smiled at me as I told him what was happening.

'Best stay inside, den, Meinherr' he said, puffing phleg-matically on his own pipe, his huge red face running with sweat, for it was all but airless in the wheelhouse.

'Should we not pull further out into midstream?' I inquired. 'We are surely in some danger.'

'Oh, yes, in danger ve are, most certainly, but ve should be in much greater danger if ve vent further to midstream. De currents - dey are very strong, sir. Ve must just hope dat not'in' serious is hit, eh? Dey are alvays shootin' at us, dese days. Any powered vessel is suspected off bein' a military ship.'

'Who are they? Can we not report them to the nearest authorities?'

'Dey could easily be de aut'orities, Meinherr.' Cornelius laughed and patted me on the shoulder. 'Do not vorry, eh?'

I took his advice. After all, there was little else I could do. And soon the danger was past.

Nothing of a similar nature happened to us in the course of the next couple of days. Once I saw a whole town on fire. Lurid red flames lit up the dusk and thick, heavy smoke drifted over the river to mingle with ours. I saw panic-stricken people trying to crowd into sampans, while others hailed us from the bank, trying to get us to help them, but the skipper would have none of it, claiming that it was suicide to stop and that we should be overrun. I saw his logic, but I felt a dreadful pang, for we sailed close enough to be able to see, with the aid of field-glasses, the fear-racked faces of the women and children. Many women stood up to their waists in water, holding their infants to them and screaming at us to help. The following morning I saw several detachments of cavalry in the uniforms of the central government, riding hell-for-leather along the bank, while behind them rode either irregulars attached to them or pursuers, it was hard to tell. In the afternoon I saw field artillery being drawn by six-horse teams over a tall bridge spanning a particularly narrow section of the Yangtze Kiang. It had obviously been involved in a fierce engagement, for the soldiers were weary, wounded and scorched, while the wheels and barrels of the guns were thick with mud and there were signs that the guns had been fired almost to destruction (I saw only one ammunition tender and guessed that the others, empty, had been abandoned). Framed against the redness of the setting sun, the detachment looked as if it had returned from Hell itself.

I was glad to reach Wuchang, but somewhat nervous concerning the next stage of our journey, which would be overland by horseback, backtracking to an extent, along the river and then in the general direction of Shancheng - unless we could get a train as far as Kwang Shui. It was what we had originally hoped to do, but we had heard rumours that the line to Kwang Shui had been blown up by bandits.

Wuchang faces the point where the Han Ho river merges with the Yangtze Kiang. It is one of three large towns lying close to each other, and of them Wuchang is the loveliest. Hanyang and Hankow are beginning to take on a distinctly European character, giving themselves over increasingly to industry and ship-building. But there was no real rest in Wuchang. Martial law had been declared and a mood of intense gloom hung over the whole city. Moreover, it had begun to rain - a thin drizzle which somehow managed to soak through almost any clothing one wore and seemed to chill one to the very bone. The various officials who appeared at the dock as we came in were over-zealous in checking our papers and sorting through our baggage, suspecting us, doubtless, of being revolutionists or bandits. The better hotels had been taken over almost entirely by high-ranking officers and we were forced at last to put up at a none-too-clean inn near the quays, and even here there were a good many soldiers to keep us awake with their drunken carousing into the night. I pitied any town they might be called upon to defend!

Mr Lu disappeared very early the next morning and returned while I was eating an unpalatable breakfast of rice and some kind of stew which had been served to me with genuine apologies on the part of our host. There was little else, he said. The soldiers had eaten everything - and no one was paying him.

Mr Lu looked pleased with himself and soon took the opportunity to let me know that he had managed to secure passage for us on the next train leaving Wuchang. The train was chiefly a troop transport, but would take a certain number of box-cars. If I did not mind the discomfort of travelling with the men and horses, we could leave almost immediately.

I was glad to agree and we gathered up our luggage and went to meet the rest of our party on the far side of town where they had been camped, sleeping in the open, curled up against their steeds. They looked red-eyed and angry and were cursing at each other as they saddled up and prepared the baggage for the pack animals.

We made our way to the station in something of a hurry, for there was precious little time. Mr Lu said that a troop transport was more likely to leave on time - or even ahead of time if it was ready to go. The army could decide.

We got to the station and the train was still in - drawn by one of the largest locomotives I have ever seen. It belonged to no class I recognized, was painted a mixture of bright blue and orange, and was bellowing more fire and smoke than Siegfried's dragon.

We crowded into the boxcars, the doors were shut on us, and off we jerked, hanging on for dear life as the train gathered speed.

Later we were able to get one of the sliding-doors partly open and look out. We were in high mountain country, winding our way steadily upwards through some of the loveliest scenery I have ever seen in my life. Old, old mountains, clothed in verdant trees, the very image of those Chinese paintings which seem so formalized until you have seen the original of what the artist described. And then you realize that it is nature herself who is formalized in China, that the country has been populated so long that there is scarcely a blade of grass, growing in no matter what remote spot, which has not in some way received the influence of Man. And here, as in other parts of China, the wilderness is not made any less impressive by this imprint. If anything, it is made more impressive. Mr Lu shared my pleasure in the sight (though he took a somewhat condescending, proprietorial attitude towards me as I gasped and exclaimed and wandered).

'I expected to be delighted with China,' I told him. 'But I am more than delighted. I am overawed - and my faith in the beauties of nature is restored forever I'

Mr Lu said nothing, but a little later he took out his cigarette case and, offering me a fine Turkish, remarked that even nature at her most apparently invulnerable was still in danger from the works of mankind.

I had been thinking of Bastable and his description of the bomb which had blown him back into his own time, and I must admit that I gave Mr Lu a hard look, wondering if perhaps he knew more of Bastable than he had said, but he added nothing to this remark and I decided to accept it for one of generalized philosophy.

Accepting the cigarette, I nodded. 'That's true. I sincerely hope this civil strife does not destroy too much of your country," I said, leaning forward to give him a match. The train swayed as it took a bend and revealed to me a lush forest, full of the subtlest greens I had ever seen. 'For I have fallen in love with China.'

'Unfortunately,' said Mr Lu in a dry but good-humoured tone, 'you are not the only European to be so smitten. But must one always take steps to possess that which one loves, Mr Moorcock?'

I accepted his point. 'I do not approve of my government's Chinese policies,' I told him. 'But you will admit that there is more law and order in the territories controlled by Britain than in other parts of China. After all, the Chinese Question remains a vexed one…'

'There would be no Chinese Question, Mr Moorcock,' said Mr Lu with a ghost of a smile, 'without Europe and Japan. Who was it introduced massive importation of opium into our country? Who was responsible'for the devaluation of our currency? These were not internally created problems.'

'Probably not. And yet…'

'And yet I could be wrong. Who is to tell?'

'The Manchus cannot be said to be incorruptible,' I told him, and I smiled a smile which echoed his.

His own smile became a broad grin and he sat back against the wall, waving the hand which held the cigarette, granting me, as it were, the match. I think the gesture was made graciously rather than from any real agreement with the point of view I had presented.

The train travelled steadily through the rest of the day and into the night. We slept as best we could on the shuddering floor of the waggon, ever in danger of a horse breaking free and trampling us. It was almost dawn when the train came to a sudden screaming halt, causing the horses to buck about in fear, stamping and snorting, causing our men to leap to their feet, hands on their rifles.

The noise of the stop gave way to a peculiar and uncanny silence. In the distance we heard a few voices shouting back along the train and cautiously we slid the doors right back, peering into the murk to try to see what was happening.

'At least there's no gunfire,' said Mr Lu calmly. 'We are not under direct attack. Perhaps it is nothing more than a blockage on the line.'

But it was plain he was not convinced by his own suggestion. Together we clambered from the waggon and began to walk up the line towards the locomotive.

The big engine was still ejaculating huge clouds of white steam and through this steam moved dark figures. From the windows of the carriages there poked scores of heads as sleepy soldiers shouted inquiries or exchanged speculations about the reasons for our stopping.

Mr Lu singled out one of the more competent-looking officers and addressed a few short questions to him. The 'man replied, shrugging frequently, making dismissive gestures, pointing towards the north and up at the jagged mountain peaks above our heads.

The sun made its first tentative appearance as Mr Lu rejoined me.

'The line has been blown up,' he said. 'We are lucky that the driver acted with alacrity in stopping the train. There is no chance of continuing. The train will have to go back to the nearest town. We have the choice of going with it and enjoying the dubious security of travelling with these soldiers, or we can continue our journey on horseback.'

I made up my mind immediately, for I was slowly becoming impatient with the delays and diversions we had so far experienced. 'I should like to continue,' I told Mr Lu. 'It is time those horses were exercised!'

This was evidently the answer he had hoped for. With a quick smile he turned and began to stride back to our section of the train, calling out to his men to ready the horses and to load them, saying to me in an English aside:

'Personally I think we stand a much better chance on our own. This is territory at present controlled by the warlord General Liu Fang. His main interest is in wiping out the troops which have been sent against him. I do not think he will bother an ordinary caravan, particularly if we have a European gentleman travelling with us. Liu Fang hopes, I gather, to recruit allies from Europe. A plan which is almost certainly doomed to failure, but it will be of help to us.'

Accordingly, we were soon on horseback, heading down the long slope away from the stranded train. By noon we were deep into unpopulated country, following the course of a river along the floor of a valley. The valley was narrow and thickly wooded and at length we were forced to dismount and lead our horses through the moss-covered rocks. It had begun to tain quite heavily and the ground was slippery, slowing our progress even more. Moreover, it had become hard to see more than a few yards ahead of us. Owing to my lack of sleep and the hypnotic effect of the rain falling on the foliage above my head, I continued almost in a trance, hardly aware of my own tiredness. We exchanged few words and emerged from the forest and remounted when it was quite late in the afternoon, with only a few hours of daylight left. The river began to rise and we still followed it, from one valley into another, until we came upon some reasonably level ground where we decided to make camp and consult our maps to see what progress we had so far made.

It was as I watched the men erecting the tent which Lu and I would share that I glanced up into the hills and thought I saw a figure move behind a rock some distance away. I remarked on this to Mr Lu. He accepted that I had probably seen someone, but he reassured me.

'It is not surprising. Probably only an observer - a scout sent to keep an eye on us and make sure that we are not a disguised military expedition. I doubt if we shall be bothered by him.'

I could not sleep well that night and I must admit that in my exhaustion I had begun to regret the impulse which had sent me on this adventure. I wondered if it would all end in some sordid massacre, if, by morning, my stripped corpse would lie amongst the remains of our camp. I would not be the first European foolish enough to embark upon such a journey and pay the ultimate price for his folly. When I did sleep, at last, my dreams were not pleasant. Indeed, they were the strangest and most terrifying dreams I have ever experienced. Yet, for some reason, I awoke from all this feeling completely refreshed and cleansed of my fears. I began to be optimistic about our chances of reaching the Valley of the Morning and ate the crude fare served us for breakfast with immense relish.

Mr Lu was moved to comment on my demeanour. 'We Chinese are famous for our stoicism,' he said, 'but we could learn something from your British variety!'

'It's not stoicism,' I said. 'Merely a mood. I can't explain it.'

'Perhaps you sense good luck. I hope so.' He indicated the rocky hills on both sides of us. 'A fairly large company of men has been moved up in the night. We are probably completely surrounded.'

'Do they mean to attack, I wonder?' I glanced about, but could see no sign of the soldiers.

'I would suppose that this manoeuvre is a precaution. They are probably still wondering if we are spies or part of a disguised army.'

I now noticed that our men were betraying a certain nervousness, fingering their rifles and bandoliers, glancing around them at the rocks and muttering amongst themselves in an agitated fashion. Lu Kan-fon was the only person who seemed unconcerned; speaking rapidly, he gave orders for our pack horses to be loaded and, at first reluctantly, his men moved to obey. It was only when the last bundle had been secured and we prepared to mount that the soldiers revealed themselves.

Unlike many of the government troops, these men wore uniforms which were distinctively Chinese - loose smocks and trousers of black, yellow, white and red. On the backs and fronts of the smocks were big circles on which had been printed Chinese characters, evidently giving the rank and regiment of the soldier. Some wore skull-caps, while others had wide-brimmed straw hats. All were clean-shaven and well-disciplined and all possessed modern carbines, apparently of German manufacture. While their guns were pointed at us, they were held at the hip rather than at the shoulder, denoting that no immediate harm was intended to us. Immediately, Mr Lu held up his hand and ordered his men not to touch their own weapons, whereupon there emerged from behind a large bush a mounted figure of such splendid appearance that I thought at first he must surely be arrayed for a festival.

He rode his shaggy pony slowly down the hillside towards us. He must have been well over six feet in height and with massive shoulders and chest. He was wearing a long brocade gown embroidered for about a foot round the bottom with waves of the sea and other Chinese devices. Over this was a long satin coat with an embroidered breastplate and a similar square of embroidery on the back, with the horseshoe cuffs, forced upon the Chinese by the Manchus when the present dynasty came to the throne, falling over his hands. High official boots, an amber necklace of very large beads reaching to his waist and aureole-shaped official cap with large red tassel, completed the costume. There was a large sword at his side, but no other visible arms, and he guided his pony with one hand while keeping the other on the hilt of the sword, somehow managing to retain an impressive dignity while the horse picked its way down to where we waited, virtually frozen in position.

His face was expressionless as he rode into our camp and brought his mount to a halt, looking us over through his slanting, jet-black eyes. Mr Lu and myself came in for a particularly close examination, and it was while the man was inspecting me that I decided to try to break the atmosphere and bowed slightly, saying in English:

'Good morning, sir. I am a British citizen on a private journey with these traders. I regret it if we have inadvertently entered territory which you would prefer to remain un-travelled…'

My rather mealy-mouthed speech was interrupted by a grunt from the magnificent rider, who ignored me and addressed Mr Lu in flowing Mandarin.

'You know who I am? You know where you are? What is your excuse for being here?'

Mr Lu bowed low before speaking. 'I know who you are, honourable one, and I most humbly ask your forgiveness for giving you the trouble of needing to inspect our little caravan. But we were travelling by train until yesterday when the train met an obstacle and was forced to return to the nearest town. We decided to continue overland…'

'You were seen leaving the troop train. You are spies, are you not?'

'Not at all, mighty General Liu Fang. The troop train was the only available transport. We are merchants: we are on our way to trade in Shantung.'

'Who is the foreigner?'

'An Englishman. A writer who wishes to write a book about our country.'

At this quick-witted piece of invention the legendary General Liu Fang showed a flicker of interest. He also appeared slightly mollified, for he had no reason to suspect I was anything but a neutral party in his territory (as, of course, I was) and probably thought it might be in his interest to cultivate the goodwill of one of the foreigners whose aid he was rumoured to be seeking.

'Tell your men to disarm themselves,' he ordered, and Mr Lu relayed the order at once. Scowling, his men unslung their guns and dropped them to the ground.

'And where is your immediate destination?' said the general to me in halting French.

I replied in the same tongue. 'I have heard of a particularly beautiful valley in these parts. It is called the Valley of the Morning.' I saw no point in beating about the bush, particularly since I might not have another opportunity to discover the exact whereabouts of my destination for some time.

General Liu Fang plainly recognized the name, but his reaction was strange. He frowned heavily and darted a deeply suspicious look at me. 'Who do you seek there?'

'No one in particular,' said I. 'My interest in the place is purely, as it were, geographical.' I, in turn, noting his reaction, had become cautious of revealing anything more.

He seemed to relax, momentarily satisfied with my reply. 'I would advise you against visiting the valley,' he said. 'There are bandits in the area.'

I wondered to myself sardonically what he called himself, but of course let nothing of this show on my face as I said: ‘I am grateful for the warning. Perhaps with the protection of your army…'

He gestured impatiently. "I am fighting a war, monsieur. I cannot spare men to escort foreign journalists about the country.'

'I apologize,' I said, and bowed again.

There was still considerable tension in the situation and I noted that the soldiers had not relaxed but were still pointing their rifles at us. There must have been at least a hundred of them in well-protected positions on both sides of the valley. The general returned his attention to Mr Lu. 'What goods do you carry for trade?'

Mr Lu had folded his arms. He said impassively: 'Many kinds. Mainly articles of artistic interest. Statuettes, ceramics and the like.'

'They will be inspected,' said the general. 'Instruct your men to unload the goods.'

Again Mr Lu obeyed without demur. As his men began to unpack the bundles which they had so recently strapped on to the packhorses, he said to me in English: 'We might escape with our lives, but not, I fear, our possessions…'

'Silence I' said the general firmly. He rode forward to where Mr Lu's goods had been laid out, looked them over with the shrewd eye of a Chinese peasant woman inspecting fish in a market and then rode back to where we stood. "They will be requisitioned,' he said, 'to help us win freedom from the Manchus.'

Fatalistically, Mr Lu bowed. 'A worthy cause,' he said dryly. 'The horses -?'

'The horses will also be requisitioned. They will be of particular use…'

It was at this point that he was interrupted by the sound of machine-gun fire and I thought at first that he had somehow given the signal for our slaughter. But the gunfire came from higher up the hillside and I saw at once that it was his men who were the target for the attack. My spirits lifted. Surely these must be government troops coming to our rescue.

My relief was short-lived. Almost at once General Liu Fang shouted an order to his men and, head well down over the neck of his horse, spurred rapidly for the cover of some nearby rocks.

It had begun to rain suddenly - a heavy, misty rain which acted like fog to obscure visibility - and I had no idea of what was happening, save that the general's troops were firing on us.

Mr Lu's men dived for their own weapons, but half of them were cut down before they could reach their rifles. Those who remained snatched up their guns and sought what cover they could. Mr Lu grabbed my arm and together we ran towards a depression in the ground where we might escape the worst of the concentrated fire from above. We flung ourselves down and buried our faces in the soft moss while the three-sided battle went on all around us. I remember noting that the machine-guns kept up an incredibly efficient chattering and I wondered how any Chinese army could have acquired such artillery (for the Chinese are notorious for the poor quality of their arms and their inefficiency in maintaining those that they have).

Bullets thudded about us and I expected to be hit at any moment. I shouted over the noise of gunfire and the cries of the wounded. 'Who are they, Mr Lu?'

'I do not know, Mr Moorcock. All I do know is that whereas we might have escaped with our lives, we now stand a very good chance of being killed. They doubtless consider it more important to destroy General Liu Fang than to save us I' He laughed. I regret that I shall be forced to return your fee -I have not kept my part ot the bargain. Your chances of finding the Valley of the Morning have become exceptionally slender. My protection has proved inadequate!'

'I am forced to agree with you, Mr Lu,' said I, and would have continued had I not recognized the distinctive sound of a bullet striking flesh and bone: I lifted my head, thinking at first that I had been hit, but it was Mr Lu. He must have died instantly, for he had been shot not once but twice, almost simultaneously, in the head. I had an immediate sense of grief, realizing how much I had enjoyed the sophisticated company of the Chinese, but the sight of his ruined head sickened me and I was forced to avert my eyes.

The death of Mr Lu seemed to be a signal for the fighting to stop. Shortly afterward the sound of gunfire ended and I lifted my head cautiously to peer through the drifting rain. Death was everywhere. Our own men lay amongst the scattered and broken remains of the works of art they had carried for so long and so far. A few had once again laid down their weapons and were raising the hands high above their heads. General Liu Fang was nowhere to be seen (I learned later he had kept riding, abandoning his men to their fate), but the warlord's soldiers lay in postures of death everywhere I looked. I rose, raising my own hands. There came a few more isolated shots and I surmised that, in Chinese fashion, the wounded were being finished off.

I must have waited for at least ten minutes before I got my first sight of our 'rescuers'. They were all mounted, all wearing leather caps of a distinctively Mongolian appearance and all carried light rifles of a decidedly unfamiliar pattern. Their loose shirts were of silk or cotton and some wore leather capes to protect themselves against the worst of the rain, while others wore quilted jackets. They were mainly good-looking Northern Chinese, tall and somewhat arrogant in their bearing, and none had pigtails. Most had armbands as their only insignia - a fanciful design consisting of a circle from which radiated eight slender arrows. I knew at once that they could not, after all, be government troops, but were doubtless some rival bandit army either fighting for themselves or allied with the government troops against General Liu Fang.

And then their leader rode into sight from out of the misty rain. I knew it must be the leader from the way in which the other riders fell back. Also it was rare to see a handsome black Arab stallion in these parts and that was what the leader rode. Slender, a graceful rider, dressed in a long black leather topcoat with a narrow waist and a flaring skirt, a broad-brimmed leather hat hiding the face, a long Cossack-style sabre hanging from a belt of elaborately ornamented silk, the bandit chief rode towards me, lifted the brim of the hat away from the face and showed evident, and almost childish, amusement at my astonishment.

'Good morning, Mr Moorcock.'

Her voice was clear and well-modulated - the voice of an educated Englishwoman (though bearing perhaps the slightest trace of an accent). She was young, no older than thirty at very most, and she had a pale, soft complexion. Her eyes were grey-blue and her mouth was wide and full-lipped. She had an oval face which Would have been merely pretty had it not been for the character in it. As it was, I thought her the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Her slightly waving black hair was short, framing her face but barely touching her shoulders.

And all I could blurt out was: 'How do you know my name?'

She laughed. 'Our intelligence is rather better than General Liu Fang's. I am sorry so many of your men were killed - and I particularly regret the death of Mr Lu. Though he did not know that it was I who attacked, we were old friends and I had been looking forward to meeting him again.'

'You take his death rather casually,' I said.

'It was a casual death. I have not introduced myself. My name is Una Persson. For some months we have been harassed by General Liu and this is the first opportunity we have had to teach him a lesson. We were originally coming to find you and take you with us to the Valley of the Morning, but I could not afford to miss the chance of ambushing such a large number of the general's troops.'

'How did you know I sought the Valley of the Morning?'

'I have known for at least a month. You have made many inquiries.'

'Your name is familiar - where have I heard it…?' Slowly it dawned on me. 'Bastable mentioned you! The woman on the airship - the revolutionist. Una Persson!'

'I am an acquaintance of Captain Bastable.'

My heart leapt. 'Is he there? Is he in the Valley of the Morning as I suspected?'

'He has been there,' she agreed. 'And he has left something of himself behind.'

'But Bastable? What of him? I am anxious to speak to him. Where is he now?'

And then this mysterious woman made the most cryptic utterance she had made so far. She shrugged and gave a little, tired smile, pulling on her horse's reins so that the beast began to move away. 'Where indeed?' she said. 'It is not a question easily answered, Mr Moorcock, for we are all nomads of the time streams…'

I stood there, puzzled, chilled, miserable and too weary to question her further. She rode to where Mr Lu's goods lay scattered about and beneath the corpses of men and horses. She dismounted and stooped to inspect one shattered figurine, dipped her finger into the hollow which had been revealed and lifted the finger to her nose. Then she nodded to herself as if confirming something she had already known. Then she began to give orders to her men in rapid Cantonese dialect which I could scarcely follow at all. Carefully, they began to gather up both the fragments and the few figurines which were still unbroken. It did not take a particularly subtle intelligence to put two and two together. Now I knew why Mr Lu had taken such an oddly circuitous route and why he had been eager to leave the troop train as soon as possible. Plainly, he was an opium smuggler. I found it hard to believe that such an apparently decent and well-educated man could indulge in so foul a trade, but the evidence was indisputable. For some reason I could not find it in my heart to loathe the dead man and I guessed that some sort of perverted idealism had led him to this means of making money. I also had an explanation of the general's interest in Mr Lu's goods - doubtless the bandit chief had guessed the truth, which was why he had been so eager to 'requisition' the articles.

The booty was collected quickly and Una Persson mounted her sleek stallion without another glance at me, riding off through the rain. One of her silent warriors brought me a

horse and signalled for me to climb into the saddle. I did so with eagerness, for I had no intention of becoming separated from the beautiful bandit leader - she was my first real link with Bastable and there was every chance she would take me to him. I felt no danger from these rascals and had an inkling that Una Persson was, if not sympathetic, at least neutral with regard to me.

Thus, surrounded by her men, I followed behind her as we left that little vale of death and the remnants of Mr Lu's party and cantered along a narrow track which wound higher and higher into the mountains.

I was hardly aware of the details of that journey, so eaten up was I with curiosity. A thousand questions seethed in my skull - how could a woman who had been described by Bastable as being young in the year 1973 be here, apparently just as young, in the year 1910? Once again I experienced that almost fearful frisson which I had experienced when listening to Bastable's speculations on the paradoxes of Time.

And would Democratic Dawn City - Ch'ing Che'engTa-chia - that secret Utopian revolutionary citadel be there when we arrived in the Valley of the Morning?

And why was Una Persson taking part in China's internecine politics? Why did these tall, silent men follow her?

I hoped that I would have at least some answers to these questions when we arrived in the Valley of the Morning, but, as it emerged, I was to be in several ways disappointed.

It was after dark by the time that we reached Una Persson's camp and the rain had fallen ceaselessly, so that it was still difficult to make out details, but it was obvious that this was no City of the Future - merely the ruins of a small Chinese township with a few houses still inhabitable. For the most part, however, the soldiers and their women and children lived in makeshift shelters erected in the ruins, while others had set up tents or temporary huts similar to the Mongolian yurt. Cooking-fires guttered hete and there amongst the fallen masonry and half-burned timbers which spoke of some disaster having befallen the town fairly recently. Much of the ground had been churned to mud and was made even more treacherous by the arrival of our horses. As I dismounted Una Persson rode up and pointed with a riding-crop at one of the still-standing houses.

'You'll be my guest for supper, I hope, Mr Moorcock.'

'You are kind, madam,' I replied. 'But I fear I am not properly dressed to take supper with such a beautiful hostess…'

She grinned at the compliment. 'You are picking up Chinese habits of speech, I see. Your clothes were rescued. You'll find them in your room. San Chui here will show you where it is. You'll be able to wash there, too. Until later, then.' She saluted me with the crop and rode off to supervise the unloading of her spoils (which also consisted of most of the weapons which had a short while ago belonged to Mr Lu's and the general's men). I had an opportunity to see one of the machine-guns I had initially only heard and was astonished that it was so light and yet so capable of dealing out death with extraordinary efficiency. This, too, was of a completely unfamiliar pattern. Indeed, it was the sort of weapon I might have expected to find in a city of the future!

San Chui, impassive as his comrades, bowed and led the way into the house, which was carpeted in luxurious style throughout but was otherwise of a somewhat Spartan appearance. In a room near the top of the house I found my baggage and my spare suit already laid out on my sleeping-mat (there was no bed). Shortly afterwards another soldier, who had changed into a smock and trousers of blue linen, brought me a bowl of hot water and I was able to get the worst of the mud and dust off my person, find a reasonably uncrumpled shirt, don the fresh suit and walk down to supper safe in the conviction that I was able to make at least an approximate appearance of civilized demeanour I

I was to dine alone, it seemed, with my hostess. She herself had changed into a simple gown of midnight-blue silk, trimmed with scarlet in the Chinese fashion. With her short hair and her oval face she looked, in the light of the candles burning on the dining-table, almost Chinese. She wore no ornament and there was no trace of paint on her face, yet she looked even more beautiful than the first time I had seen her. When I bowed it was instinctively, in homage to that beauty. The ground-floor room held the minimum of furniture - a couple of chests against the walls and a low Chinese table at which one sat cross-legged on cushions to eat.

Without inquiry, she handed me a glass of Madeira and I thanked her. Sipping the wine, I found it to be amongst the very best of its kind and I complimented her on it.

She smiled. 'Don't praise my taste, Mr Moorcock. Praise that of the French missionary who ordered it in Shanghai -and who is still, I suppose, wondering what has become of it.’

I was surprised by her easy (even shameless) admission of her banditry, but said nothing. Never having been a great supporter of the established Church, I continued to sip the missionary's wine with relish, however, and found myself relaxing for the first time since I had left civilisation. Although I had so many questions to ask her, I discovered myself to be virtually tongue-tied, not knowing where to begin and hoping that she would illuminate me without my having to introduce the subject, say, of Bastable and how she came to know him when the last I had heard of her she had been aboard the airship which had, in the year 1973, dropped a bomb of immense power upon the city of Hiroshima. For the first time I began to doubt Bastable's story and wonder if, indeed, he had been describing nothing but an opium dream which had become confused with reality to the extent that he had introduced actual people he had known into it.

We seated ourselves to eat and I decided to begin in a somewhat elliptical manner, inquiring, as I sampled the delicious soup (served, in Western fashion, before the main courses): 'And might I ask after your father, Captain Kor-zeniowski?'

It was her turn to frown in puzzlement, and then her brow cleared and she laughed. 'Aha I Of course - Bastable. Oh, Korzeniowski is fine, I think. Bastable spoke well of you - he seemed to trust you. Indeed, the reason that you are here at all is that he asked me to do a favour for him.'

'A favour?'

‘More of that later. Let us enjoy our meal - this is a luxury for me, you know. Recently we have not had the leisure or the means to prepare elaborate meals.'

Once again she had politely - almost sweetly - blocked my questions. I decided to proceed on a new tack.

'This village has sustained a bombardment by the look of it,' I said. 'Have you been attacked?'

She answered vaguely. 'It was attacked, yes. By General Liu, I believe, before we arrived. But one gets used to ruins. This is better than some I have known.' Her eyes held a distant, moody look, as if she were remembering other times, other ruins. Then she shrugged and her expression changed. 'The world you know is a stable world, Mr Moorcock, is it not?'

'Comparatively,' I said. 'Though there are always threats, I suppose. I have sometimes wondered what social stability is. It is probably just a question of point of view and personal experience. My own outlook is a relatively cheerful one. If I were, say, a Jewish immigrant in London's East End, it would probably not be anything like as optimistic.'

She appreciated the remark and smiled. 'Well, at least you accept that there are other views of society. Perhaps that is why Bastable talked to you; why he liked you.'

'Liked me? It is not the impression I received. He disappeared, you know, after our meeting on Rowe Island -without any warning at all. I was concerned for him. He was under a great strain. That, I suppose, is the main reason why I am here. Have you seen him recently? Is he well?'

'I have seen him. He was well enough. But he is trapped -he is probably trapped forever.' Her next phrase was addressed to herself, I thought. 'Trapped forever in the shifting tides of Time.'

I waited for her to elaborate, but she did not. 'Bastable will tell you more of that,' she said.

'Then he where?'

She shook her head and her hair swayed like the branches of a willow in the wind. She returned her attention to the meal and did not speak for a while as we ate.

Now I had the strange impression that I was not quite real to her, that she spoke to me as she might speak to her horse or a household pet or a familiar picture on her wall, as if she did not expect me to understand and spoke only to clarify her own thoughts. I felt a little uncomfortable, just as someone might feel who was an unwilling eavesdropper on an intimate conversation. Yet I was determined to receive at least some clarification from her.

'I gather that you intend to take me to Bastable - or that Bastable is due to return here?'

'Really? No, no. I am sorry if I have misled you. I have many things on my mind at present. China's problems alone… The historical implications… The possibility of so much going wrong… Whether we should be interfering at all… If we are interfering, or only think we are…' She lifted her head and her wonderful eyes stared deep into mine. 'Many concerns - responsibilities - and I am very tired, Mr Moorcock. It is going to be a long century.'

I was completely nonplussed and decided myself to finish the conversation. 'Perhaps we can talk in the morning,' I said, 'when we are both more rested.'

'Perhaps/ she agreed. 'You are going to bed?'

If you do not think it impolite. The dinner was splendid.'

'Yes, it was good. The morning…'

I wondered if she, like Bastable, was also a slave to opium. There was a trance-like quality in her eyes now. She could hardly understand me.

'Until the morning, then,' I said.

'Until the morning.' She echoed my words almost mindlessly.

'Good night, Mrs Persson.'

'Good night.'

I made my way back upstairs, undressed, lay myself down on the sleeping-mat and, it seemed to me, was immediately dreaming those peculiar, frightening dreams of the previous night. Again, in the morning, I felt completely refreshed and purged. I got up, washed in cold water, dressed and went downstairs. The room was as I had left it - the remains of the previous night's dinner -were still on the table. And I was suddenly seized with the conviction that everything had been abandoned hastily - that I had also been abandoned. I walked outside into a fine, pale morning. The rain had stopped and the air smelled fresh and clean. I looked for signs of activity and found nothing. The only life I could see in the village consisted of one horse, saddled and ready to ride. Soldiers, women and children had all disappeared. Now I wondered if, inadvertently, I had sampled some of Mr Lu's opium and had dreamed the whole thing. I went back into the house calling out:

'Mrs Persson! Mrs Persson!'

There were only echoes. Not one human being remained in the ruined village.

I went out again. In the distance the low green hills of the Valley of the Morning were soft, gentle and glowing after the rain which must have stopped in the night. A large, watery sun hung in the sky. Birds sang. The world seemed to be tranquil, the valley a haven of perfect peace. I saw not one gun, one item of the spoils which the bandits had brought back with them. The cooking-fires were still warm, but had been extinguished. The mud was still thick and deep and there was evidence of many horses having left the village fairly recently.

Perhaps the bandits had received intelligence of a large-scale counter-attack from General Liu's forces. Perhaps they had left to attack some new objective of their own. I determined to remain in the village for as long as possible in the hope that they would return.

I made a desultory perambulation of the village. I explored each of the remaining houses; I went for a walk along the main road out of the place. I walked back. There was no evidence for my first theory, that the village had been about to suffer an attack.

By lunchtime I was feeling pretty hungry and I returned to the house to pick at the cold remains of last night's supper. I helped myself to a glass of the missionary's excellent Madeira. I explored the ante-rooms of the ground floor and then went upstairs, determined, completely against my normal instincts, to investigate every room.

The bedroom next to mine still bore a faint smell of feminine perfume and was plainly Una Persson's. There was a mirror on the wall, a bottle of eau-de-Cologne beside the sleeping-mat, a few wisps of dark hair in an ivory hair-brush on the floor near the mirror. Otherwise, the room was furnished as barely as the others. I noticed a small inlaid table near a window leading on to a small balcony which overlooked the ruins of the village. There was a bulky package lying on the table, wrapped in oilskin, tied with cord.

As I passed it on my way to look out of the window I glanced at the package. And then I gave it very much of a second glance, for I had recognized my own name written in faded brown ink on yellowed paper I Just the word 'Moorcock'. I did not know the handwriting, but I felt fully justified in tearing off the wrappings to reveal a great heap of closely written foolscap pages.

It was the manuscript which you, its rediscoverer (for I have no intention of making a fool of myself again), are about to read.

There was a note addressed to me from Bastable - brief and pointed - and the manuscript itself was in the same writing.

This must be, of course, what Una Persson had been referring to when she had told me that Bastable had left something of himself behind in the Valley of the Morning. I felt, too, that it was reasonable to surmise that she had meant to give the manuscript to me before she left (if she had actually known she was going to leave so suddenly).

I took the table, a stool and the manuscript on to the balcony, seating myself so that I was looking out over that mysteriously deserted village and the distant hills containing the valley I had sought for so long, and I settled down to read a story which was, if anything, far stranger than the first Bastable had told me…