The Land Leviathan

1. THE RETURN TO TEKU BENGA

After I left you that morning, Moorcock, I had no intention of departing Rowe Island so hastily. I genuinely intended to do no more than take a stroll and clear my head. But I was very tired, as you know, and inclined to act impulsively. As I walked along the quayside I saw that a steamer was leaving; I observed an opportunity to stow away, did so, was undiscovered, and eventually reached the mainland of India, whereupon I made my way inland, got to Teku Benga (still hoping to get back to what I was convinced was my 'real' time), discovered that the way across remained impassable and considered the possibility of chucking myself off the cliff and having done with the whole mystery. But I hadn't the courage for that, nor the heart to go back to your world, Moorcock - that world that was so subtly different from the one I had originally left.

I suppose I must have gone into a decline of some sort (perhaps the shock, perhaps the sudden cessation of supplies of opium to my system, I don't know). I remained near the abyss separating me from what might have been the fountain-head of that particular knowledge I sought. I stared for hours at the dimly seen ruins of that ancient and squalid mountain fortress and I believe I must have prayed to it, begging it to release me from the awful fate it (or Sharan Kang, its dead priest-king) had condemned me to.

For some time (do not ask me how long) I lived the life of a wild beast, eating the small vermin I was able to trap, almost relishing the slow erosion of my mind and my civilized instincts.

When the snows came I was forced to look for shelter and was driven slowly down the mountainside until I discovered a cave which provided more than adequate shelter. The cave bore evidence that it had until recently been the lair of some wild beast, for there were many bones - of goats, wild sheep, hill dogs and the like (as well as the remains of more than one human being) - but there was no sign that its previous occupant was still in evidence. The cave was long and narrow, stretching so far back and becoming so dark that I never explored its whole extent and was content to establish myself close to the mouth, building no fire, but wrapping myself in the inadequately cured skins of my prey as the winter grew steadily colder.

The previous resident of the cave had been a huge tiger. I found this out one morning when I heard a peculiar snuffing noise and woke up to see the entrance blocked by a massive striped head and the beginnings of a pair of monstrous feline shoulders. The tiger regarded this cave as his winter home and plainly would not think much of the idea of sharing it equably with me. I leapt up and began to retreat into the depths of the cave, since my exit was completely blocked as the tiger, who must have grown fatter during his summer in the lowlands, squeezed his way slowly in.

That was how I discovered the cave to be in actuality a tunnel - and moreover a man-made tunnel. It grew as dark as the grave as I continued my retreat along it. I steadied myself with my hands against the walls and slowly began to understand that the rough rock had given way to smooth and that the projections were, in fact, cunning carvings of a familiar pattern. I became a bit flustered, then - a bit mad. I remember giggling, then stopping myself, realizing that the tiger might still be behind me. I paused, feeling carefully on both sides of the narrow passage. I received a sickening sense of disgust as my groping fingers made out details of the carvings; my dizziness increased. And yet at the same time I was elated, knowing for certain that I had stumbled into one of Teku Benga's many secret corridors and that I might well have found my way back, at last, to that warren of passages which lay beneath the immeasurably ancient Temple of the Future Buddha! There was no question in my mind that, failing to find a way across the gorge, I had inadvertently discovered a way under it, for now the floor of the passage began to rise steeply and I was attacked by a coldness of a quality and intensity which was totally unlike the coldness of the natural winter. I had been terrified when I had first experienced it and I was terrified now, but my terror was mixed with hope. Strange little noises began to assail my ears, like the tinkling of temple bells, the whispering of a wind which carried half-formed words in an alien language. Once I had sought to escape all this, but now I ran towards it and I believe that I was weeping, calling out. And the floor of the passage seemed to sway as I ran on, the walls widened out so that I could no longer stretch my arms and touch them and at last, ahead of me, I saw a point of white light. It was the same I had seen before and I laughed. Even then I found my laughter harsh and mad, but I did not care. The light grew brighter and brighter until it was blinding me. Shapes moved behind the light; there were nameless, glowing colours; there were webs of some vibrating metallic substance and once more I was reminded of the legends of Hindu gods who had built machines to defy the laws of Space and Time.

And then I began to fall.

Head over heels I spun and I began to think that I fell through the void which lies between the stars. Slowly all the little consciousness that remained had left me and I gave myself up to the ancient power which had seized me and made me its toy…

I'm sorry if all this seems fanciful, Moorcock. You know that I'm not a particularly imaginative sort of chap. I began my maturity as an ordinary soldier, doing his duty to his country and his Empire. I should like nothing more than to continue my life in that vein, but fate has ordained otherwise. I awoke in darkness, desperately hoping that my flight through time had been reversed and that I should discover myself back in my own age. There was no way of knowing, of course, for I was still in darkness, still in the tunnel, but the sounds had gone and that particular sort of coldness had gone. I got up, feeling my body in the hope that I'd discover I was wearing my old uniform, but I was not - I was still dressed in rags. This did not unduly concern me and I turned to retrace myself, feeling that if I was still in the age I hoped to have left, then I would give myself up to the tiger and get it all over with.

At last I got back to the cave and there was no tiger. Moreover - and this improved my spirits - there was no sign that / had occupied the cave. I walked out into the snow and stood looking up at a hard, blue sky, taking great gulps of the thin air and grinning like a schoolboy, sure that I was 'home'.

My journey out of the mountains was not a pleasant one and how I ever escaped severe frostbite I shall never know. I passed through several villages and was treated with wary respect, as a holy man might be treated, and got warmer clothes and food, but none of those I spoke to could understand English and I had no familiarity with their dialect. Thus it was nearly a month before I could begin to hope for confirmation of my belief that I had returned to my own time. A few landmarks began to turn up - a clump of trees, an oddly shaped rock, a small river - which I recognized and I knew I was close to the frontier station which Sharan Kang had attacked and thus been the cause of my first visit both to Teku Benga and, ultimately, the future.

The station came in sight a day or so later - merely a barracks surrounded by a few native brick huts and the whole enclosed by a serviceable wall. This was where our Native Police and their commanding officer had been killed and I admit that I prayed that I would find it as I had left it. There were signs of fighting and few signs of habitation and this cheered me up no end! I stumbled through the broken gateway of the little fort, hoping against hope that I would find the detachment of Punjabi Lancers and Ghurkhas I had left behind on my way to Kumbalari. Sure enough there were soldiers there. I shouted out in relief. I was weak from hunger and exhaustion and my voice must have sounded thinly through the warm spring air, but the soldiers sprang up, weapons at the ready, and it was only then that I realized they were white. Doubless the Indian soldiers had been relieved by British.

Yet these men had recently been in a fight, that was clear. Had another band of Sharan Kang's men attacked the fort while I had been on my expedition into the old hill fox's territory?

I called out: 'Are you British?'

I received the stout reply: 'I certainly hope we are!'

And then I fell fainting on the dry dust of the compound.

2. THE DREAM - AND THE NIGHTMARE - OF THE CHILEAN WIZARD

Naturally enough, my first words on regaining consciousness, lying on a truckle bed in what remained of the barracks' dormitory, were:

'What's the year?'

'Thejear, sir?' The man who addressed me was a young, bright-looking chap. He had a sergeant's stripes on his dusty scarlet tunic (it was a Royal Londonderry uniform, a regiment having close connections with my own) and he held a tin cup of tea in one hand while the other was behind my head, trying to help me sit up.

'Please, sergeant, humour me, would you? What's the year?'

'It's 1904, sir.'

So I had been 'lost' for two years. That would explain a great deal. I was relieved. Sipping the rather weak tea (I was later to discover it was almost their last) I introduced myself, giving my rank and my own regiment, telling the sergeant that I was, as far as I knew, the only survivor of a punitive expedition of a couple of years earlier - that I had been captured, escaped, wandered around for a bit and had only just managed to make it back. The sergeant accepted the story without any of the signs of suspicion which I had come to expect, but his next words alarmed me.

'So you would know nothing of the War, then, Captain Bastable?'

'A war? Here, on the North-West Frontier? The Russians…'

'At the moment, sir, this is one of the few places scarcely touched by the war, though you are right in supposing that the Russians are amongst our enemies. The war is world-wide. Myself and less than a score of men are all that remains of the army which failed to defend Darjeeling. The city and the best part of these territories are either under Russian control or the Russians have been, in turn, beaten by the Arabian Alliance. Personally I am hoping that the Russians are still in control. At least they let their prisoners live or, at worst, kill them swiftly. The last news we had was not good, however…'

'Are there no reinforcements coming from Britain?'

A look of pain filled the sergeant's eyes. 'There will be little enough coming from Blighty for some time, I shouldn't wonder, sir. Most of Europe is in a far worse plight than Asia, having sustained the greatest concentration of bombs. The war is over in Europe, Captain Bastable. Here, it continues - a sort of alternative battleground, you might call it, with precious little for anyone to win. The power situation is grim enough - there's probably not one British keel capable of lifting, even if it exists…'

Now his words had become completely meaningless to me. I was aware of only one terrifying fact and I had become filled with despair: this world of 1904 bore even less relation to my own world than the one from which I had sought to escape, I begged the sergeant to explain recent history to me as he might explain it to a child, using my old excuse of partial amnesia. The man accepted the excuse and kindly gave me a breakdown of this world's history since the latter quarter of the nineteenth century. It was radically different either from your world, Moorcock, or from the world of the future I described to you.

It appears that, by the 1870’s, in Chile of all places, there had emerged the genius who had, in a few short years, been responsible for altering the lot of the world's poor, of providing plenty where once there had been famine, comfort where there had been only grinding misery. His name was Manuel O'Bean, the son of an Irish engineer who had settled in Chile and a Chilean heiress (perhaps the wealthiest woman in South or Central America). O'Bean had shown signs of an enormous capacity to learn and to invent at an extraordinarily young age. His father, needless to say, had encouraged him and O'Bean had learned everything his father could pass on by the time he was eight years old. With the resources made available by his mother's wealth, O'Bean had nothing to thwart this flowering of his mechanical genius. By the time he was twelve he had invented a whole new range of mining equipment which, when applied to his family's holdings, increased their wealth a hundred-fold. Not only did he have an enormous talent for planning and building new types of machine, he also had the ability to work out new power sources which were less wasteful and infinitely cheaper than the crude sources up to that time in use. He developed a method of converting and reconverting electricity so that it did not need to be carried through wires but could be transmitted by means of rays to almost anywhere in the world'from any other point. His generators were small, efficient and required the minimum of power, and these in turn propelled most of the types of machinery he invented. Other engines, including sophisticated forms of steam-turbine depending on fast-heating liquids other than water, were also developed. As well as the mining and farming equipment he developed in those early years, O'Bean (still less than fifteen years old) invented a collection of highly efficient war-machines (he was still a boy and was fascinated, as boys are, with such things), including underwater boats, mobile cannons, airships (in collaboration with the great flying expert, the Frenchman La Perez) and self-propelled armoured carriages sometimes called 'land ironclads'. However, O'Bean soon abandoned this line of research as his social conscience developed. By the time he was eighteen he had sworn never to put his genius to warlike purposes again and instead concentrated on machines which would irrigate deserts, tame forests, and turn the whole world into an infinitely rich garden which would feed the hungry and thus extinguish what he believed to be the well-spring of most human strife.

By the beginnings of the new century, therefore, it seemed that Utopia had been achieved. There was not one person in the world who was not well-nourished and did not have the opportunity to receive a good education. Poverty had been abolished almost overnight.

Man can live by bread alone when all his energies are devoted to attaining that bread, but once his mind is clear, once he has ceased to labour through all his waking hours to find food, then he begins to think. If he has the opportunity to gather facts, if his mind is educated, then he begins to consider his position in the world and compare it with that of other men. Now it was possible for thousands to understand that the world's power was in the hands of a few the landowners, the industrialists, the politicians and the ruling classes. All these people had welcomed O'Bean's scientific and technical advances - for they were able to lease his patents, to build their own machines, to make themselves richer as those they ruled became better off. But twenty-five years is enough time for a new generation to grow up - a generation which has never known dire poverty and which, unlike a previous generation, is no longer merely grateful that it has leisure time and more than enough to eat. That generation begins to want to control its own fate in myriad ways. In short, it seeks political power.

By 1900, in this world, civil strife had become a fact of life in almost every nation, large and small. In some countries, usually those which had been the most backward, revolutions succeeded, and, attended by a fanatical nationalism, new power groups were formed. The Great Powers found their colonial territories snatched from them - in Asia, in Africa, in the Americas - and since the sources of power were cheap and O'Bean's patents were distributed everywhere, since military power no longer depended so much on large, well-trained armies (or even navies), these older nations were wary of starting wars with the newer nations, preferring to try to retain their positions by means of complicated diplomacy, by building up 'spheres of influence'. But complicated diplomatic games played in the far corners of the world tend to have a habit of creating stronger tensions at home, so in Europe, in particular, but also in the United States and Japan, nationalism grew stronger and stronger and fierce battles of words began to take place between the Great Powers. Trade embargoes, crippling and unnecessarily unfair tariff restrictions were applied and returned. A madness began to fill the heads of those who ruled. They saw themselves threatened from within by their young people, who demanded what they saw as more social justice, and from without by their neighbouring countries. More and more resources were devoted to the building up of land, sea and air fleets, of large guns, of armies which could control dissident populations (and at the same time, hopefully, absorb them). In many countries enforced military service, after the Prussian model, became the norm - and this in turn brought an increasingly furious reaction from those who sought to reform their governments. Active, violent revolutionary methods began to be justified by those who had originally hoped to achieve their ends by means of oratory and the ballot box.

What O'Bean himself thought of this nobody knows, but it was likely that he did feel enormously guilty. One story has it that on the inevitable day when the Great Powers went to war he quietly committed suicide.

The war was at first contained only in Europe, and in the first weeks most of the major cities of the Continent and Britain were reduced to ash and rubble. A short-lived Central American Alliance lasted long enough to go to war with the United States and quickly achieved a similar end. Huge mobile war machines rolled across the wasted land; sinister aerial battleships cruised smoke-filled skies; while under the water lurked squadrons of subaquatic men-of-war, often destroying one another without ever once rising to the surface where more conventional ironclads blasted rivals to bits with the horrifically powerful guns invented by a boy of thirteen years old.

'But most of the real fighting's over now,' said the sergeant, with a tinge of contempt. 'The fuel ran out for the generators and the engines. The war machines that were left just - well -stopped. It all went back to cavalry and infantry and that sort of stuff for a while, but there was hardly anyone knew how to fight like that - and precious few people left to do it. And not much ammunition, I shouldn't wonder. We're down to about one cartridge each.' He tapped the weapon which hung at his belt. 'It'll be bayonets, if we ever do meet the enemy. The bally Indians'll be top dogs - those who've still got swords and lances and bows and arrows and that…'

'You don't think the war will stop? People must be shocked by what's happened - sickened by it all.'

The soldier shook his head, waxing philosophical. 'It's a madness, sir. We've all got it. It could go on until the last human being crawls away from the body of the chap he's just bashed to bits with a stone. That's what war is, sir - madness. You don't think about what you're doing. You know, you forget, don't you - you just go on killing and killing.' He paused, almost embarrassed. 'Leastways, that's what / think.'

I conceded that he could well be right. Filled with unutterable gloom, obsessed by the irony of my escape from a relatively peaceful world into this one, I yet felt the need somehow to get back to England, to see for myself if the sergeant had told me the truth, or whether he had exaggerated, either from a misguided sense of drama, or from despair at his own position.

I told him that I should like to try to return to my own country, but he smiled pityingly at me, telling me that there wasn't the slightest chance. If I headed, say, for Darjeeling, then I was bound to be captured by the Russians or the Arabians. Even if I managed to reach the coast, there were no ships in the harbours (if there were harbours!) or the aerodromes. My best plan, he suggested, was to fall in with them. They had done their duty and their position was hopeless. They planned to get up into the hills and make some sort of life for themselves there. The sergeant thought that, with the population killing itself off so rapidly, game would proliferate and we should be able to live by hunting - 'and live pretty well, too'. But I had had enough of the hills already. For better or worse, as soon as I had recovered my strength I would try to get to the coast.

A couple of days later I bid farewell to the sergeant and his men. They begged me not to be so foolhardy, that I was going to certain death.

'There was talk of plague, sir,' said the sergeant. 'Terrible diseases brought about by the collapse of the sanitary systems.'

I listened politely to all the warnings and then, politely, ignored them.

Perhaps I had had my share of bad luck, for good luck stayed with me for the rest of my journey across the Indian sub-continent. Darjeeling had, indeed, fallen to the Arabians, but they had evacuated the shell of that city soon after occupying it. Their forces were stretched pretty thin and had been needed on the home front. There were still one or two divisions left, but they were busy looking for Russians, and when they discovered that I was English they took this to mean that I was a friend (towards the end, I gathered, there had been some attempt to make a pact between Britain and Arabia) and these chaps were under what turned out to be the utterly false impression that we were fighting on the same side. I fell in with them. They were heading for Calcutta - or where Calcutta had once stood - where there was some hope of getting a ship back to the Middle East. There was a ship, too - a, to them, old-fashioned steamer, using coal-burning engines - and although the name on its side was in Russian, it flew the crossed-scimitar flag of the Arabian Alliance. It was in a state of terrible disrepair and one took one's life in one's hands when going aboard, but there had been a chance in a million of finding any kind of ship and I was not in a mood to miss it. She had been an old cargo ship and there was very little room, as such, for passengers. Most of the men were crowded into the holds and made as comfortable as possible. As an officer and a 'guest' I got to share a cabin with four of the Arabians, three of whom were Palestinians and one of whom was an Egyptian. They all spoke perfect English and, while somewhat reserved, were decent enough company, going so far as to lend me a captain's uniform and most of the necessities of life which I had learned, in recent months, to do without.

The ship made slow progress through the Bay of Bengal and I relieved my boredom by telling my companions that I had been the prisoner of a Himalayan tribe for several years and thus getting them to fill in certain details of their world's history which the sergeant had been unable to give me.

There was some talk of a man whom they called the 'Black Attila', a leader who had emerged of late in Africa and whom they saw as a threat to themselves. Africa had not suffered as badly from the effects of the war as Europe and most of her nations - many only a few years old - had done their best to remain neutral. As a result they had flourishing crops, functioning harvesting machines and a reserve of military power with which to protect their wealth. The Black Attila had growing support in the Negro nations for a. jehad against the whites (the Arabians were included in this category, as were Asiatics), but, at the last my informants had heard, was still consolidating local gains and had shown no sign of moving against what remained of the countries of the West. There were

other rumours which said that he had already been killed, while some said he had invaded anJ conquered most of Europe.

The ship had no radio apparatus (another example of my good fortune, it emerged, for the Arabians had never reached the point of signing a pact with Britain!), and thus there was no means of confirming or denying these reports. We sailed down the coast of India, through the Gulf of Mannar, managed to take on coal at Agatti in the Laccadives, got into heavy weather in the Arabian Sea, lost three hands and most of our rigging, entered the Red Sea and were a few days away from the approach to the Suez Canal when, without any warning at. all, the ship was struck by several powerful torpedoes and began to sink almost immediately.

It was the work of an undersea torpedo-boat - one of the few still functioning - and it was not, it emerged, an act of war at all, but an act of cynical piracy.

However, the pirate had done his work too well. The ship sighed, coughed, and went to the bottom with most of her passengers and crew. I and about a dozen others were left clinging to what little wreckage there was.

The undersea boat lifted its prow from the water for a few seconds to observe its handiwork, saw that there was nothing to be gained by remaining, and left us to our fate. I suppose we should have been grateful that it did not use the guns mounted along its sides to finish us off. Ammunition had become scarce almost everywhere, it seemed.

3. THE POLISH PRIVATEER

I shan't describe in detail my experiences of the next twenty-four hours. Suffice to say that they were pretty grim as I watched my companions sink, one by one, beneath the waves and knew that ultimately I should be joining them. I suppose I have had a great deal of practice in the art of survival and somehow I managed to remain afloat, clinging to my pathetic bit of flotsam, until the late afternoon of the next day when the monster rose from the waves, steaming water pouring off its blue-black skin, its great crystalline eyes glaring at me, and a horrible, deep-throated roaring issuing from its belly. At first my exhausted mind did see it as a living creature but my second thoughts were that the undersea torpedo-boat had returned to finish me off.

Slowly the disturbance in the water ceased and the growling subsided to a quiet purring and the sleek and slender craft came to rest on the surface. From hatches fore and aft sailors in sea-green uniforms sprang on to the deck and ran quickly to the rails. One of them flung a life-buoy out over the side and with the last of my strength I swam towards it, seizing it and allowing myself to be hauled towards the ship. Hands dragged me aboard and a cup of rum was forced down my throat while blankets were thrown around me and I was carried bodily along the rocking deck and down into the forward hatch. This hatch was closed swiftly over us and as I was borne below I could feel the ship itself descending back below the waves. The whole thing had taken place in the space of a few minutes and I had the impression of urgency, as if much had been risked in coming to the surface at all. I surmised that this could not be the same ship (it seemed larger, for one thing) which had left me to my fate, that it must be another. It was certainly not a British ship, and I could make little of the language spoken by the seamen who carried me to a small, steel-walled cabin and stripped me of my sodden Arabian uniform before lowering me into the bunk and drawing warm blankets over me. It was probably a Slavonic language and I wondered if I had been made a prisoner-of-war by the Russians. I heard the ship's engines start up again, and there was a barely perceptible lurch as we began to go forward at what I guessed to be a pretty high speed. Then, careless of what my fate might be, I fell into a heavy and, thankfully, dreamless sleep.

Upon awakening, I glanced automatically towards the porthole but, of course, could not tell whether it was night or day, let alone what the time was! All I saw was dark green swirling water rushing past, faintly illuminated by the lights from the ship as it coursed with shark-like speed through the deeps. For a while I stared in fascination at the sight, hoping to make out some details of my first glimpse of the mysterious underwater world, but we were doubtless moving too rapidly. As I stared, the door of the cabin opened and a seaman entered, bearing a large tin cup which proved to contain hot, black coffee. He spoke in a thick accent:

'The captain's compliments, sir. Would you care to join him in his cabin, at your leisure.'

I accepted the coffee, noting that my borrowed uniform had been washed, dried and pressed and that a fresh set of undergarments had been laid out on the small table fixed against the opposite wall to the bunk.

'Gladly,' I replied. 'Will there be someone to escort me there when I have completed my toilet and dressed?'

'I will wait outside for you, sir.' The sailor saluted and left the cabin, closing the door smartly behind him. There was no question that this was a superbly disciplined ship - the efficiency with which I had been rescued spoke of that -and I hoped that the discipline extended to the honouring of the ordinary conventions of war!

As quickly as I could I readied myself and soon presented myself outside the cabin door. The sailor set off along the narrow, tubular passage which was remarkable for possessing cork catwalks positioned on sides and ceiling as well as floor, indicating that the ship was designed to function at any of the main positions of the quadrant. My surmise proved to be accurate (there were also 'decks' on the outside of the hull to match the catwalks, while the main control room was a perfect globe pivoting to match the angle of the ship - merely, it emerged, one of O'Bean's 'throwaway' ideas!) and the underwater craft was essentially much in advance of anything I had encountered in that other future of 1973.

The tubular passage led us to an intersection and we took the portside direction, climbed a small companion-way and found ourselves outside a plain, circular steel door upon which the seaman knocked, uttering a few words in his unfamiliar language. A single word answered him from the other side of the door and he pulled back a recessed catch to open it and admit me, saluting again before he left.

I found myself in an almost familiar version of any captain's quarters of a ship of my own world. There was plenty of well-polished mahogany and brass, a few green plants in baskets hanging from ceiling and walls, a neatly made single bunk, a small chart-table on which were several maps and around the edges of which were clipped a variety of instruments. Framed prints of clipper-ships and of old charts were fixed to the walls. The lighting glowed softly from the whole ceiling and had the quality of daylight (yet another of O'Bean's casual inventions). A smallish, dapper figure, with whiskers trimmed in the Imperial style, rose to greet me, adjusting his cap on his head and smiling almost shyly. He was a young man, probably not much older than myself, but he had the lines of experience upon his face and his eyes were the eyes of a much older man - steady and clear, yet betraying a certain cool irony. He stretched out a hand and I shook it, finding the grip firm and not ungentle. There was something naggingly familiar about him, but my mind refused to accept the truth until, in good, but gutterally accented, English, he introduced himself:

'Welcome aboard the Lola Montй, captain. My name is Korzeniowski and I am her master.'

I was too stunned to speak, for I was confronting a much younger version of my old mentor from the days I spent aboard The Rover. Then, Korzeniowski had been (or would be) a Polish airship captain. The implications of all this were frightening. Was there now a chance that I might meet a version of myself in this other world? I recovered my politeness. Plainly Korzeniowski knew nothing of me and I introduced myself, for better or worse, by my name and my real regiment, explaining quickly how I had come to be wearing my rather elaborate Arabian uniform. 'I hope Poland is not at war with the Arabian Alliance,' I added.

Captain Korzeniowski shrugged, turning towards a cabinet containing a number of bottles and glasses. 'What will you have, Captain Bastable?'

'Whisky with a splash of soda, if you please. You are very kind.'

Korzeniowski took out the whisky decanter, gesturing casually with it as he extracted a glass from the rack. 'Poland is not at war with anyone now. First Germany broke her, then Russia extinguished her, then Russia herself ceased to exist, as a nation at least. Poor Poland. Her struggles are over for all time. Perhaps something less ill-fated will emerge from the ruins.' He handed me a full glass, made as if to toss off his own, in the Polish manner, then restrained himself and sipped it almost primly, tugging at the lobe of his left ear, seeming to reprove himself for having been about to make a flamboyant gesture.

'But you and your crew are Polish,' I said. 'The ship is Polish.'

'We belong to no nation now, though Poland was the birthplace of most of us. The ship was once the finest in our navy. Now it is the last survivor of the fleet. We have become what you might call "privateers". It is how we survive during the apocalypse.' His eyes held a hint of sardonic pride. 'I think we are rather good at it - though the prey becomes scarce. We had our eye on your ship for a while, but it did not seem worth the waste of a torpedo. You might be glad to know that the ship which attacked you was called the Mannanan and that she belonged to the Irish navy.'

'Irish?' I was surprised. Home Rule, then, was a fact in this world.

'We could not stop to pick you up right away, but decided that you would have to take your chances. The Mannanan was a well-equipped ship and we were able to wound her and force her to the surface quite easily. She was a "fine prize", as the buccaneers would say!' He laughed. 'We were able to take stores aboard which will keep us going for three months. And spare parts.'

She had deserved whatever Captain Korzeniowski had done to her. Doubtless he had shown more mercy in his treatment of the Mannanan than she had shown to our poor, battered steamer. But I could not bring myself to voice these sentiments aloud and thus condone what had been, after all, a similar act of piracy on the part of the Lola Monte^.

'Well, Captain Bastable,' said Korzeniowski, lighting a thin cheroot and signalling for me to help myself from his humidor, 'what do you want us to do with you? It's normally our habit to put survivors off at the nearest land and let them take their chances. But yours is something of a special case. We're making for the Outer Hebrides, where we have a station. Is there anywhere between here and there that we can put you off? Not that there is anywhere particularly habitable on land, these days.'

I told him how I had planned to try to reach England and that if there was any chance of being put off on the South Coast I would more than welcome it. He raised his eyebrows at this.

'If you had said Scotland I might have understood - but the South Coast! Having been the agent of your escape from death, I am not sure I could justify to my conscience my becoming the instrument of your destruction.’ ‘

Have you not heard? Have you any idea of the hell which Southern England has become?'

'I gather that London sustained some very heavy bombing…'

Evidently Korzeniowski could not restrain a bleak smile at this. 'I have always appreciated British understatement,' he told me. 'What else have you gathered?'

'That there is a risk of catching disease - typhus, cholera, and so on.'

'And so on, yes. Do you know what kind of bombs the air fleets were dropping towards the end, Captain Bastable?'

'Pretty powerful ones, I should imagine."

'Oh, extremely. But they were not explosives - they were bacteria. The bombs contained different varieties of plague, captain. They had a lot of scientific names, but they soon became known by their nicknames. Have you seen, for instance, the effects of the Devil's Mushroom?'

'I haven't heard of it.'

'It is called by that name after the fungus which begins to form on the surface of the flesh less than two hours after the germs have infected the victim. Scrape off the fungus and the flesh comes away with it. In two days you look like one of those-jfotten trees you might have seen in a forest sometimes, but happily by that time you are quite dead and you have known no physical pain at all. Then there's Prussian Emma, which causes haemorrhaging from all orifices - that death is singularly painful, I'm told. And there's Eye Rot, Red Blotch, Brighton Blight. Quaint names, aren't they? As colourful as the manifestations of the diseases on the skin. Aside from the diseases, there are roving gangs of cut-throats warring on one another and killing any other human being they find (not always prettily). From time to time you might set foot on a gas bomb which is triggered as you step on it and blows a poison gas up into your face. If you escape those dangers, there are a dozen more. Believe me, Captain Bastable, the only clean life now - the only life for a man - is on the high seas (or under them). It is to the sea that many of us have returned, living out our lives by preying upon one another, admittedly. But it is an existence infinitely preferable to the terrors and degradations of the land. And one still has a certain amount of freedom, is still somewhat in control of one's own fate. Dry land is what the medieval painters imagined Hell to be. Give me the purgatory of the seal'

'I am sure I would agree with you,' I told him, 'but I would still see it for myself.'

Korzeniowski shrugged. 'Very well. We'll put you off at Dover, if you like. But if you should change your mind, I could use a trained officer, albeit an army officer, aboard this vessel. You could serve with me.'

This was indeed a case of history repeating itself (or was it prefiguring itself). Korzeniowski did not know it, but I had already served with him - and not in the army either, but in airships. It would be second nature for me to sail with him now. But I thanked him and told him that my mind was made up.

'None the less,' he said, 'I'll leave the berth open to you for a bit. You never know.'

A few days later I was put ashore on a beach just below the familiar white cliffs of Dover and waved good-bye to the Lola Monte^ as she sank below the surface of the waves and was gone. Then I shouldered my knapsack of provisions, took a firm grip on the fast-firing carbine I had been given, and turned my steps inland, towards London.

4. THE KING OF EAST GRINSTEAD

If I had considered Korzeniowski's description of post-War England to be fanciful, I soon had cause to realize that he had probably restrained himself when painting a picture of the conditions to be found there. Plague was, indeed, widespread, and its victims were to be seen everywhere. But the worst of the plagues were over, largely because most of the population remaining had been killed off by them and those who survived were resistant to most of the strains - or had somehow recovered from them. Those who had recovered were sometimes missing a limb, or a nose, or an eye, while others had had parts of their faces or bodies eaten away altogether. I observed Several bands of these poor, half-rotted creatures, in the ruins of Dover and Canterbury, as I made my way cautiously towards London.

The inhabitants of the Home Counties had descended from the heights of civilization to the depths of barbarism in a few short years. The remains of the fine towns, the clean, broad highways, the monorail systems, the light, airy architecture of the world O'Bean had created, were still there to speak of the beauty that had come and gone so swiftly, but now bands of beast-men camped in them, tore them down to make crude weapons and primitive shelters, hunted each other to death among them. No woman was safe and, among certain of the 'tribes' roving the ruins, children were regarded as particularly excellent eating! Former bank managers, members of the stock exchange, respectable tradesmen, had come to regard vermin as delicacies and were prepared to tear a man's jugular from his throat with their teeth if it would gain them the possession of a dead cat. Few modern weapons were in evidence (the production of rifles and pistols had been on the decline since the invention of airships and subaquatic boats), but rudely made spears, bows and arrows, knives and pikes could be found in almost every hand. By day I lay hidden wherever there was good cover, watching the savages go by, and I travelled at night, risking ambush, since I regarded my chances as being better at night when most of the 'tribesmen' returned to their camps. The country had not only sustained the most horrifying mass aerial bombardment, but had also (in this area in particular) received huge punishment from long-range guns firing from across the Channel. Twice the Home Counties had been invaded by forces coming from sea and air, and these had ravaged what remained, taking the last of the food, blowing up those buildings which still stood, before being driven back by the vestiges of our army. At night the hills of Kent and Surrey sparkled with points of light indicating the locations of semi-nomadic camps where huge fires burned day and night. The fires were not merely there for cooking and heating, but to burn the regular supply of plague-created corpses.

And so my luck held until I reached the outskirts of East Grinstead, once a pretty little village which I had known well as a boy, but now a wasteland of blasted vegetation and torn masonry. As usual I inspected the place from cover, noting the presence of what seemed to be a crudely made stockade of tree-trunks near the northernmost end of the village. From this armed men came and went regularly, and I was surprised to see that many of them carried rifles and shot-guns and were dressed in rather more adequate rags than the people I had seen to date. The community itself seemed to be a larger one than the others, and better organized, settled in one place rather than roaming about a small area of countryside. I heard the distinctive sounds of cattle, sheep and goats and surmised that a few of these animals had survived and were being kept for safety inside the stockade. Here was 'civilization' indeed I considered the possibility of making my presence known and seeking aid from the inhabitants, who might be expected to behave in a somewhat less aggressive manner than the people I had observed up to now. But, warily, I continued to keep watch on the settlement and see what information I could gather before I revealed myself.

It was a couple of hours later that I had reason to congratulate myself on my caution. I had hidden in a small brick building which had somehow survived the bombing. It had been used, I think, as a woodstore and was barely large enough to admit me. A grill, designed for ventilation, was the means by which I could look out at the stockade without being seen. Three men, dressed in a miscellaneous selection of clothing which included a black bowler hat, a deerstalker and a panama, a woman's fur cape, golfing trousers, a leather shooting-coat, a tailcoat and an opera cloak, were escorting a prisoner back along the path to the gate. The prisoner was a young woman, tall and dressed in a long black military topcoat which had evidently been tailored for her. She had a black divided skirt and black riding-boots and there was no question in my mind that she, like me, was some sort of interloper. They were treating her roughly, pushing her so that she fell over twice and struggled to her feet only with the greatest difficulty (her hands were tied behind her back). There was something familiar about her bearing, but it was only when she turned her head to speak to one of her captors (evidently speaking with the greatest contempt, for the man struck her in the mouth by way of reply) that I recognized her. It was Mrs Persson, the revolutionist whom I had first met on Captain Korzeniowski's airship, Tie Rover, and whom I understood to be Korzeniowski's daughter. That could not be true now, for this woman was approximately the same age as Korzeniowski. I had had enough of speculating about the mysteries and paradoxes of Time - they were beginning to become familiar to me and I was learning to accept them as one might accept the ordinary facts of human existence, without question. Now I merely saw Una Persson as a woman who was in danger and who must therefore be rescued, if at all possible. I had my carbine and several magazines of ammunition and I had the advantage that none of the inhabitants of the stockade was aware of my presence. I waited for nightfall and then crept out of my hiding-place, thanking Providence that the full moon was hidden behind thick cloud.

I got to the stockade and saw that it was an extremely crude affair - no savage would have owned to its manufacture - and easily scaled, so long as the timber did not collapse under me. Slowly I climbed to the top and got my first sight of the interior.

It was a scene of the utmost barbarity. Una Persson hung spreadeagled and suspended on a kind of trellis in the centre of the compound. In front of her, cross-legged, sat what must have been the best part of the 'tribe' - many of them bearing the deformities marking them as recipients of various plague viruses. Behind the scaffold was a sort of dais made from a large, oak refectory table, and on the table there had been placed a high-backed, ornately carved armchair of the sort which our Victorian ancestors regarded as the very epitome of 'Gothik' good taste. The velvet of the chair was much torn and stained and the woodwork had been covered with some sort of poorly applied gold lacquer. A number of fairly large fires blazed in a semi-circle behind the dais and oily smoke drifted across the scene, while the red flames leapt about like so many devils and were reflected in the sweating faces of the gathered inhabitants of the stockade. This was what I saw before I dropped to the other side of the fence and crept into the shadow of one of the ramshackle shelters clustered near by.

A sort of hideous crooning now issued from the throats of the onlookers, and they swayed slowly from side to side, their eyes fixed on Una Persson's half-naked body. Mrs Persson herself did not struggle, but remained perfectly still in her bonds, staring back at them with an expression of utter disgust and contempt. As I had admired it once before, now I admired her courage. Few of us, in her position, could have behaved so well.

Since she did not seem to be in any immediate danger, I waited to see what would next develop.

From a hut larger than the rest and set back behind the semi-circle of fires, there now emerged a tall and corpulent figure dressed in full morning-dress, with a fine grey silk hat at a jaunty angle on his head, his right thumb stuck in the pocket of his waistcoat, a diamond pin in his cravat, looking for all the world like some music-hall performer of my own time. Slowly, with an air of insouciance, he ascended the dais and seated himself with great self-importance in his gold chair while the crowd ceased its humming and swaying for a moment to greet him with a monstrous shout whose words I could not catch.

His own voice was clear enough. It was reedy and yet brutal and, for all that it was the uneducated voice of a small shopkeeper, it carried authority.

'Loyal subjects of East Grinstead,' it began. 'The man - or woman - who pulls their weight is welcome here as you well know. But East Grinstead has never taken kindly to foreigners, scroungers, Jews and loafers, as is also well known. East Grinstead knows how to deal with 'em. We have our traditions. Now this here interloper, this spy, was caught hanging round near East Grinstead obviously up to no good - and also, I might add, armed to the teeth. Well, draw your own conclusions, my subjects. There is not much doubt in my -our - mind that she is by way of being a definite foreign aviator, probably come back to see how we are getting on here after all them bombs she dropped on us did their damage. She has found a flourishing community - bloody but unbowed and ready for anything. Given half a chance, I shouldn't be surprised if she was about to report back to her compatriots that East Grinstead wasn't finished - not by a long shot finished - and we could have expected another lot of bombs. But,' and his voice dropped and became ruthless and sinister, plainly relishing Una's pain, 'she won't be going back. And we're going to teach her a lesson, aren't we, about what foreign aviators and spies can expect if they try it on over East Grinstead again!'

He continued in this vein and I listened in horror. Could this man once have served behind a counter in an ordinary village shop? Perhaps he had served me with an ounce of liquorice or a packet of tea. And his 'subjects', who growled and giggled and trembled with blood-lust, were these once the decent, conservative folk of the Home Counties? Did it take so little time to strip them of all their apparent civiliza-tion? If ever I returned to my own world I would look on these people in a new light.

Now the King of East Grinstead had risen from his chair and someone had handed him a brand. The firelight turned his plump, unshaven face into the mask of a devil as he raised the brand above his head, his eyes glowing and his lips drawn back in a bestial grin.

'Now we'll teach her!' he yelled. And his subjects rose up, arms extended, screaming to him to do what he was about to do.

The brand came down and began to extend towards Una Persson's head. She could not see what was happening, but it was obvious that she guessed. She struggled once in the ropes, then her lips came firmly together and she closed her eyes as the brand moved closer and closer towards her hair.

Scarcely thinking, I raised my carbine to my shoulder, took aim, and shot the King of East Grinstead squarely between the eyes. His face was almost comic in its astonishment and then the great bulk fell forward off the dais and lay in a heap before its astonished subjects.

I moved quickly then, thankful for my army training.

While those hideously ravaged faces looked at me with expressions of stunned horror, I ran to the trellis and with a few quick strokes of my knife cut Mrs Persson free.

Then, quite deliberately, I shot down three of the nearest men. One of them had been armed and I signed to Mrs Persson to pick up the rifle, which she did as quickly as she could, though she was plainly still suffering a good deal of pain.

'This place is surrounded by men,' I told them. 'All are crack shots. The first man to threaten us with his weapon will die as swiftly as your leader. As you can see, we are merciless. If you remain within the stockade and allow us to go through the gate unhampered, no more of you will be harmed.' A few of the people growled like animals, but were too nonplussed and alarmed to do anything more. I could not resist a parting speech as we got to the gate.

'I might tell you that I am British,' I said. 'As British as you are and from the same part of the world. And I am disgusted by what I see. This is no way for Britons to behave. Remember your old standards. Recall what they once meant to you. The fields remain and you have stock. Grow your food as you have always grown it. Breed the beasts. Build East Grinstead up into a decent place again…'

Mrs Persson put a hand on my arm, whispering: "There is not much time. They'll soon realize that you have no men. They are already beginning to look for them and not see them. Come, we'll make for my machine.'

We backed out of the gate and closed it behind us. Then, bent low, we began to run. I followed Mrs Persson and she plainly had a good idea of where she was going. We ran through a wood and across several overgrown fields, into another wood, and here we paused, listening for sounds of pursuit, but there were none.

Panting, Una Persson pushed on until the forest thinned. Then she bent over a bush and without any apparent effort seemed to pull the whole thing up by the roots, revealing the faint gleam of metal. She operated a control, there was a buzz and a hatch swung upwards.

'Get in,' she said, 'there's just about room for both of us.'

I obeyed. I found myself in a cramped chamber, surrounded by a variety of unfamiliar instruments. Mrs Persson closed the hatch over her head and began turning dials and flicking switches until the whole machine was shaking and whining. She peered through a contraption which looked to me rather like a stereoscopic viewer, then pulled a large lever right back. The whining sound increased its pitch and the machine began to move - heading downwards into the very bowels of the earth.

'What sort of machine is this?' I inquired in my amazement.

'Haven't you seen one before,' she said casually. 'It's an O'Bean Mark Five tunneller. It's about the only way to move these days without being spotted. It's slow. But it's sure.' She smiled, pausing in her inspection of the controls to offer me her hand. 'I haven't thanked you. I don't know who you are, sir, but I'm very grateful for what you did. My mission in this part of Britain is vital and now it has some chance of success.'

It had become extremely hot and I fancied that we were nearing the core of the planet!

'Not at all,' I replied. 'Glad to be of service. My name's Bastable. You're Mrs Persson, aren't you?'

'Miss Persson,' she said. 'Were you sent to help me, then?'

'I happened to be passing, that was all.' I wished now that I hadn't admitted to knowing her name - the explanation could prove embarrassing. I made a wild guess, remembering something of what I had been told about her when I flew with The Rover. 'I recognized your photograph. You were an actress, weren't you?'

She smiled, wiping the perspiration from her face with a large, white handkerchief. 'Some would say that I still am.'

'What sort of depth are we at?' I asked, feeling quite faint now.

'Oh, no more than a hundred feet. The air system isn't working properly and I don't know enough about these metal moles to fix it. I don't think we're in any immediate danger, however.'

'How did you come to be in East Grinstead, Miss Persson?'

She did not hear me above the shaking of the machine and the weird whining of its engine. She made some sort of adjustment to our course as she cupped her hand to her ear and had me repeat the question.

She shrugged. 'What I was looking for was near by. There was some attempt to set up a secret centre of government towards the end. There were plans for an O'Bean machine which was never perfected. There is only one of its type - in Africa. The plans will clarify one or two problems which were troubling us.'

'In Africa! You have come from Africa?'

'Yes. Ah, here we are.' She pushed two levers forward and I felt the tunnelling machine begin to tilt, rising towards the surface. 'The ground must have been mainly clay. We've made good speed.'

She cut off the engines, took one last glance into the viewer, seemed satisfied, moved to the hatch, pressed a button. The hatch opened, letting in the refreshing night air.

'You'd better get out first,' she said.

I clambered thankfully from the machine, waiting for my vision to adjust itself. The ground all around me was flat and even. I could just make out the silhouette of what at first appeared to be buildings arranged in a circle which enclosed us. There was something decidedly familiar about the place. 'Where are we?' I asked her.

'I think it used to be called The Oval,' she told me as she joined me on the grass. 'Hurry up, Mr Bastable. My airboat should be just over here.'

It was a ridiculous emotion to feel at the time, I know, but I could not help experiencing a tinge of genuine shock at our having desecrated one of the most famous cricket pitches in the world!

5. THE START OF A NEW CAREER

Una Persson's airboat was very different from the sort of aircraft I had become used to in the world of 1973. This was a flimsy affair consisting of an aluminium hull from which projected a sort of mast on which was mounted a large, three-bladed propeller. At the tail was a kind of rudder, and on either side of the rudder were two small propellers. From the hull sprouted two broad, stubby fins which, like the small propellers, helped to stabilize and to steer the boat once it had taken to the air. We rose, swaying slightly, from the ground, while the boat's motor gave out a barely heard purring. It was only now that I sought to inquire of our destination. We were flying at about a height of 1,000 feet over the remains of Inner London. There was not a landmark left standing. The entire city had been flattened by the invader's bombs. The legendary fate of Carthage was as nothing compared to this. What had possessed one group of human beings to do such a thing to another? Was this, I wondered, how Hiroshima had looked after Shan-tien had dropped its cargo of death? If so, I had much on my conscience. Or had I? I had begun to wonder if I moved from dream to dream. Was reality only what I made of it? Was there, after all, any such thing as 'history'?

'Where are we headed for, Miss Persson?' I asked, as we left London behind.

'My first stop will have to be in Kerry, where I have a refuelling base.'

'Ireland.' I remembered the first subaquatic vessel I had seen. 'I had hoped…'

I realized, then, that I had already made up my mind to accept Korzeniowski's offer. I had seen enough of my homeland and what its inhabitants had become. Korzeniowski's statements about the sea being the only 'clean' place to be were beginning to make sense to me.

'Yes?' She turned. 'I would take you all the way with me, Mr Bastable. I owe you that, really. But for one thing I have scarcely enough power to get myself back and another passenger would make a crucial difference, while secondly you would probably have no taste for the kind of life I would take you to. I could drop you somewhere less dangerous than Southern England. It is the best I an offer.'

'I was thinking of making for Scotland,' I said. 'Would I stand a better chance of survival there?' I was reluctant to disclose my actual destination. Korzeniowski would not appreciate my revealing his secret station.

She frowned. 'The coast of Lancashire is about the best I can suggest. Somewhere beyond Liverpool. If you avoid the large cities, such as Glasgow, you should be all right. The Highlands themselves sustained very little bombing and I doubt if the plagues reached there.'

And so it was that I bid farewell to Una Persson on a wild stretch of saltings beside the coast of Morecambe Bay near a village called Silverdales. It was dawn and the scenery around me made a welcome change from that I had so recently left. The air was full of the cries of sea-birds searching for their breakfast and a few sheep grazed on the salt-flats, taking a wary interest in me as they cropped the rich grass. In the distance was the sea, wide, flat and gleaming in the light of the rising sun. It was a comforting picture of rural tranquillity and much more the England I had hoped to find when I had first landed at Dover. I waved good-bye to Miss Persson, watching her airboat rise rapidly into the sky and then swing away over the ocean, heading towards Ireland, then I shouldered my carbine and tramped towards the village.

The village was quite a large one, consisting mainly of those fine, stone houses one finds in such parts, but it was completely deserted. Either the inhabitants had fled under the threat of some supposed invasion, or else they had died of the plague and been buried by survivors who, in turn, had prudently gone away from the source of the disease. But there were no signs of any sort of disaster. Hoping to find food, maps and the like, I searched several houses, finding them completely in order. Much of the furniture had been neatly draped with dust-covers and all perishable food had been removed, but I was able to discover a good quantity of canned meats and bottled fruit and vegetables which, while heavy to carry, would sustain me for some time. I was also fortunate enough to find several good-quality maps of Northern England and Scotland. After resting for a day in Silverdales and granting myself the luxury of sleeping in a soft bed, I set off in the general direction of the Lake District.

I soon discovered that life was continuing at a fairly normal pace in these parts. The farming is largely sheep and cattle, and while the people who remained were forced to live in what was comparative poverty, the war had hardly altered their familiar pattern of existence. Instead of being regarded with fear and suspicion, as I had been in the Home Counties, I was welcomed, given food, and asked for any news I might have about the fate of the South. I was happy to tell all I knew, and to warn these friendly Northerners to beware of the insanity which had swept the counties around London. I was told that similar conditions existed near Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool and Leeds, and I was advised to skirt Carlisle, if I could, for while the survivors of that city had not descended to the level of barbarity I had experienced in East Grinstead, they were still highly suspicious of those who seemed better off than themselves and there had been minor outbreaks of a variant of the disease known as Devil's Mushroom, which had not improved their disposition towards those who were not local to the area.

Heeding such warnings, proceeding with caution, taking advantage of what hospitality I was offered, I slowly made my way north, while the autumn weather - perhaps the finest I had ever known - lasted. I was desperate to get to the Islands before winter set in and the mountains became impassable. The Grampians, those stately monarchs of the Western Highlands, were reached, and at length I found myself crossing the great Rannoch Moor, heading in the general direction of Fort William, which lay under the shadow of Ben Nevis. The mountains shone like red Celtic gold in the clear sunshine of the early winter; there is no sight like it in the whole world and it is impossible to think of the British Isles as being in any way small, as they are in comparison with most other land areas, when you see the Grampians stretching in all directions, inhabited by nothing save the tawny Highland cattle, grouse and pheasant, their wild rivers full of trout and salmon. I ate like a king during that part of my journey - venison became a staple - and I was tempted to forget about my plan for joining Korzeniowski in the Outer Hebrides and to make my life here, taking over some abandoned croft, tending sheep, and letting the rest of the world go to perdition in any way it chose, But I knew that the winters could be harsh and I heard rumours that the old clans were beginning to re-form and that they were riding out on cattle-raids just as they had done in the days before the dreams of that drunken dandy Prince Charles Edward Stuart had brought the old Highland ways of life to a final and bitter end.

So I continued towards Skye, where I hoped I might find some sort of ferry still operating on the Kyle of Lochalsh. Sure enough, the inhabitants of Skye had not abandoned their crucial links with the mainland. Sailing boats plied a regular trade with the island and a haunch of venison bought me a passage on one of them just as the first snows of the winter started to drift from out of vast and steely skies.

My real difficulties then began I The people of Skye are not unfriendly. Indeed, I found them among the most agreeable folk in the world. But they are close-mouthed at the best of times, and my inquiries as to the possible whereabouts of an underwater vessel called the Lola Mo»te% fell on deaf, if polite, ears. I could not gain an ounce of information. I was fed, given a considerable quantity of strong, mellow local whisky, invited to dances all over the island (I think I was regarded as an eligible bachelor by many of the mothers) and allowed to help with any work which needed to be done. It was only when I offered to go out with the fishing-boats (hoping thus to spot Korzeniowski's ship) that my help was refused. From Ardvasar in the south to Kilmaluag in the north the story was the same - no one denied that underwater boats called, from time to time, at the Islands, and no one admitted it either. A peculiar, distant expression would come over the faces of young and old, male or female, whenever I broached the subject. They would smile, they would nod, they would purse their lips and they would look vaguely into the middle-distance, changing the subject as soon as possible. I began to believe that not only was there at least one fuelling station in the Outer Hebrides but that the islanders derived a good deal of their wealth, and therefore their security in troubled times, from the ship or ships which used such a station. It was not that they mistrusted me, but they saw no point in giving away information which could change their situation. At least, that is what I surmised.

Not that this made any great difference to me, it emerged. It was evident that an effort was made to help, that the fuelling station was contacted and that my description and name were registered there, for one night, just after the spectacular New Year celebrations for which the Island folk are justly famous. I sat in a comfortable chair before a roaring fire in an excellent public house serving the township of Uig, sipping good malt whisky and chatting on parochial subjects, when the door of the hostelry opened, the wind howled in, bearing a few flakes of snow with it, until the door was slammed back in its face, and three, swathed in a heavy leather sea-cloak, stood my old friend Captain Josef Korzeniowski, bowing his stiff, Polish bow, and clicking the heels of his boots smartly together as he saluted me, his intelligent eyes full of sardonic amusement.

He was evidently well-known to the regular customers of the inn and was greeted with warmth by several of them. I learned later that it was the captain's policy to share at least half of his booty with the islanders, and in return he received their friendship and their loyalty. When he needed new crew members, he recruited them from Skye, Harris, Lewis, North and South Uist and the smaller islands, for many had been professional seamen and, as Korzeniowski informed me, were among the most loyal, courageous and resourceful in the world, taking naturally to the dangers and the romance of his piratical activities.

We talked for hours, that night. I told him of my adventures and confirmed all he had told me of what I would find in the South. In turn, he described some of his recent engagements and brought me up to date with what he knew of events in the rest of the world. Things had, if anything, gone from bad to worse. The whole of Europe and Russia had reverted almost completely to barbarism. Things were scarcely any better in North America. Most of the nations which had remained neutral were internally divided and took no interest in international problems. In Africa the infamous Black Attila had swept through the entire Middle East and incorporated it into his so-called 'Empire', had crossed the Mediterranean and claimed large areas of Europe, had conquered the best part of Asia Minor.

'There is even a story that he has designs on Britain and the United States,' Korzeniowsld informed me. 'The only potential threat to his dreams of conquest would be the Australasian-Japanese Federation, but they pursue a policy of strict isolationism, refusing to become involved in any affairs but their own. It saved them from the worst effects of the War and they have no reason to risk losing everything by taking part in what they see as a conflict between different tribes of barbarians. The Black Attila has so far offered the A.J.F. no direct threat. Until he does, they will not move to stop him. The African nations who have so far been reluctant to join him are too weak to oppose him directly and are hopeful that if they do not anger him he will continue to concentrate on conquering territory which is, after all, already lost to civilization.'

'But it is in the nature of such conquerors to consolidate easy gains before turning their attention on more powerful prey, is it not?' I said.

Korzeniowski shrugged and lit a pipe. The rest of the customers had long since gone home, and we sat beside a dying fire, the remains of a bottle of whisky between us. 'Perhaps his impetus will dissipate itself eventually. It is what most people hope. So far he has brought some kind of order to the nations he has conquered - even a form of justice exists, crude though it is, for those with brown, black or yellow skins. The whites, I gather, receive a generally rawer deal. He has a consuming hatred for the Caucasian races, regarding them as the source of the world's evils - though I have heard that he has some white engineers in his employ. Presumably they are useful to him and would prefer to serve him rather than be subjected to some of the awful tortures he has devised for other whites. As a result, his resources grow. He has great fleets of land ironclads, airships, undersea dreadnoughts - and they are increasing all the time as he captures the remnants of the world's fighting machines.'

'But what interest could he have in conquering England?' I asked. 'There is nothing for him here.'

'Only the opportunities for revenge,' said the Polish sea-captain quietly. He looked at his watch. 'It is high time I returned to my ship. Are you coming with me, Bastable?'

'That was my reason for being here," I said. I had a heavy heart as I digested the implications of all Korzeniowski had told me, but I tried to joke, remarking: 'I used to dream of such things, as a boy. But now the dream is reality - I am about to serve under the Jolly Roger. Will it be necessary to sign my articles in blood?'

Korzeniowski ckpped me on the shoulder. 'It will not even be required of you, my dear fellow, to toast the Devil in grog -unless, of course, you wish to!'

I got my few possessions from my room and followed my new commander out into the chilly night.

6. 'A HAVEN OF CIVILIZATION'

For well over a year I sailed with Captain Korzeniowski aboard the Lola Mo»fe%, taking part in activities which would have carried the death sentence in many countries of my own world, living the desperate, dangerous and not always humane life of a latter-day sea wolf. In my own mind, if not in the minds of my comrades, I had become a criminal, and while my conscience still sometimes troubled me, I am forced to admit that I grew to enjoy the life. We went for the big game of the seas, never taking on an unarmed ship, and, by the logic which had come to possess this cruel and ravaged world, usually doing battle with craft who had as much to answer for in the name of piracy as had we.

But as the year progressed, and we roamed the seas of the world (ever cautious not to offend either the ships of the Australasian-Japanese Federation or those sailing under the colours of the Black Attila), we found our prey becoming increasingly scarce. As sources of fuel ran out or parts needed replacing, even the few ships which had survived the war began to disappear. I felt something of the emotions that an American buffalo-hunter must have felt as he began to realize that he had slaughtered all the game. Sometimes a month or more would pass without our ever sighting a possible prize and we were forced to take a decision: either we must risk the wrath of the two main Powers and begin to attack their shipping, or we must go for smaller game. Both prospects were unpleasant. We should not last long against the Powers and none of us would enjoy the sordid business of taking on craft not of our size. The only alternative would be to join the navy of one of the smaller neutral nations. There was no doubt that we should be welcomed with relief into their service (for we had been a thorn in their side as pirates and they would rather have a ship of our tonnage working with them - most would prefer to forget any thoughts of revenge), but it would not be pleasant to accept their discipline after having had virtually the freedom of the high seas. For all that I had reservations, mine was the chief voice raised in support of this latter scheme, and slowly I won Korzeniowski over to the idea. He was an intelligent, far-sighted skipper, and could see that his days as a pirate were numbered. He confided to me that he had yet another consideration.

'I could always scupper the Lo/a Monte% and retire,' he told me. ‘I’d be welcome enough in the Islands. But I'm afraid of the boredom. I once entertained the notion of writing novels, you know. I always felt I had a book or two in me. But the notion isn't as attractive as it once was - for who would read me? Who, indeed, would publish me? And I can't say I'm optimistic about writing for posterity when posterity might not even exist! No, I think you're right, Bastable. Time for a new adventure. There are still a couple of largish navies in South America and Indo-China. There are even one or two in Africa. I had hoped that one of the Scandinavian countries would employ us, but yesterday's news has scotched that scheme.'

The previous day we had heard that the armies of the Black Attila had finally reached Northern Europe and overrun the last bastions of Western culture. The stories of what had been done to the Swedes, the Danes and the Norwegians chilled my blood. Now black chieftains rode through the streets of Stockholm in the carriages of the murdered Royal Family and the citizens of Oslo had been enslaved, piecemeal, to build the vast generators and chemical plants required to power the mobile war machines of the Black Horde. There had been no one to enslave in Copenhagen, for the city had resisted a massive siege and now nothing remained of it but smoking rubble.

Brooding on this, Korzeniowski added a little later: "The other argument against retiring to the Islands is, of course, the rumour that the Black Attila has plans to invade Britain. If he did so, sooner or later the Highlands and Islands would be threatened.'

'I can't bear to think of that,' I said. 'But if it did happen, I would be for carrying on some sort of guerrilla war against him. We'd go under, sooner or later, but we'd have done something…'

Korzeniowski smiled. 'I have no special loyalties to Britain, Bastable. What makes you think I'd agree to such a scheme?•

I was nonplussed. Then his smile broadened. 'But I would, of course. The Scots have been good to me. If I have any sort of homeland now I suppose it is in the Outer Hebrides. However, I have a hunch that the black conquest of Britain would only be a token affair. Cicero Hood has his eye on larger spoils.'

General Cicero Hood (or so he called himself) was the military genius now known as the Black Attila. We had heard that he was not a native of Africa, at all, but had been born in Arkansas, the son of a slave. It was logical to suspect that his next main objective would be the United States of America (though 'United' meant precious little these days), if his main motive for attacking the Western nations was revenge upon the White Race for the supposed ills it had done him and his people.

I commented on the massive egotism of the man. Even his namesake had somewhat nobler motives than simple vengeance in releasing his Huns upon the world.

'Certainly,' agreed Korzeniowski, 'but there is a messianic quality about Hood. He pursues the equivalent of a religious jehad against the enslavers of his people. We have had leaders like that in Poland. You would not understand such feelings, I suppose, being British, but I think I can. Moreover, whatever your opinion of his character (and we know little of that, really), you must admit that he is something of a genius. First he united a vast number of disparate tribes and countries, fired them with his ideals, and worked with amazing speed and skill to make those ideals reality.'

I said that I did not doubt his ability as a strategist or, indeed, his intelligence, but it seemed to me that he had perverted a great gift to a mean-spirited ambition.

Korzeniowski only added: 'But then, Mr Bastable, you are not a Negro.'

I hardly saw the point of this remark, but dropped the subject, since there was nothing more I had to say on it.

It was perhaps ironic, therefore, that a couple of months later, having sounded out possible 'employers', we sailed for Bantustan with the intention of joining that country's navy. Bantustan had been better known in my own world as South Africa. It had been one of the first colonies to make a bid for independence during those pre-War years when O'Bean's inventions had released the world from poverty and ignorance. Under the leadership of a young politician of Indian parentage called Gandhi, it had succeeded in negotiating a peaceful withdrawal from the British Empire, almost without the Empire realizing what had happened. Naturally, the great wealth of Bantustan - its diamonds and its gold alone - was not something which British, Dutch and American interests had wished to give up easily, yet Gandhi had managed to placate them by offering them large shareholdings in the mines without their having to invest any further capital. Since most of the companies had been public ones, shareholders' meetings had all voted for Gandhi's schemes. Then the War had come and there was no longer any need to pay dividends to the dead and the lost. Bantustan had prospered greatly during and after the War and was well on its way to becoming an important and powerful force in the post-War political game. By building up its military strength, by signing pacts with General Hood which ensured him of important supplies of food and minerals at bargain prices, President Gandhi had protected his neutrality. Bantustan was probably one of the safest and most stable small nations in the world, and since it required our experience and our ship, it was the obvious choice for us. Moreover, we were assured, we should find no racial-istic nonsense there. Black, brown and white races lived together in harmony - a model to the rest of the world. My only reservations concerned the political system operating there. It was a republic, but a republic based upon the theories of a German dreamer and arch-Socialist called Karl Marx. This man, who in fact lived a large part of his life in a tolerant England, had made most radicals sound like the highest of High Tories, and personally I regarded his ideas as at best unrealistic and at worst morally and socially dangerous. I doubted if his main theories could have worked in any society and I expected to have quick proof of this as soon as we docked in Cape Town.

We arrived in Cape Town on 14 September 1906, and were impressed not only by a serviceable fleet of surface and underwater ships, but also a large collection of shipyards working at full capacity. For the first time I was able to see what O'Bean's world must have been like before the Wa±. A great, clean city of tall, beautiful buildings, its streets filled with gliding electric carriages, criss-crossed by public monorail lines, the skies above it full of individual airboats and large, stately airships, both commercial and military. Well-fed, well-dressed people of all colours strolled through wide, tree-lined arcades, and the London I had visited in some other 1973 seemed as far behind this Cape Town as my own London had seemed behind that London of the future.

Suddenly it did not seem to matter what political theories guided the ruling of Bantustan, for it was obvious that it scarcely mattered, so rich was the country and so contented were its people. We had no difficulty in communicating with our new colleagues, for although the official language was Bantu, everyone spoke English and many also spoke Afrikaans, which is essentially Dutch. Here there had been no South African war and as a result there had been little bitterness between the English and Dutch settlers, who had formed a peaceful alliance well before President Gandhi had risen to political power. Seeing what South Africa had become, I almost wept for the rest of the world. If only it had followed this example! I felt prepared to spend my life in the service of this country and give it my loyalty as I had once given Britain my loyalty.

President Gandhi personally welcomed us. He was a small, gnome-like man, still quite young, with an infectious smile. In recent years he had devoted quite a lot of his energies to attracting what remained of the West's skilled and talented people to Bantustan. He dreamed of a sane and tranquil world in which all that was best in mankind might flourish. It was his regret that he needed to maintain a strong military position (and thus in his opinion waste resources) in order to guard against attack from outside, but he managed it gracefully enough and felt, he told us at the private dinner to which Korzeniowski and myself were invited, that there was some chance of setting an example to men like Cicero Hood.

'Perhaps he will begin to see how wasteful his schemes are, how his talents could be better put to improving the world and making it into a place where all races live in equality and peace together.'

I am not sure that, presented with these ideas in my own world, I could have agreed wholeheartedly with President Gandhi, but the proof of what he said lay all around us. O'Bean had thought that-material prosperity was enough to abolish strife and fear, but Gandhi had shown that a clear understanding of the subtler needs of mankind was also necessary - that a moral example had to be made, that a moral life had to be led without compromise - that hypocrisy (albeit unconscious) among a nation's leaders led to cynicism and violence among the population. Without guile, without deceiving those he represented, President Gandhi had laid the foundations for lasting happiness in Bantustan.

'This is, indeed, a haven of civilization you have here,' Captain Korzeniowski said approvingly, as we sat on a wide veranda overlooking the great city of Cape Town and smoked excellent local cigars, drinking a perfect home-produced port. 'But you are so rich, President Gandhi. Can you protect your country from those who would possess your wealth?'

And then the little Indian gave Korzeniowski and myself a shy, almost embarrassed look. He fingered his tie and stared at the roof-tops of the nearby buildings, and he sounded a trifle sad. 'It is something I wished to speak of later,' he said. 'You are aware, I suppose, that Bantustan has never spilled blood on behalf of its ideals.'

'Indeed we are!' I said emphatically.

'It never shall,' he said. 'In no circumstances would I be responsible for the taking of a single human life.'

'Only if you were attacked,' I said. 'Then you would have to defend your country. That would be different.'

But President Gandhi shook his head. 'You have just taken service in a navy, gentlemen, which exists for only one reason. It is effective only while it succeeds in dissuading those we fear from invading us. It is an expensive and impressive scarecrow. But it is, while I command it, as capable of doing harm as any scarecrow you will find erected by a farmer to frighten the birds away from his fields. If we are ever invaded, it will be your job to take as many people aboard as possible and evacuate them to some place of relative safety. This is a secret that we share. You must guard it well. All our officers have been entrusted with the same secret.'

The enormity of President Gandhi's risk in revealing this plan took my breath away. I said nothing.

Korzeniowski frowned and considered this news carefully before replying. 'You place a heavy burden on our shoulders, President.'

'I wish that I did not have to, Captain Korzeniowski.'

'It would only take one traitor…' He did not finish bis sentence.

Gandhi nodded. 'Only one and we should be attacked and overwhelmed in a few hours. But I rely on something else, Captain Korzeniowski. People like General Hood cannot believe in pacifism. If a traitor did go to him and inform him of the truth, there is every chance that he would not believe it.' He grinned like a happy child. 'You know of the Japanese method of fighting called Jui-Jit-Sui? You use your opponent's own violence against him. Hopefully, that is what I do with General Hood. Violent men believe only in such concepts as "weakness" and "cowardice". They are so deeply cynical, so rooted in their own insane beliefs, that they cannot even begin to grasp the concept of "pacifism". Suppose you were a spy sent by General Hood to find out my plans. Suppose you left here now and went back to the Black Attila and said to him, "General, President Gandhi has a large, well-equipped army, an air-fleet and a navy, but he does not intend to use it if you attack him." What would General Hood do? He would almost certainly laugh at you, and when you insisted that this was a fact he would probably have you locked up or executed as a fool who had ceased to be of use to him.' President Gandhi grinned again. 'There is less danger, gentlemen, in living according to a set of high moral principles than most politicians believe.'

And now our audience was over. President Gandhi wished us happiness in our new life and we left his quarters in a state of considerable confusion.

It was only when we got to our own ship and crossed the gangplank to go aboard, seeing the hundred or so similar craft all about us, that Korzeniowski snorted with laughter and shook his head slowly from side to side.

'Well, Bastable, what does it feel like to be part of the most expensive scarecrow the world has ever known?'

7. A LEGEND IN THE FLESH

A peaceful year passed in Bantustan - peaceful for us, that is, for reports continued to reach us of the ever-increasing conquests of the Black Attila. We learned that he had raised his flag over the ruins of London and left a token force there, but had met with no real resistance and seemed, as we had guessed, content (as the Romans had once been before him) to claim the British Isles as part of his new Empire without, at this moment in time, making any particular claims upon the country. Our friends in the Outer Hebrides would be safe for at least a while longer. Our most strenuous duties were to take part in occasional naval manoeuvres, or to escort cargo ships along the coasts of Africa. These ships were crewed entirely by Negroes and we rarely had sight of land, for it was regarded as politic for whites not to reveal themselves, even though Hood knew that they were not discriminated against in Bantustan.

We had a great deal of leisure and spent it exploring President Gandhi's magnificent country. Great game reserves had been made of the wild veldt and jungle and silent airboats carried one over them so that one could observe all kinds of wildlife in its natural state without disturbing it. There was no hunting here, and lions, elephants, zebra, antelope, wildebeest, rhinoceri roamed the land unharmed by Man. I could not help, sometimes, making a comparison with the Garden of Eden, where Man and Beast had lived side by side in harmony. Elsewhere we found model farms and mines, worked entirely by automatic machinery, continuing to add to the wealth of the country and, ultimately, the dignity of its inhabitants. Processing plants - for food as well as minerals -lay close to the coast where the food in particular was being stockpiled. Bantustan had more than enough to serve her own needs and the surplus was being built up or sold at cost to the poorer nations. I had begun to wonder why so much food was being stored in warehouses when President Gandhi called a meeting of a number of his air- and sea-officers and told us of a plan he had had for some time.

'All over the world there are people reduced to the level of savage beasts,' he said. 'They are brutes, but it is no fault of their own. They are brutes because they are hungry and because they live in fear. Therefore, over the last few years I have been putting aside a certain percentage of our food and also medical supplies - serums which my chemists have developed to cope with the various plagues still lingering in Europe and parts of Asia. You all know the function of your fleets is chiefly to give Bantustan security, but it has seemed a shame to waste so much potential, and now I will tell you of my dream.'

He paused, giving us all that rather shy, winning smile for which he was famous. 'You do not have to share it. I am asking only for volunteers, for there is danger involved. I want to distribute that food and medicine where it is most needed. You, Mr Bastable, have seen and reported what has happened in Southern England. Would you not agree that these supplies would help to alleviate some of the worst aspects of the conditions there?'

I nodded. 'I think so, sir."

'And you, Mr Caponi,' said the President, addressing the dashing and idealistic young Sicilian aviator who had made such a name for himself when he had, almost singlehandedly, saved the survivors of Chicago from the raging fires which had swept that city, by dropping again and again into the inferno, risking almost certain death to rescue the few who remained alive. 'You have told me how your countrymen have turned to cannibalism and reverted to their old, feuding ways. You would see that changed, would you not?'

Caponi nodded eagerly, his eyes blazing. 'Give me the supplies, my President, and I will have my keels over Sicily by morning.'

Most of the other commanders echoed Captain Caponi's sentiments and President Gandhi was well pleased by their response.

'There are matters I must attend to before we embark on this scheme,' he said, 'but we can probably begin loading the food and medicine by the end of the month. In the meantime I had better warn you, gentlemen, that General Hood is soon to make a state visit to Bantustan.'

This news was received with consternation by most of us -and by undisguised disgust by some, including Caponi, who was never one to hide his feelings. He expressed what a good many of us - particularly the whites - refrained from saying: 'The man is a mass-murderer! A bloody-handed looter! A maniac! Many of us have had relatives done to death by his minions! Why, I have sworn that if I should ever have the opportunity, I should kill him - with my bare hands I should kill him!'

The little president glanced at the floor in some embarrassment. T hope you will not be so tempted, Captain Caponi, when General Hood is here as my guest…'

'Your guest!' Caponi clapped his hand to his forehead. 'Yout guestl' He broke into a stream of Sicilian oaths which I, for one, was glad I did not understand - although the import of the language was clear enough.

President Gandhi let him continue for a while and then interrupted mildly: 'Would it not be better, capitano, to have this man as our guest - rather than as our conqueror? By meeting him. I hope to influence him - to beg him to stop this senseless warfare, this vendetta against the white race which can only lead to more violence, more terror, more grief…'

Caponi spread his hands, his somewhat pudgy features displaying an expression which was almost pitying. 'You think he will listen, my President? Such a man cannot be reasoned with! I know to my sorrow how destructive a vendetta can be - but the Black Attila is a madman - a wild beast - a ferocious and senseless killer - a torturer of women and children. Oh, sir, you are too unworldly.,.'

President Gandhi raised his eyebrows, biting his lip. He sighed. 'I hope I am not,' he said. 'I understand all the arguments and I know how you must feel. But I must obey my conscience. I must make an effort to reason with General Hood.'

Captain Caponi turned away. 'Very well - reason with him -and see what good it does. Can you reason with a whirlwind? Can you reason with a rogue rhino? Reason with him, President Gandhi - and pray for the safety of your country!' And with that he walked rapidly from the room.

One or two of the other officers mumbled words which echoed Caponi's. We all loved President Gandhi, but we all felt that he was misguided in his hopes.

Finally, he said: 'Well, gentlemen, I hope some of you will agree to be present at the banquet I intend to hold for General Hood. If your voices are added to mine, at least you will know, as I will know, that you have done your best…'

He dismissed us, then, and we all left with heavy hearts, speculating variously on what General Hood would be like to meet in the flesh and how we should react when - or if - we saw him.

Personally I had mixed feelings. It was not every day, after all, that one received the opportunity of dining with a legend, a world-conquering tyrant whom history would rank with Genghis Khan or Alexander the Great. I was determined to accept the president's invitation. Besides, I had to admit that I was beginning to get a little bored with my life in Bantustan. I was first and foremost a soldier, a man of action, trained in a certain way of life and not, by nature, contemplative or much of an intellectual. General Hood's visit would, if nothing else, relieve that boredom for a while.

A week later there was a Black Fleet hanging in the skies of Cape Town. Between twenty and thirty good-sized keels lay anchored to specially built masts. They swayed slightly in the warm wind from the west, each of them displaying the insignia of the Black Attila's so-called New Ashanti Empire: a black, rampant, snarling African lion in a scarlet circle. Hood claimed as an ancestor the famous Quacoo Duah, King of Ashanti in the 1860’s, and it was initially on the Gold Coast that he had begun to build his army - starting with a handful of Ashanti and Fanti nationalists pledged to the overthrow of the first native government of Ashantiland (as it had been renamed after Independence). Although the Black Horde consisted of members of all African peoples, as well as those from beyond Africa, it had somehow retained the name of Ashanti, just as the Roman Empire had kept its name even after it had few connections with Rome at all. Also the Ashanti people were well-respected throughout most of Africa, and since Hood claimed to be Quacoo Duah's direct descendant, it suited him to keep the name.

Many of those who had sworn to have nothing whatsoever to do with the whole affair were drawn reluctantly to the streets or their balconies, to watch the descent of Cicero Hood and his retinue from the flagship (diplomatically named the Chaka) which hung just above the main formation. For the first time we saw Hood's famous Lion Guard - huge, perfectly formed warriors with skins like polished ebony and proud, handsome features, drawn from all the tribes of Africa. On their heads were steel caps from which projected tall, nodding ostrich plumes dyed scarlet and orange. From their shoulders hung short cloaks made from the manes and skins of male lions. They wore short, sleeveless jackets of midnight blue, similar to the jackets worn by French Zouaves, trimmed with gold and silver braid, and tight cavalry-style britches to match. High boots of black, gleaming leather were on their feet and each man carried two weapons, symbolic of the Old and the New Africa - an up-to-date carbine on the back and a long-shafted, broad-bladed spear in the right hand. Standing in the open-air carriages, scarcely moving a muscle, their faces expressionless, they were undoubtedly amongst the most impressive soldiers in the world. Their carriages formed a perfect circle around that of General Cicero Hood himself - a carriage painted in splendid colours and flying the black and scarlet flag of the Black Attila's Empire. From where I stood on the roof of my apartment building (many of my colleagues were with me, including Korzeniowski) I could see that there were two. figures in the carriage, but I was too far away to make out details of their features, though it seemed to me that one of the occupants was white!

Upon landing, Hood and his Guard transferred to open electrical broughams and began a long procession through the streets of Cape Town that was received with surprising enthusiasm from many of the citizens (admittedly most of them Negroes), but I could see little of this procession from my vantage-point. I retired to the bar downstairs where a number of other officers were coming back from the street, where they had witnessed the scene. Not a few of the white and a number of the black officers had looks of grudging admiration on their faces, for there had been no doubt about the excellence of the stage-management involved in Hood's arrival. A man I knew • slightly who had been a land-fleet commander in India before he had joined the army of Bantustan (his name, as I recall, was Laurence), ordered himself a stiff brandy and drained it in a single swallow before turning to me and saying in a tone of awe: 'I say, Bastable, the chap's got a bally white woman in tow. Rum go, eh? His distaste for us doesn't seem to extend to the female of the species, what?'

Another acquaintance called Horton, who had been an officer in the Sierra Leone navy before that nation was annexed by Hood, said dryly: 'To the victor the spoils, old man.' There was a look of amusement on his brown face, and he winked at me, enjoying Laurence's discomfort.

'Well, I mean to say…' began Laurence, realizing his lack of tact. 'It's not that I feel…'

'It's just that you do.' Horton laughed and turned to order Laurence another drink. 'You think Hood's taken a white concubine as a sort of gesture. It could be that he finds her so attractive he doesn't care what colour she is. I've heard of Europeans falling in love with African women. Haven't you?'

Laurence's next point was undeniably a good one. 'But not Europeans with a deep loathing of Negroes, Horton. I mean, it rather shakes his case about us being such awful fiends, doesn't it?'

Horton grinned. 'Maybe he prefers the devil he knows.'

'I must admit,' put in a lieutenant who had begun his career in the Russian navy and who was called something like Kuriyenko, 'I wouldn't mind knowing her myself. What a beauty! I think she's the most ravishing creature I've ever seen. Good luck to Hood on that score, say I!'

The conversation continued on these lines for a while until those of us who had accepted invitations to attend the banquet had to leave to get ready. Korzeniowski and I and a party of other 'underwater sailors' were going together. Dressed in the simple, white dress-uniforms of the Bantustan navy, we left for the palace in a large carriage rather like an electrically powered char-a-banc, were met'at the steps and escorted into the great hall which normally housed the elected representatives of the people of Bantustan. Long tables had been laid out and each place was adorned with gold and silver plate and cutlery. We were privileged (if that is the word) to sit at the President's table and would thus be afforded a good chance of observing the infamous General Hood at close range.

When we were all seated, President Gandhi, General Hood and the general's lady consort entered through a door in the back of the hall and moved to take their places at the table.

I believe that I had by this time learned enough self-control not to register my surprise upon recognizing the woman whose hand was now placed on the arm of the despot who had become master of most of Africa and all of Europe. Our eyes met and she acknowledged me with a ghost of a smile before turning her head to say something to Hood. It was Una Persson! Now I knew why she had wished to return to Africa so speedily and why she had been reluctant to take me with her. Had she, even then, been keeping this association with the Black Attila?

General Hood was not what I expected. He was as tall as any member of his 'Lion Guard', but fairly slender, moving with what I can only describe as a sort of awkward grace. He wore perfectly cut conventional evening-dress which was entirely without decoration. I had expected a fierce-eyed warlord, but this man was close to middle age, with the distinguished air of a liigh-ranking diplomat. His hair and beard were greying a little and his large, dark eyes held a mildness which could only be deceptive. I was reminded, against my will, of a sort of black Abraham Lincoln!

President Gandhi was beaming. It seemed he had had a conversation with General Hood which had proved satisfactory to him. The little Indian was dressed, as always, in a light cotton suit of what we used to term 'Bombay cut'. They took their places and we, who had been standing, resumed ours. The meal began in a rather grim silence, but slowly the atmosphere improved. General Hot›d chatted amiably to President Gandhi, to the president's aides, and to Una Persson. I heard a little of the conversation - enough to know that it was the usual sort of polite small-talk which goes on among politicians on occasions like this one. From what might have been a mistaken sense of tact, I tried not to look at Miss Persson during the dinner and addressed myself primarily to the lady on my left who seemed to be obsessed with the notion of trying to breed back, in Africa, many of the species of bird-life which had been made all but extinct during the wars in Europe.

The meal was an excellent compromise between European and African dishes, and I think it is probably the best I have ever eaten, but we were on the sweet course before I was saved from the conversation of the amateur ornithologist on my left. Quite suddenly I heard the deep, mellow tones of General Hood speaking my name and I looked up in some embarrassment.

'You are Mr Bastable, then?'

I stuttered a reply to the effect that his information was correct. I was not even sure how one addressed a despotic conqueror who had on his hands the blood of hundreds of thousands of innocents.

'You have my gratitude, Mr Bastable.'

I was conscious of a decided lull in the conversation around me and I think I might have been blushing a little. I noticed that Miss Persson was smiling broadly at me, as was President Gandhi, and I felt very-foolish, for no particular reason.

'I have, sir?' was, I think, what I answered. It sounded inane to my ears and I tried to recover my equilibrium by reminding myself that this man, in spite of appearances, was the sworn enemy of my race. It was, however, difficult to maintain an attitude of disdain while at the same time behaving in a way which suited the social situation. I had accepted the invitation to dine at the palace and therefore had a duty to President Gandhi not to offend his guests.

General Hood laughed a deep, full-throated kugh. 'You saved the life of someone I hold very dear.' He patted Una Persson's hand. 'Surely you remember, Mr Bastable?'

I said that it had been nothing, that anyone would have done the same, and so on.

'You showed great courage, Miss Persson tells me.'

I made no answer to this. Then General Hood added: 'Indeed, if it had not been for you, Mr Bastable, it is unlikely that I should have been able to continue with certain military ambitions I have been entertaining. White though your skin is, I think you have the heart of a black man.'

A calculated irony, surely! He had managed to implicate me in his crimes and I think relished my embarrassment. Next he added:

'If, at any time, you wish to leave the employment of Bantustan, the Ashanti Empire could make use of your services. After all, you have already proved your loyalty to our cause.'

I saw the eyes of all the whites in the hall staring at me. It was too much. Seized by anger, I blurted back: 'I regret, sir, that my loyalty is to the cause of peace and the rebuilding of a sane world. The cold-blooded murder of the women and children of my own race is not something to which I could easily lend myself!'

Now the silence in the hall was total, but General Hood soon broke the atmosphere by leaning back in his chair, smiling and shaking his head. 'Mr Bastable, I have no dislike of the white man. In his place, he performs a large number of useful functions. I employ white men in a good many capacities. Indeed, there are individuals who show all the qualities I would value in an African. Such individuals are given every opportunity to shine in the Ashanti Empire. You have a poor impression of me, I fear - whereas I have nothing but respect for you.' He raised his glass to toast me. 'Your health, Mr Bastable. I am sincere in my offer. President Ghandi and I have been discussing exchanging emissaries. I shall put in a strong plea to him that you be among those invited to New Kumasi. There you shall see for yourself if I am the tyrant you have heard about.'

I was far too angry by now to make any sort of reply. President Gandhi tactfully drew General Hood into conversation and a little later Korzeniowski came up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder, leading me from the hall.

My emotions were, to put it mildly, mixed. I was torn between boiling anger, social embarrassment, loyalty to President Gandhi and his dream of peace, as well as my own responses to Hood himself. It was no surprise, now, that he had risen so swiftly to eminence in the world. Tyrant and murderer he might be, but it was undeniable that he had a magnetic personality, that he had the power to charm even those who hated him most. I had expected a swaggering barbarian and had encountered, instead, a sophisticated politician, an American (I learned later) who had been educated at Oxford and Heidelberg and whose academic career had been an outstanding one before he put down his books and took up the sword. I was shaking and close to tears as Korzeniowski took me back to my quarters and devoted himself to calming me down. But it was hours before I finished my mindless ranting. I drank a good deal, too, and I think that it was a combination of alcohol and emotional exhaustion which finally shut me up. One moment I was raging at the insults of the Black Attila and the next moment I had fallen face-forward to the floor.

Korzeniowski must have put me to bed. In the morning I woke up with the worst headache of my life, still in a filthy temper, but no longer capable of expressing it. It was a knocking at the door which had awakened me. My batman answered it and a short while later brought me my breakfast tray. On the tray was an envelope bearing the seal of the President himself. I pushed the tray aside and inspected the envelope, hardly daring to open it. Doubtless it contained some kind of reproof for my behaviour of the previous evening, but I was unrepentant.

I lay in bed, the envelope still in my hand, considering the answers I should have given Hood if I had had my wits about me.

I was determined not to be charmed by him, to judge him only by his actions, to remember how whole European cities had been destroyed by him and their populations enslaved. I regretted that I had mentioned none of this during our encounter. I have never believed in violent solutions to political problems, but I felt if there was one man who deserved to be assassinated it was Cicero Hood. The fact that he had received an excellent education only made him more of a villain in my eyes, for he had perverted that education in order to pursue his racial jehad. He might blandly deny his policies of genocide, but what he had done in the past few years spoke for itself. At that moment, I felt I could, like Caponi, cheerfully kill him with my bare hands.

It was Korzeniowski turning up that forced me to control myself. He stood at the end of my bed, looking down at me with a kind of sympathetic irony, asking me how I felt.

'Not too good,' I told him. I showed him the letter. 'I think I'm due for the sack. I'll be leaving Bantustan soon enough, I shouldn't wonder.'

'But you haven't opened the letter, old man.' I handed it up to him. 'You open it. Tell me the worse.' Korzeniowski went to my desk and took a paper-knife to slit the top of the envelope. He removed the contents - a single sheet of paper - and read it out in his precise, gutteral English:

'Dear Mr Bastable. If you have the time today, I should be grateful if you would visit me in my office. About five would be convenient for me, if that would suit you. Yours sincerely, Gandhi.'

Korzeniowski handed me the letter. 'Typical of him/ he said admiringly. 'If you have time, Mr Bastable. He is giving you the option. I shouldn't have thought that meant a carpeting, old chap, would you?'

I read the letter for myself, frowning. 'Then what on earth does it mean?' I said.

8. A DECISION IN COLD BLOOD

Needless to say, although I hemmed and hawed a lot, I eventually arrived, scrubbed and neat, at the presidential palace at five o'clock sharp and was immediately escorted into President Gandhi's office. The office was as plain and functional as all the rooms he used. He sat behind his desk looking, for him, decidedly stern, and I guessed that, after all, I was in for a wigging, that my resignation would be demanded. So I stood smartly to attention and prepared myself to take whatever the President was about to give me.

He got up, rubbing his balding head with the palm of his hand, his spectacles gleaming in the sun which flooded through the open window. 'Please sit down, captain.' It was rare for him to use a military title. I did as I was ordered.

'I have had a long talk with General Hood today,' Gandhi began. 'We have, as you know, been discussing ways of cementing good relations between Bantustan and the New Ashanti Empire. On most matters we have reached an amicable understanding, but there is one detail which concerns you. You know that I believe in free will, that it is not part of my beliefs to force a man to do something he does not wish to do. So I will put the situation to you and you must make up your own mind about it. General Hood was not joking last night when he offered you employment…'

'Not joking? I hope he was not, sir. I do not wish to be employed as a mass-murderer…'

President Gandhi raised his hand. 'Of course not. But General Hood, it seems, has taken a liking to you. He admired the way in which you answered him back last night.'

'I thought it a poor performance. I meant to apologize, sir.'

'No, no. I understand your position completely. You showed great self-control. Perhaps that was what Hood was doing - testing you. He is genuinely grateful for the part you played, apparently, in saving Miss Persson's life in England -and, I could be completely wrong, but I have the feeling he wants to vindicate himself in your eyes. Perhaps he sees you as representative of - in his terms - the better sort of white man. Perhaps he is tired of killing and actually does want to begin building a safer and saner world - though his present military plans seem to contradict that. Whatever the reason, Bastable, he has insisted that you be part of the diplomatic mission sent to his capital at New Kumasi - indeed, he has made it a condition. You will be the only, um, white member of the mission. Unless you go, he refuses to continue with our negotiations.'

'Well, sir, if those are not the actions of a madman, a despot, I do not know what they are!' I replied.

'Certainly, they are not based on the kind of logic I recognize. General Hood is used to having his way - particularly when.it comes to the fate of white men. I do not deny that. However, you know how important these talks are to me. I hope to influence the general - at least to temper his future policies towards those he conquers. Everything I have dreamed of is endangered - unless you consider that you can accept his terms. You must look to your own conscience, Mr Bastable. I do not want to influence you, I have already gone against my principles - I am aware that I am putting moral pressure on you. You must forget what I want and do only what you think is right.'

It was then that I reached what was perhaps the most coldblooded decision of my life. If I accepted, then I should be in an excellent position to get dose to Hood and, if necessary, put an end to his ambitions for good and all. I had contemplated assassination - now I was being given the opportunity to perform it. I decided that I would go to New Kumasi. I would observe the Black Attila's actions for myself. I would be Hood's jury and his judge. And if I decided that he was guilty -then I would take it upon myself to be his executioner!

Naturally, I said nothing of this to President Gandhi. Instead, I frowned, pretending to consider what he had said tome.

I think I was a little mad, then. It seems so to me now. The strain of finding myself in yet another version of history, of being in no way in control of my own destiny, was probably what influenced me to seek to alter events in this world. Still, I will not try to justify myself. The fact remains that I had decided to become, if necessary, a murderer! I will leave it to you, the reader, to decide on what sort of morality it is that justifies such a decision.

At last I looked up at President Gandhi and said:

'When would I have to leave, sir?'

Gandhi seemed relieved. 'Within two weeks. I must select the other members of the mission.'

'Have you any idea, sir, what part Miss Persson has played in this?'

'No,' he admitted. 'No clear idea. It could be quite a large one, for all I know. She seems to have considerable influence with General Hood. She is an extremely enigmatic woman.'

I was bound to agree with him.

It was with great regret that I said good-bye to Captain Korzeniowski and the other friends I had made in Cape Town. All felt that I had been forced into this position and I wished that I might confide in them my secret decision, but of course it was impossible. To share a secret is to share a burden and I had no intention of placing any part of such a burden on the shoulders of anyone else.

President Gandhi was sending some of his best people to New Kumasi - ten men, three women and myself. The others were either of Asian or African origin or of mixed blood. As the only white I did not feel out of place in their company, for I had long since become used to the easy terms on which the races mingled in Bantustan. In his choice, President Gandhi had shown that he was a shrewd as well as an idealistic politician, for two of the members of the mission were military experts briefed to observe all they could of General Hood's war-making capacity and discover as much intelligence as possible in respect of his long-term military ambitions. All, with the possible exception of myself, believed heart and soul in Gandhi's ideals.

The day came when we were ferried up to the waiting aerial frigate. Its hull was a gleaming white and it hung in the deep, blue sky like some perfectly symmetrical cloud, with the plain, pale-green flag of Bantustan flying from its rigging.

Within moments of our going aboard, the ship dropped its anchor-cables and began to head north-west towards the shining waters of St Helena Bay.

I looked back at the slender spires of Cape Town and wondered if I should ever see that city or my friends again. Then I put such thoughts from my head and gave myself up to polite conversation with my colleagues, all of whom were speculating on what they would find in New Kumasi and

how we might expect to be treated if relations between New Ashanti and Bantustan became strained. None of us were used to dealing with despots who had absolute powers of life and death over their subjects.

Twenty-four hours passed as we crossed the greater part of western Africa and hung, at last, in the air over General Cicero Hood's capital.

It was very different from Cape Town. Those new buildings which had been erected were of a distinctly African character and not, I must admit, unpleasant to look upon. A preponderance of cylindrical shapes topped by conical roofs reminded one somewhat of the kind of huts found in a typical kraal in the old days - but these 'huts' were many storeys high and built of steel, glass, concrete and modern alloys. The city was unusual, too, in that it seemed to be walled in the medieval manner, and on the walls was evidence that New Kumasi had been designed as a fortress - large guns could be seen, as well as 'pillbox' emplacements. The grandiose, barbaric lion flag of the Ashanti Empire flew everywhere, and military airships cruised around the perimeters like guardian birds of prey. Here there were no monorails or moving pavements or any of the other public-transport amenities of Bantustan's cities, but it was a well-run metropolis, as far as one could see - very much under the control of the army. Indeed, half the people I saw, after we had landed, were in uniform - both men and women. There was no sign of poverty, but no sign, either, of the bountiful wealth of Cape Town. The majority of the population were Negro and the only whites I saw seemed to be doing fairly menial tasks (one or two of the porters at the aerodrome were European) but were not evidently ill-treated. There were very few private vehicles in the streets, but a good many public omnibuses of, for this world, a slightly old-fashioned sort, running off wire-born electrical current. Other than these, there were a good many military vehicles moving about. Huge land ironclads rolled up and down the thoroughfares, evidently taking precedence over other vehicles. These were chiefly of the globular pattern, mounted on a wheeled frame but able, at a pinch, to release themselves from the frame and roll under their own volition, their speed and course being checked by telescopic legs which could be extended from most points on the hull. I had heard of these machines, but had never seen one at close quarters. If released upon a town, or an enemy position, they were capable of flattening it in moments without firing a shot from their powerful steam-powered gatlings and electrical cannon. I could imagine the terror one might feel when such a monster came rolling towards one.

In contrast, the Guard of Honour which greeted us and escorted us to General Hood's headquarters was mounted on tall, white stallions, and the carriages into which we climbed were much more familiar to me than the rest of my colleagues-for they were horse-drawn, rather like the landaus of my own world. The nodding plumes of the Lion Guard horsemen flanking us, the discipline with which they sat their mounts, reminded me graphically of that world which I so longed to return to but which, now, I was reconciled never to seeing again.

The Imperial Palace of New Ashanti recalled, in its impressive beauty, what I had seen of the famous Benin culture. Like so many of the other buildings, it was cylindrical and topped by a conical roof which stretched beyond the walls, umbrella-fashion, and was supported by carved pillars forming a kind of cloister or arcade faced with ivory, gold, bronze and silver, affording shade for the many guards who surrounded it. Every modern material and architectural skill had been used in the building of the palace, yet it was undeniably African, showing hardly any evidence of European influence. I was to learn later that it had been Cicero Hood's firm policy to encourage what he called 'the practical arts' in his Empire, and to insist that their expression be distinctly African in conception. As one who had seen many foreign cities of Asia ruined by ugly European-style architecture, who regretted the passing of ethnic and traditional designs in buildings, as well as many other things, I welcomed this aspect of Hood's rule, if no other.

Having had some experience of the petty tyrants of India, I fully expected the Black Attila to behave as they behaved and to keep us waiting for hours in his anterooms before we were granted an audience, but we were escorted rapidly through the exquisitely decorated passages of the palace and into a wide, airy hall lit from above by large windows, its walls covered with friezes and bas-reliefs of traditional African design but showing the events of the recent past in terms of the heroic struggles and triumphs of the New Ashanti Empire. Hood himself was recognizable as featuring in several scenes, including the Conquest of Scandinavia, and -there were representations of land fleets, aerial battles, underwater skirmishes and the like, giving the panels a very strange appearance -a mingling of ancient and almost barbaric emotions with examples of the most modern technical achievements of mankind.

At the opposite end of the hall from the great double doors through which we entered, stood a dais carpeted in zebra skin, and upon the dais (I was reminded, for a moment, of the King of East Grinstead) was placed a throne of carved ebony, its scarlet, quilted back bearing the lion motif one saw everywhere in New Kumasi.

Dressed in a casual, white tropical suit, Cicero Hood stood near his throne, looking out of a tall window. He turned when we were announced, dismissing the guards with one hand while keeping the other in his trouser pocket, crossing with a light step to a table where there had been arranged a variety of drinks and non-alcoholic beverages (Hood had doubtless been informed that there were several in our party who did not drink). He served each of us personally and then moved about the hall arranging chairs so that we might all be seated close together. No European king could have behaved with greater courtesy to guests he was determined to honour (and yet equally determined to impress, for he had made sure we saw all the outward signs of his power!).

He had taken the trouble to find out the names of each individual in our party and to know something of their interests and special responsibilities in Bantustan and he chatted easily with them, showing a good knowledge of most subjects and ready to admit ignorance where he had it. Again, I was surprised. These were by no means the swaggering ill-manners of a parvenu monarch. There had been kings and emperors in my own world who might have learned much of the art of noblesse oblige from the Black Attila.

He did not address me individually until he had talked for a while with the others, then he grinned at me and shook me warmly by the hand and I had the unmistakable impression that the tyrant actually liked me - a feeling I could not reciprocate and could not equate with my knowledge of his much-publicized hatred of the white race. My own response was polite, self-controlled, but reserved.

'I am so glad, Mr Bastable, that you could agree to come,' he said.

'I was not aware, sir, that I had a great deal of choice,' I answered. 'President Gandhi seemed to be under the impression that you had insisted on my being part of the mission.'

'I expressed the hope that you might be able to join it, certainly. After all, I must show impartiality.' This was said with a smile which doubtless he hoped would disarm me. 'The token European, you know.'

Deliberately or not, he had made me feel self-conscious by referring to the colour of my skin. Even a joke had the effect of emphasizing the difference we both felt, and it would not have mattered if the man who made it had been my best friend, I should still have had the same feelings, particularly since there were no other whites in the room.

Noting my discomfort, Cicero Hood patted me on the shoulder. 'I'm sorry, Mr Bastable. A remark in bad taste. But hard for the son of a slave to resist, I'm sure you'd agree.'

'It would seem to me, sir, that your own success would be sufficient to help you forget any stigma…'

'Stigma, Mr Bastable?' His voice hardened. 'I assure you that I do not feel it as a stigma. The stigma, surely, belongs to those who enslaved my people in the first place.'

It was a good point. 'Perhaps you are right, sir,' I mumbled. I was no match for Hood's intellectual swiftness.

Hood's manner instantly became condescending again. 'But you are right. I have mellowed in the last year or two, thanks, in some measure, to the good fortune I have had. I have only one goal left and then I shall be content. However, that goal is the most difficult I have set myself, and I have a feeling I shall meet strong resistance from a certain Power which has, up to now, remained neutral.'

'You mean the Australasian-Japanese Federation, sir?' This was Field-Marshal Akari, the man we had elected as chief spokesman for our mission. A distinguished officer and one of President Gandhi's oldest friends and supporters, he was owed much by Bantustan and had frequently acted as the President's deputy in the past. 'Surely they would not risk everything they have built up over the last few years? They cannot feel threatened by Ashanti!'

'I am afraid that they do, field-marshal,' said Hood in a tone of the utmost regret. 'It would seem that they regard the Pacific as their territory and they have had some news of my plans - I have made no secret of them - and feel that if my ships begin to sail "their" ocean it will only be a matter of time before I cast greedy eyes upon their islands.'

Mrs Nzinga, but lately Minister of Communications in Gandhi's government, said quietly: 'Then you intend to attack the United States? Is that what you mean, sir?'

Hood shrugged. 'Attack is not the word I would choose, Mrs Nzinga. My intention is to liberate the black peoples of the United States, to help them build a new and lasting civilization there. I know that I am thought of as a senseless tyrant by many - embarked upon a crazy course of genocide -a war of attrition against the whites - but I think there is a method to my "madness". For too long the so-called "coloured" peoples of the world have been made to feel inferior by the Europeans. In many parts of Africa an awful, soul-destroying apathy existed until I began to show those I led that the whites had no special skills, no special intelligence, no special rights to rule. My speeches against the whites were calculated, just as my nationalism was calculated. I knew that there was little time, after the War, to make the gains I had to make. I had to use crude methods to build up my resources, my territory, the confidence of those I led. I happen to believe, rightly or wrongly, that it is time the black man had a chance to run the world. I think if he can rid himself of the sickness of European logic, he can make a lasting Utopia. I admire President Gandhi, Mrs Nzinga - though you might find that strange in a "bloody-handed tyrant". I have not threatened Bantustan because I fear your military strength. I want Bantustan to continue to exist because it is a symbol to the rest of the world of an ideal state. But it is Bantustan's good fortune, not any special virtue, which has made it what it is. The rest of the world is not so fortunate and if President Gandhi tried to set up his state, say, in India he would find that it would not last for long! First the world must be united - and the way to unite it is to form large empires - and the way to form large empires, I regret, madam, is by war and bloodshed - by ferocious conquest.'

'But violence will be met by violence,' said Professor Hira, whose university programme had been such a success in Bantustan. A small, tubby man, his shiny face positively glowed with emotion. 'Those you conquer will, sooner or later, try to rise up against you. It is in the nature of things.'

'Risings of the sort you describe, professor,' said General Hood grimly, 'are only successful where the government is weak. Tyrannies can last for centuries - have lasted for centuries - if the administration remains firmly in control. If it cultivates in itself the Stoic virtues. If it is, in its own terms, just. My Empire has been compared with that of Rome. The Roman Empire did not fall - it withered away when it was no longer of any use. But it left behind it a heritage of philosophy alone which has continued to influence us all.'

'But you saw Western thinking as having brought us to the brink of world annihilation,' I put in.

'In some ways only. That is not the point, however. I described an example. I believe that African thinking will produce a saner, more lasting civilization than that of the West.'

'You have no proof of this,' I said.

'No. But a theory must be tested to be duproved, Mr Bas-table. I intend to test the theory and to ensure that the test is thorough. The experiment will continue long after my death.'

There was nothing much I could reply to this without getting involved in abstractions. I subsided.

'You may see my ambitions in America as being motivated merely by revenge,' Cicero Hood continued, 'but I wish to build something in the country of my birth as strong as that which I am building here. The whites of the United States are decadent - perhaps they have always been decadent. A new enthusiasm, however, can be generated amongst the blacks. I intend to put power into their hands. I intend to liberate America. Have you not heard what is happening there now? Having no real enemy to fight any longer, the whites turn, as always, upon the minorities. They wiped out the Red Indians - now they plan to wipe out the Negroes. It is the spirit of Salem - the corrupting influence of Puritanism which in itself is a perversion of the Stoic ideal - infecting what remains of a nation which could have set an example to the world, just as Bantustan now sets an example. That spirit must be exorcised for good and all. When the whites are conquered they will not be enslaved, as we were enslaved. They will be given a place in the New Ashanti Empire; they will be given a chance to earn their way to full equality. I shall take their power from them - but I shall not take their dignity. The two have been confused for too long. But only a black man realizes that - for he has had the experience during centuries of exploitation by the whites!'

It was a noble speech (even if I was sceptical of its logic), but I could not resist, at last, making a remark which General Hood was bound to find telling.

'It is possible, General Hood,' I said, 'that you can convince us that your motives are idealistic, but you have told us yourself that the Australasian-Japanese Federation is not so convinced. There is every chance that they will be able to thwart your scheme. What then? You will have risked everything and achieved nothing. Why not concentrate on building Africa into a single great nation? Forget your hatred of the United States. Let it find its own solutions. The A.J.F. is probably as powerful as the Ashanti Empire…'

'Oh, probably more powerful now!' It was the clear, sweet voice of Una Persson that interrupted me. She had entered through a door behind Hood's throne. 'I have just received confirmation, General Hood, of what I suspected. O'Bean is in Tokyo. He has been there, it seems, since the outbreak of the war. He has been convinced that Ashanti represents a further threat to the world. He has been working on plans for a new fleet for nearly two years. Already a score of his ships have been built in the shipyards of Sydney and Melbourne and are ready to sail. Unless we mobilize immediately, there is every chance that we shall be defeated.'

General Hood's response was unexpected. He looked first at me, then at Una Persson, then he threw back his head and he laughed long and heartily.

'Then we mobilize,' he said. 'Oh, by all means - we mobilize. I am going home, Miss Persson. I am going homel'