Read Online The Warlord of the Air by Michael Moorcock - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Moorcock
Ads: Link
commercial, having the names of their lines painted on their sides and decorated rather more elaborately than, for instance, the Pericles .
The doctor came up alongside as my bed bumped across the grass. “How are you feeling?”
“Better, thanks. Where are we?”
“Don’t you recognize it? It’s Katmandu. Our headquarters are here.”
Katmandu! The last time I had seen the city it had been very distinctly an Eastern capital with architecture in the age-old style of these parts. But now in the distance, beyond the great mooring towers, I could see tall white buildings rising up and up, storey upon storey, so that it seemed they almost touched the clouds. Certainly there were Nepaulese buildings, too, but these were completely dwarfed by the soaring white piles. I noticed something else before I was lifted into the motor-van—a long ribbon of steel, raised on a series of grey pillars, which stretched away from the city and disappeared over the horizon.
“And what is that?” I asked the doctor.
He looked puzzled. “What? The monorail? Why, just a monorail, of course.”
“You mean a train runs along that single track?”
“Exactly.” He paused as he got into the van with me and the doors closed with a soft hiss of air. “You know, Bastable, your surprise is damned convincing. I wish I knew what was really wrong with you.”
I decided to propose my lie. “Could it be amnesia, doctor?” There was a soft bump as the van began to move. But I did not hear the familiar clatter of an internal-combustion engine. “What’s powering this thing?”
“What did you expect? It’s steam, of course. This is an ordinary Stanley flash-fired steamer van.”
“Not a petrol engine?”
“I should hope not! Primitive things. The steam motor is infinitely more efficient. You must know all this, Bastable. I’m not saying you’re deliberately trying to deceive me, but...”
“I think you’d better assume that I’ve forgotten everything but my name, doctor. All the rest is probably a delusion I went through. Something brought on by exposure and despair at ever being rescued. You’ll probably find I’m the survivor of a mountain climbing expedition which disappeared some time ago.”
“Yes.” He spoke in some relief. “I thought it might be mountain climbing. You can’t remember going up? What the names of the others were—things like that?”
“Afraid not.”
“Well,” he said, satisfied, “we’re beginning to make a start, at any rate.”
Eventually the van stopped and I was wheeled out again. this time onto a raised loading platform plainly designed for the purpose, through a pair of doors (which opened apparently without human agency) and into a clean, bright corridor until I reached a room which was equally clean and bright—and featureless.
“Here we are,” said the doctor.
“And here is?”
“The Churchill Hospital—named after the late Viceroy, Lord Winston. Did a lot for India, did Churchill.”
“Is that the Churchill who wrote the books? The war reports? The chap who charged with the 21st Lancers at Omdurman in ’98?”
“I think so. That was early on in his career. You certainly know your history!”
“Well, he must have settled down a lot,” I smiled, “to have become the Viceroy of India!”
The doctor offered me another strange look. “Aye, well, Captain Bastable. You’ll only be in Katmandu a day or two—until the hospital train leaves for Calcutta. I think you need a specialist in—amnesia. The nearest is at Calcutta.”
I held my tongue. I was about to wonder, aloud, if Calcutta had changed as much as Katmandu.
“And it’s peaceful, these days,” I said, “around here, is it?”
“Peaceful? I should hope so. Oh, there’s the odd bit of trouble from extreme nationalist groups from time to time, but nothing serious. There haven’t been any wars for, what, a hundred years.”
“My amnesia is bad,” I said, smiling.
He stood awkwardly at my bedside.
The doctor came up alongside as my bed bumped across the grass. “How are you feeling?”
“Better, thanks. Where are we?”
“Don’t you recognize it? It’s Katmandu. Our headquarters are here.”
Katmandu! The last time I had seen the city it had been very distinctly an Eastern capital with architecture in the age-old style of these parts. But now in the distance, beyond the great mooring towers, I could see tall white buildings rising up and up, storey upon storey, so that it seemed they almost touched the clouds. Certainly there were Nepaulese buildings, too, but these were completely dwarfed by the soaring white piles. I noticed something else before I was lifted into the motor-van—a long ribbon of steel, raised on a series of grey pillars, which stretched away from the city and disappeared over the horizon.
“And what is that?” I asked the doctor.
He looked puzzled. “What? The monorail? Why, just a monorail, of course.”
“You mean a train runs along that single track?”
“Exactly.” He paused as he got into the van with me and the doors closed with a soft hiss of air. “You know, Bastable, your surprise is damned convincing. I wish I knew what was really wrong with you.”
I decided to propose my lie. “Could it be amnesia, doctor?” There was a soft bump as the van began to move. But I did not hear the familiar clatter of an internal-combustion engine. “What’s powering this thing?”
“What did you expect? It’s steam, of course. This is an ordinary Stanley flash-fired steamer van.”
“Not a petrol engine?”
“I should hope not! Primitive things. The steam motor is infinitely more efficient. You must know all this, Bastable. I’m not saying you’re deliberately trying to deceive me, but...”
“I think you’d better assume that I’ve forgotten everything but my name, doctor. All the rest is probably a delusion I went through. Something brought on by exposure and despair at ever being rescued. You’ll probably find I’m the survivor of a mountain climbing expedition which disappeared some time ago.”
“Yes.” He spoke in some relief. “I thought it might be mountain climbing. You can’t remember going up? What the names of the others were—things like that?”
“Afraid not.”
“Well,” he said, satisfied, “we’re beginning to make a start, at any rate.”
Eventually the van stopped and I was wheeled out again. this time onto a raised loading platform plainly designed for the purpose, through a pair of doors (which opened apparently without human agency) and into a clean, bright corridor until I reached a room which was equally clean and bright—and featureless.
“Here we are,” said the doctor.
“And here is?”
“The Churchill Hospital—named after the late Viceroy, Lord Winston. Did a lot for India, did Churchill.”
“Is that the Churchill who wrote the books? The war reports? The chap who charged with the 21st Lancers at Omdurman in ’98?”
“I think so. That was early on in his career. You certainly know your history!”
“Well, he must have settled down a lot,” I smiled, “to have become the Viceroy of India!”
The doctor offered me another strange look. “Aye, well, Captain Bastable. You’ll only be in Katmandu a day or two—until the hospital train leaves for Calcutta. I think you need a specialist in—amnesia. The nearest is at Calcutta.”
I held my tongue. I was about to wonder, aloud, if Calcutta had changed as much as Katmandu.
“And it’s peaceful, these days,” I said, “around here, is it?”
“Peaceful? I should hope so. Oh, there’s the odd bit of trouble from extreme nationalist groups from time to time, but nothing serious. There haven’t been any wars for, what, a hundred years.”
“My amnesia is bad,” I said, smiling.
He stood awkwardly at my bedside.
Similar Books
