The Warlord of the Air

  There is nothing like a Chinese sunrise. A great watery sun appeared over the horizon and the whole land was turned to soft tones of pink, yellow and orange as we approached a line of sand-coloured hills. I felt that we offended such beauty with our battered, noisy airship full of so many cutthroats of various nationalities.

  Then we were flying over the hills themselves and Shaw told us to slow our speed. He issued more rapid orders in Cantonese and one of his men left the bridge and made for the ladder which would lead him onto the outer catwalk on the top of the hull. Plainly the man was to make some sort of signal that we were friendly.

  Then, suddenly, we were over a valley. It was a deep, wide valley through which a river wound. It was a green, lush valley which seemed to have no business in that rocky landscape. I saw herds of cattle grazing. I saw small farmhouses, rice fields, pigs and goats.

  “Is this the valley?” I asked.

  Shaw nodded. “This is the Valley of the Morning. And look, Mr Bastable—there is my ‘camp’....”

  He pointed ahead. I saw high, white buildings, separated by patches of greenery. I saw fountains splashing and nearby were the tiny figures of children at play.

  Over this modern township there flew a large, crimson flag—doubtless Shaw’s battle flag. I was astonished to see such a settlement in these wilds and even more astonished to learn that it was Shaw’s headquarters. It seemed so peaceful, so civilised!

  Shaw was grinning at me, wholly amused by my surprise.

  “Not bad for a barbarian warlord, eh? We built it all ourselves. It has every amenity—and some which even London cannot boast.”

  I looked at Shaw through new eyes. Bandit, pirate, murderer he might be—but he must be something more than these to have built such a city in the Chinese wilderness.

  “Haven’t you read my publicity, Mr Bastable? Perhaps you haven’t seen the Shanghai Express recently. They are calling me the Chinese Alexander! This is my Alexandria. This is Shawtown, Mr Bastable!” He was chuckling like a schoolboy, delighted at his own achievements. “I built it. I built it.”

  My first shock of amazement died away. “Perhaps you did,” I murmured, “but you built it from the flesh and bones of those you have murdered and painted it with the same crimson blood which stains your flag.”

  “A rather rhetorical statement for you, Mr Bastable. As it happens, I am not normally much of a hand at murder. I’m a soldier, really. You appreciate the difference?”

  “I appreciate the difference, but my experience has shown me that you are not anything more than a murderer, ‘General’ Shaw.”

  He laughed again. “We’ll see, we’ll see. Now—look over there. Do you recognise her? There—on the other side of the city? There!”

  I saw her at last, her huge bulk moving gently in the wind, her mooring ropes holding her close to the ground. And I recognised her, sure enough.

  “My God!” I exclaimed. “You’ve got the Loch Etive!”

  “Yes,” he said eagerly, again like a schoolboy who has added a rather good new stamp to his collection.

  “That’s her name. She’s to be my flagship. At this rate I’ll soon have my own airfleet. What d’you think of that, Mr Bastable? Soon I’ll control not only the ground, but the air as well. What a warlord I shall be! Something of a warlord, eh?”

  I stared at his eager, glowing face and I could think of no reply. He was not mad. He was not naive. He was not a fool. He was, in fact, one of the most intelligent men I had ever encountered. He baffled me absolutely.

  He had thrown back his head and was laughing joyfully at his own cleverness—at his own wholly gargantuan act of cheek in stealing what was perhaps the finest and biggest aerial liner in the skies!

  “Oh, Mr Bastable!” His half-Chinese features were still creased with mirth. “What larks, Mr Bastable! What larks!”

  Chapter III

  Chi’ng Che’eng Ta-Chia

  THERE WERE NO MOORING masts on the flat space outside the city and so ropes had to be flung down to waiting men who manhandled the ship until the gondola touched the ground. Then cables and ropes were pegged into the earth, holding The Rover as, further away, the Loch Etive was held.

  As we disembarked, under the suspicious gaze of Shaw’s armed bandits, I expected to see coolies come hurrying up to strip the ship of its cargo, but the men who arrived were healthy, well-dressed fellows whom I first mistook for clerks or traders. Shaw had a word with them and they began to go aboard the airship, showing no subservience of the sort normally shown to bandit chieftains by their men. In fact the pirates who disembarked with their guns and knives and bandoliers, their ragged silks, sandles and beaded headbands, looked distinctly out of place here. Shortly after landing, they climbed into a large motor wagon and steamed away towards the far end of the valley. “They go to join the rest of the army,” Shaw explained. “Chi’ng Che’eng Ta-Chia is primarily a civilian settlement.”

  I was helping Captain Korzeniowski, supporting one elbow while Una Persson supported the other. Dutchke strode moodily ahead of us as we moved towards the town. Korzeniowski was better today and his old intelligence had returned. Behind us streamed the crewmen of The Rover, looking about them in open amazement.

  “What was that name you used?” I asked the ‘General’.

  “Chi’ng Che’eng Ta-Chia—it’s hard to translate. The name of the city yonder.”

  “I thought you called it Shawtown.”

  He burst into laughter again, his great frame shaking, his hands on his hips. “My joke, Mr Bastable! The place is called—well—Democratic Dawn City, perhaps? Dawn City Belonging to Us All? Something like that. Call it Dawn City, if you like. In the Valley of the Dawn. The first city of the New Age.”

  “What New Age is that?”

  “Shuo Ho Ti—his New Age. Do you want the translation of my Chinese name, Mr Bastable? It is ‘One Who Makes Peace’—The Peacemaker.”

  “Now that isn’t a bad joke at all,” I said grimly as we strode over the grass towards the first tall, elegant buildings of Dawn City. “Considering that you’ve just murdered two English officers and stolen a British airship. How many people did you have to kill to get your hands on the Loch Etive?”

  “Not many. You must meet my friend Ulianov—he will tell you that the ends justify the means.”

  “And what exactly are your ends?” I grew impatient as Shaw flung an arm round my shoulders, his bland Oriental face beaming.

  “First—the Liberation of China. Driving out all foreigners—Russians, Japanese, British, Americans, French—all of them.”

  “I doubt if you’ll manage it,” I said. “And even if you did, you’d probably starve. You need foreign money.”

  “Not really. Not really. Foreigners—particularly the British with their opium trade—ruined our economy in the first place. It will be hard to build it up again alone, but we shall do it.”

  I said nothing to this. His were evidently messianic dreams, not unlike those of old Sharan Kang—he believed himself much more powerful than he actually was. I almost felt sorry for him then. It would only take a fleet of His Majesty’s aerial battleships to turn his whole dream into a nightmare. Now that he had committed acts of piracy against Great Britain he had become something more than a local problem to be dealt with by the Chinese authorities.

  As if reading my thoughts, he said, “The passengers and crew of the Loch Etive make useful hostages. Mr Bastable. I doubt if we’ll be attacked by your battleships immediately, eh?”

  “Perhaps you’re right. What are your plans after you have liberated all China?”

  “The world, of course.”

  It was my turn to laugh. “Oh, I see.”

  He smiled a secret smile, then. “Do you know who lives in Dawn City Mr Bastable?”

  “How could I? Members of your government-to-be?”

  “Some of those, yes. But Dawn City is a town of outlaws. There are exiles here from every oppressed country in the world. It is an international
settlement.”

  “A town of criminals?”

  “Some would call it that.” We were now strolling through wide streets flanked by willows and poplars, grassy lawns and bright beds of flowers. From the open window of one of the houses drifted the sound of a violin playing Mozart. Shaw paused and listened, the crew of The Rover coming to a straggling halt behind us. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Very fine. A phonograph?”

  “A man. Professor Hira. He’s an Indian physicist. Because of his nationalist sympathies he was put in prison. My men helped him escape and now he is continuing his research in one of our laboratories. We have many laboratories—many new inventions. Tyrants hate original thinking. So the original thinkers are driven to Dawn City. We have scientists, philosophers, artists, journalists—even a few politicians.”

  “And plenty of soldiers,” I said harshly.

  “Yes, plenty of soldiers—lots of guns and stuff,” he said vaguely as if slightly put out by my interruption.

  “And it will all be wasted,” said Dutchke suddenly, turning to look back at us. “Because you wish to control too much power, Shaw.”

  Shaw waved a languid hand. “I have been lucky in that, Rudy. I have the power. I must use it.”

  “Against fellow comrades. I was expected in Brunei. A revolt was planned. Without me there to lead it, it would have collapsed. It must have collapsed by now.” I stared at him. “You know each other?”

  “Very well,” Dutchke said angrily. “Too damn’ well.”

  “Then you, too, are a socialist?” I said to Shaw.

  Shaw shrugged. “I prefer the term communist, but names don’t matter. That is Dutchke’s trouble—he cares about names. I told you, Rudy, that the British authorities were waiting to arrest you, that the Americans already knew there was something suspicious about The Rover when you reached Saigon. Your telephone operator must have been sending out secret messages to them. But you wouldn’t listen—and Barry and the telephone man died because of your obstinacy!”

  “You had no right to take over the ship!” shouted the German count. “No right at all.”

  “If I had not, we should all be in some British jail by now—or dead.”

  Korzeniowski said weakly, “It’s all over. Shaw has presented us with a fait accompli and there it is. But I wish you had better control over your men, Shaw.... Poor Barry wouldn’t have shot you, you know that.”

  “They didn’t know it. My army is a democratic army.”

  “If you’re not careful they’ll destroy you,” Korzeniowski continued. “They serve you only because they consider you the best bandit in China. If you try to discipline them, you’ll find them cutting your throat.”

  Shaw accepted this. He led the way up a concrete path towards a low pagoda-style building. “I do not intend to rely on them much longer. As soon as my air-fleet is ready...”

  “Air-fleet!” snorted Dutchke. “Two ships?”

  “Soon I’ll have more,” Shaw said confidently. “Many more.”

  We entered the cool gloom of a hallway. “It is old-fashioned to rely on armies, Rudy,” Shaw went on. “I rely on science. We have many projects nearing fruition—and if Project NFB is successful, then I think I’ll disband the army altogether.”

  “NFB?” Una Persson frowned. “What’s that?”

  Shaw laughed. “You are a physicist, Una—the last person I should tell anything to at this stage.”

  A European in a neat, white suit appeared in the hallway. He smiled at us in welcome. He had grey hair, a wrinkled face.

  “Ah, Comrade Spender. Could you accommodate these people here for a while?”

  “A pleasure, Comrade Shaw.” The old man walked to a section of the blank wall and passed his hand across it. Instantly a series of rows of coloured lights appeared on the wall. Some of them were red, but most were blue. Comrade Spender studied the blue lights thoughtfully for a moment then turned back to us. “We have the whole of Section Eight free. One moment, I’ll prepare the rooms.” He touched a bank of blue lights and they changed to red. “It is done. All operating now.”

  “Thank you, Comrade Spender.”

  I wondered what this peculiar ritual could mean.

  Shaw led us down a corridor with wide windows which looked out onto a forecourt in which several fountains were playing. The fountains were in the latest styles of architecture—not all entirely to my taste. We came to a door with a large figure 8 stencilled on it. Shaw pressed his hand against the numeral and said: “Open!” At once, the door slid upwards, disappearing into the ceiling. “You’ll have to share rooms, I’m afraid,” said Shaw. “Two of you in each room. There’s everything you need and you can communicate any other wants by means of the telephones you’ll find. Goodbye for now, gentlemen.” He turned and the door slid down behind him. I went up to it and put my palm against it.

  “Open!” I said.

  As I expected, nothing happened. Somehow the door was keyed to recognise Shaw’s hand and voice! This certainly was a city of scientific marvels!

  After some discussion and a general pacing about and testing of the windows and doors, we realised there was no easy means of escape.

  “You’d better share a room with me, I suppose,” said Dutchke, tapping me on the shoulder. “Una and the Captain Korzeniowski can go next door.” The crewmen were already entering their rooms, finding that the doors opened and shut on command.

  “Very well,” I said distastefully.

  We entered our room and found that there were two beds in it, a writing desk, wardrobes, chests of drawers, bookshelves filled with a wide variety of fiction and non-fiction, a telephone communicator and something with a milky-blue surface which was oval in shape and unidentifiable. Our windows looked out onto a sweet-scented rose-garden, but the glass was unbreakable and the windows could only be opened wide enough to let in the air and the scent. Pale blue sleeping suits had been laid on the beds. Ignoring the suit, Rudolph von Dutchke flung himself on the bed fully clothed, turning his head and giving me a bleak smile.

  “Well, Bastable, now that you’ve met a real, full-blooded revolutionary, I must look pretty pale in comparison, eh?”

  I sat down on the edge of the bed and began to remove my boots, which were pinching. “You’re all as bad,” I said. “All that makes Shaw different from you is that his madness is that much grander—and a thousand times more foolish! At least you confined your activities to what was possible. He dreams of the impossible.”

  “That’s what I like to think,” Dutchke said seriously. “But there again—he’s built Dawn City up a lot since I was here last. And one would have thought it impossible to steal a liner the size of the Loch Etive. And there’s no doubting that his scientific gadgets—this whole apartment building, for instance—are in advance of anything which exists in the outside world.” He frowned. “I wonder what Project NFB could be?”

  “I don’t care,” I said. “My only wish is to get back to the civilisation I know—a sane world where people behave with a reasonable degree of decency!”

  Dutchke smiled patronizingly. Then he sat up and stretched. “By God, I’m hungry! I wonder if we get any food?”

  “Food,” said a voice from nowhere. I watched, fascinated, as a face appeared in the milky-blue oval. It was a Chinese girl. She smiled and continued. “What would you like to eat, gentlemen? Chinese food—or European?”

  “Let’s have some Chinese food, by all means,” said Dutchke without consulting me. “I’m very fond of it. What have you got?”

  “We will send you a selection.” The girl’s face vanished from the screen.

  A few moments later, while we were still recovering from that experience, a section of the wall opened to reveal an alcove in which sat a tray piled high with all kinds of Chinese delicacies. Eagerly Dutchke sprang up, seized the tray and placed it on our table.

  Forgetting for an instant everything but the mouthwatering smell of the food, I began to eat, wondering, not for the f
irst time, if this were not perhaps some fantastically detailed dream induced by Sharan Kang’s drugs.

  Chapter IV

  Vladimir Ilyitch Ulianov

  AFTER EATING I washed, dressed myself in the sleeping suit and climbed beneath the quilt covering the bed. The bed was the most comfortable I had ever slept in and soon I was fast asleep.

  I must have slept through the rest of the day and the whole of the night, for I awoke the next morning feeling utterly splendid! I was able to look back on the events of the past few days with a philosophical acceptance I found surprising in myself. I still believed Korzeniowski, Dutchke, Shaw and the rest totally misguided, but I could see that they were not inhuman monsters. They really believed they were working for the good of people they considered to be ‘oppressed’.

  I was feeling so rested I wondered if perhaps the food had been drugged, but when I turned my head I saw that Dutchke had evidently not slept as well. His eyes were red-rimmed and he was still in his outdoor clothes, his hands behind his head, staring moodily at the ceiling.

  “You don’t look too happy, Count von Dutchke,” I said, getting up and moving towards the wash-basin.

  “Why have any of us reason to be happy, Mr Bastable?” He uttered a sharp, bitter laugh. “I am cooped up here at a time when I should be out in the world, doing my work. I’ve no relish for Shaw’s theatrical revolutionary posturings. A revolutionist should be silent, unseen, cautious...”

  “You’re not exactly unknown to the world,” I pointed out, jumping a little as boiling hot water issued from the tap. “Your picture is frequently in the newspapers. Your books are widely distributed, I understand.”

  “That is not what I meant.” He glared at me and then shut his eyes, as if to blot my presence from his mind.

  I was faintly amused by the rivalries I had witnessed among the anarchists—or socialists or communards or whatever they chose to call themselves. Each seemed to have an individual dream of how the world should be ordered and resented all other versions of that dream. If they could only agree on certain essentials, I thought, they would be rather more effective.