"Oswald Bastable - 02 - The Land Leviathan" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moorcock Michael)

the Morning, which, by 1973, would contain the Utopian city built by General
Shaw, the Warlord of the Air, and called Ch'ing Che'eng Ta-chia (or, in English,
roughly Democratic Dawn City). Even if he had gone there - and found nothing -he
could easily have disappeared into the vastness of the Asian continent and as
easily have perished in one of the minor wars or uprisings which constantly
ravaged those poor and strife-ridden lands.
Therefore I continued to lead my conventional life, putting the whole perplexing
business of Captain Bastable as far into the back of my mind as possible,
although I would patiently send his original manuscript to a fresh publisher
every time it came back from the last. I also sent a couple of letters to The
Times in the hope that my story of my meeting with Bastable would attract the
attention of that or some other newspaper, but the letters were never published,
neither, it seemed, were any of the popular monthlies like the Strand
interested, for all that their pages were full of wild and unlikely predictions
of what the future was bound to hold for us. I even considered writing to Mr H.
G. Wells, whose books Anticipations and The Discovery of the Future created such
a stir a few years ago, but Mr Wells, whom I understood to be a full-blooded
Socialist, would probably have found Bastable's story too much out of sympathy
with his views and would have ignored me as cheerfully as anyone else. I did
draft a letter, but finally did not send it.
It was about this time that it was brought to my attention that I was beginning
to earn a reputation as something of a crank. This was a reputation I felt I
could ill afford and it meant that I was forced, at last, to come to a decision.
I had been noticing, for several months, a slightly odd atmosphere at my London
club. People I had known for years, albeit only acquaintances, seemed reluctant
to pass the time of day with me, and others would sometimes direct looks at me
which were downright cryptic. I was not particularly bothered by any of this,
but the mystery, such as it was, was finally made clear to me by an old friend
of mine who was, himself, a publisher, although he concentrated entirely on
poetry and novels and so I had never had occasion to submit Bastable's
manuscript to him. He knew of it, of course, and had initially been able to give
me the names of one or two publishers who might have been interested. Now,
however, he approached me in the library of the club where, after lunch, I had
gone to read for half an hour. He attracted my attention with a discreet cough.
'Hope you don't mind me interrupting, Moorcock.'
'Not at all.' I indicated a nearby chair. 'As a matter of fact I wanted a word
with you, old boy. I'm still having trouble placing that manuscript I mentioned
.. .'
He ignored my offer of a chair and remained standing.
'That's exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. I've been meaning to speak
to you for a month or two now, but to tell you the truth I've had no idea of how
to approach you. This must sound like damned interference and I'd be more than
grateful if you would take what I have to say in the spirit it's meant."
He looked extraordinarily embarrassed, squirming like a schoolboy. I even
thought I detected the trace of a blush on his cheeks.
I laughed.
'You're making me extremely curious, old man. What is it ?'
'You won't be angry - no - you've every reason to be angry. It's not that I
believe -'
'Come on, out with it.' I put my book down and gave him a smile. 'We're old