Yet I was still reluctant to embark upon what was likely to be a long and exhausting expedition. For all that I had completely believed Bastable, I had no evidence at all to substantiate my theory that he had gone back to the Valley of the Morning, which, by 1973, would contain the Utopian city built by General Shaw, the Warlord of the Air, and called Ch'ing Che'eng Ta-chia (or, in English, roughly Democratic Dawn City). Even if he had gone there - and found nothing -he could easily have disappeared into the vastness of the Asian continent and as easily have perished in one of the minor wars or uprisings which constantly ravaged those poor and strife-ridden lands.
Therefore I continued to lead my conventional life, putting the whole perplexing business of Captain Bastable as far into the back of my mind as possible, although I would patiently send his original manuscript to a fresh publisher every time it came back from the last. I also sent a couple of letters to The Times in the hope that my story of my meeting with Bastable would attract the attention of that or some other newspaper, but the letters were never published, neither, it seemed, were any of the popular monthlies like the Strand interested, for all that their pages were full of wild and unlikely predictions of what the future was bound to hold for us. I even considered writing to Mr H. G. Wells, whose books Anticipations and The Discovery of the Future created such a stir a few years ago, but Mr Wells, whom I understood to be a full-blooded Socialist, would probably have found Bastable's story too much out of sympathy with his views and would have ignored me as cheerfully as anyone else. I did draft a letter, but finally did not send it.
It was about this time that it was brought to my attention that I was beginning to earn a reputation as something of a crank. This was a reputation I felt I could ill afford and it meant that I was forced, at last, to come to a decision. I had been noticing, for several months, a slightly odd atmosphere at my London club. People I had known for years, albeit only acquaintances, seemed reluctant to pass the time of day with me, and others would sometimes direct looks at me which were downright cryptic. I was not particularly bothered by any of this, but the mystery, such as it was, was finally made clear to me by an old friend of mine who was, himself, a publisher, although he concentrated entirely on poetry and novels and so I had never had occasion to submit Bastable's manuscript to him. He knew of it, of course, and had initially been able to give me the names of one or two publishers who might have been interested. Now, however, he approached me in the library of the club where, after lunch, I had gone to read for half an hour. He attracted my attention with a discreet cough.
'Hope you don't mind me interrupting, Moorcock.'
'Not at all.' I indicated a nearby chair. 'As a matter of fact I wanted a word with you, old boy. I'm still having trouble placing that manuscript I mentioned…'
He ignored my offer of a chair and remained standing.
'That's exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. I've been meaning to speak to you for a month or two now, but to tell you the truth I've had no idea of how to approach you. This must sound like damned interference and I'd be more than grateful if you would take what I have to say in the spirit it's meant."
He looked extraordinarily embarrassed, squirming like a schoolboy. I even thought I detected the trace of a blush on his cheeks.
I laughed.
'You're making me extremely curious, old man. What is it?'
'You won't be angry - no - you've every reason to be angry. It's not that I believe -'
'Come on, out with it.' I put my book down and gave him a smile. 'We're old friends, you and I,'
'Well, Moorcock, it's about Bastable's manuscript. A lot of people - mainly in publishing, of course, but quite a few of them are members of the club - well, they think you've been duped by the chap who told you that story.'
'Duped?' I raised my eyebrows.
He looked miserably at the carpet. 'Or worse,' he murmured.
'I think you'd better tell me what they're saying.' I frowned. 'I'm sure you mean well and I assure you that I'll take anything you have to say in good part. I've known you too long to be offended.'
He was plainly relieved and came and sat down in the next chair. 'Well,' he began, 'most people think that you're the victim of a hoax. But a few are beginning to believe that you've turned a bit - a bit eccentric. Like those chaps who predict the end of the world all the time, or communicate with the astral plane, and so on. You know what I mean, I suppose.'
My answering smile must have seemed to him a bit grim. 'I know exactly what you mean. I had even considered it. It must seem a very rum go to someone who never met Bastable. Now you mention it, I'm not surprised if I'm the gossip of half London. Why shouldn't people think such things about me? I'd be tempted to think them myself aboutyou if you came to me with a story like Bastable's. As it is, you've been extremely tolerant of me!'
His smile was weak as he tried to acknowledge my joke. I went on:
'So they think I'm a candidate for Colney Hatch, do they? Well, of course, I've absolutely no proof to the contrary. If only I could produce Bastable himself. Then people could make up their own minds about the business.'
'It bos become something of an obsession,' suggested my friend gently. 'Perhaps it would be better to drop the whole thing?'
'You're right - it is an obsession. I happen to believe that Bastable was telling the truth.'
'That's as may be…'
'You mean I should stop my efforts to get the account into print."
There was a hint of sorrow in his eyes. 'There isn't a publisher in London, old man, who would touch it now. They have their reputations to think of. Anyone who took it would be a laughing-stock. That's why you've had so much trouble in placing it. Drop it, Moorcock, for your sake and everyone else's.'
'You could be right.' I sighed. 'Yet, if I could come up with some sort of proof, possibly then they would stop laughing.'
'How could you find the proof which would convince them?'
'I could go and look for Bastable in China and tell him the trouble he's caused me. I could hope that he would come back to London with me - talk to people himself. I could put the matter into his hands and let him deal with his own manuscript. What would you say to that?'
He shrugged and made a gesture with his right hand. 'I agree it would be better than nothing.'
'But your own opinion is that I should forget all about it. You think I should burn the manuscript and have done with it, once and for all?'
"That's my opinion, yes. For your own sake, Moorcock -and your family's. You're wasting so much of your time - not to mention your capital.'
'I know that you have my interests at heart,' I told him, 'but I made a promise to Bastable (although he never heard me make it) and I intend to keep it, if I can. However, I'm glad that you spoke to me. It took courage to do that and I appreciate that it was done with the best of intentions. I'll think the whole thing over, at any rate.'
'Yes,' he said eagerly, 'do think it over. No point in fighting a losing battle, eh? You took this very decently, Moorcock. I was afraid you'd chuck me out on my ear. You had every right to do so.'
Again I laughed. 'I'm not that much of a lunatic, as you can see. I haven't lost all my common sense. But doubtless anyone with common sense would listen to me and become convinced that I was a lunatic! Whether, however, I have enough common sense to put the whole obsession behind me is quite another matter!'