I stood there, puzzled, chilled, miserable and too weary to question her further. She rode to where Mr Lu's goods lay scattered about and beneath the corpses of men and horses. She dismounted and stooped to inspect one shattered figurine, dipped her finger into the hollow which had been revealed and lifted the finger to her nose. Then she nodded to herself as if confirming something she had already known. Then she began to give orders to her men in rapid Cantonese dialect which I could scarcely follow at all. Carefully, they began to gather up both the fragments and the few figurines which were still unbroken. It did not take a particularly subtle intelligence to put two and two together. Now I knew why Mr Lu had taken such an oddly circuitous route and why he had been eager to leave the troop train as soon as possible. Plainly, he was an opium smuggler. I found it hard to believe that such an apparently decent and well-educated man could indulge in so foul a trade, but the evidence was indisputable. For some reason I could not find it in my heart to loathe the dead man and I guessed that some sort of perverted idealism had led him to this means of making money. I also had an explanation of the general's interest in Mr Lu's goods - doubtless the bandit chief had guessed the truth, which was why he had been so eager to 'requisition' the articles.
The booty was collected quickly and Una Persson mounted her sleek stallion without another glance at me, riding off through the rain. One of her silent warriors brought me a
horse and signalled for me to climb into the saddle. I did so with eagerness, for I had no intention of becoming separated from the beautiful bandit leader - she was my first real link with Bastable and there was every chance she would take me to him. I felt no danger from these rascals and had an inkling that Una Persson was, if not sympathetic, at least neutral with regard to me.
Thus, surrounded by her men, I followed behind her as we left that little vale of death and the remnants of Mr Lu's party and cantered along a narrow track which wound higher and higher into the mountains.
I was hardly aware of the details of that journey, so eaten up was I with curiosity. A thousand questions seethed in my skull - how could a woman who had been described by Bastable as being young in the year 1973 be here, apparently just as young, in the year 1910? Once again I experienced that almost fearful frisson which I had experienced when listening to Bastable's speculations on the paradoxes of Time.
And would Democratic Dawn City - Ch'ing Che'engTa-chia - that secret Utopian revolutionary citadel be there when we arrived in the Valley of the Morning?
And why was Una Persson taking part in China's internecine politics? Why did these tall, silent men follow her?
I hoped that I would have at least some answers to these questions when we arrived in the Valley of the Morning, but, as it emerged, I was to be in several ways disappointed.
It was after dark by the time that we reached Una Persson's camp and the rain had fallen ceaselessly, so that it was still difficult to make out details, but it was obvious that this was no City of the Future - merely the ruins of a small Chinese township with a few houses still inhabitable. For the most part, however, the soldiers and their women and children lived in makeshift shelters erected in the ruins, while others had set up tents or temporary huts similar to the Mongolian yurt. Cooking-fires guttered hete and there amongst the fallen masonry and half-burned timbers which spoke of some disaster having befallen the town fairly recently. Much of the ground had been churned to mud and was made even more treacherous by the arrival of our horses. As I dismounted Una Persson rode up and pointed with a riding-crop at one of the still-standing houses.
'You'll be my guest for supper, I hope, Mr Moorcock.'
'You are kind, madam,' I replied. 'But I fear I am not properly dressed to take supper with such a beautiful hostess…'
She grinned at the compliment. 'You are picking up Chinese habits of speech, I see. Your clothes were rescued. You'll find them in your room. San Chui here will show you where it is. You'll be able to wash there, too. Until later, then.' She saluted me with the crop and rode off to supervise the unloading of her spoils (which also consisted of most of the weapons which had a short while ago belonged to Mr Lu's and the general's men). I had an opportunity to see one of the machine-guns I had initially only heard and was astonished that it was so light and yet so capable of dealing out death with extraordinary efficiency. This, too, was of a completely unfamiliar pattern. Indeed, it was the sort of weapon I might have expected to find in a city of the future!
San Chui, impassive as his comrades, bowed and led the way into the house, which was carpeted in luxurious style throughout but was otherwise of a somewhat Spartan appearance. In a room near the top of the house I found my baggage and my spare suit already laid out on my sleeping-mat (there was no bed). Shortly afterwards another soldier, who had changed into a smock and trousers of blue linen, brought me a bowl of hot water and I was able to get the worst of the mud and dust off my person, find a reasonably uncrumpled shirt, don the fresh suit and walk down to supper safe in the conviction that I was able to make at least an approximate appearance of civilized demeanour I
I was to dine alone, it seemed, with my hostess. She herself had changed into a simple gown of midnight-blue silk, trimmed with scarlet in the Chinese fashion. With her short hair and her oval face she looked, in the light of the candles burning on the dining-table, almost Chinese. She wore no ornament and there was no trace of paint on her face, yet she looked even more beautiful than the first time I had seen her. When I bowed it was instinctively, in homage to that beauty. The ground-floor room held the minimum of furniture - a couple of chests against the walls and a low Chinese table at which one sat cross-legged on cushions to eat.
Without inquiry, she handed me a glass of Madeira and I thanked her. Sipping the wine, I found it to be amongst the very best of its kind and I complimented her on it.
She smiled. 'Don't praise my taste, Mr Moorcock. Praise that of the French missionary who ordered it in Shanghai -and who is still, I suppose, wondering what has become of it.’
I was surprised by her easy (even shameless) admission of her banditry, but said nothing. Never having been a great supporter of the established Church, I continued to sip the missionary's wine with relish, however, and found myself relaxing for the first time since I had left civilisation. Although I had so many questions to ask her, I discovered myself to be virtually tongue-tied, not knowing where to begin and hoping that she would illuminate me without my having to introduce the subject, say, of Bastable and how she came to know him when the last I had heard of her she had been aboard the airship which had, in the year 1973, dropped a bomb of immense power upon the city of Hiroshima. For the first time I began to doubt Bastable's story and wonder if, indeed, he had been describing nothing but an opium dream which had become confused with reality to the extent that he had introduced actual people he had known into it.
We seated ourselves to eat and I decided to begin in a somewhat elliptical manner, inquiring, as I sampled the delicious soup (served, in Western fashion, before the main courses): 'And might I ask after your father, Captain Kor-zeniowski?'
It was her turn to frown in puzzlement, and then her brow cleared and she laughed. 'Aha I Of course - Bastable. Oh, Korzeniowski is fine, I think. Bastable spoke well of you - he seemed to trust you. Indeed, the reason that you are here at all is that he asked me to do a favour for him.'
'A favour?'
‘More of that later. Let us enjoy our meal - this is a luxury for me, you know. Recently we have not had the leisure or the means to prepare elaborate meals.'