The Warlord of the Air by Michael Moorcock Read Free Book Online Page B

waving and yelling for all I was worth!

CHAPTER FOUR
An Amateur Archaeologist
    I must have seemed a pretty strange sight myself, with my filthy body clad in rotting clothes, dancing and roaring like a madman among the ruins of that ancient city, just as if I were some castaway of old who had at last caught sight of the schooner which could save him. But it did not look as if this schooner of the air had seen me. Imperturbably it sailed on, heading towards the distant northern mountains, its four great engines thumping out their smooth, regular beat, turning the massive, whirling screws which apparently propelled the vessel.
    It passed over the ruins and seemed to be continuing on its course, as unaware of me as it might have been of a fly settling on its side.
    The engines stopped. I waited tensely. What would the balloon do next? It was still moving forward, carried on by its own momentum.
    When the engines started again their sound was more high-pitched. I sank down in despair. Possibly the flyers (assuming there were men in the monster) had thought they had seen something but then decided it was not worth stopping to investigate. A tremor ran through the great silver bulk and then, very slowly, it began to drift backwards—back to where I sat panting and anxious. The screws had been put into reverse, rather as the screws on a steamer are reversed.
    Again I leapt up, my face splitting into a huge grin. I was to be saved—even if it were by the strangest flying machine ever invented.
    S oon the great bulk—the size of a small steamer itself—was over my head, blotting out the sky. Half-crazy with joy, I continued to wave. I heard distant shouts from above but could not distinguish the words. A siren started to blow, but I took this to be a greeting, like a ship’s whistle.
    Then, suddenly, something dropped from the ship. I was struck savagely in the face and smashed backwards against the rock. I gasped for breath, unable to understand the reason for the attack or, for that matter, what missile had been used.
    Blinking, I sat up and peered around me. For yards in all directions the ruins glistened wetly—and there were several huge puddles now in evidence. I was soaked through. Was this some rather bad joke at my expense—their way of telling me that I needed a bath? It seemed unlikely. Shakily, I got up, half-expecting the airship to send down another mass of water.
    But then I realized that the vessel was sinking rapidly towards the ruins, looming low in the sky, still sounding its siren. It was lucky for me it had not carried sand as ballast—for ballast was what that water had been! Much lightened, the balloon was able to come to my assistance with less risk to itself.
    Soon it was little more than twenty feet above me. I stared hard at the slogan on its side, at the Union Jacks on its tail-fins. There was no question of its reality. I had once seen an airship flown by Mr. Santos-Dumont, but it had been a crude affair compared with this giant. There had been a great deal of progress in the last couple of years, I decided.
    Now a circular hatch was opened in the bottom of the metal gondola and amused British faces peered over the lip.
    “Sorry about the bath, old son,” called one in familiar Cockney tones, “but we did try to warn you. Understand English?”
    “I am English!” I croaked.
    “Blimey! Hang on a minute.” The face disappeared.
    “All right,” said the face, reappearing. “Stand clear there.”
    I stepped back nervously, expecting another drenching, but this time a rope ladder snaked down from the hatch. I ran forward and grabbed it in relief but as soon as my hand clasped the first rung I heard a yell from overhead:
    “Not yet! Not yet! Oh, Murphy, the idiot! The—”
    I missed the rest of the oath for I was being dragged over the rocks until I managed to let go of the rung and fall flat on my face. The flying machine had yawed round a fraction in the sky—a fraction being a good few