The Land Leviathan (A Nomad of the Time Streams Novel) by Michael Moorcock

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. 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, enquiring, as I sampled the delicious soup (served, in Western fashion, before the main courses): “Any news of your father, Captain Korzeniowski?”
    It was her turn to frown in puzzlement, and then her brow cleared and she laughed. “Aha! 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.”
    Once again she had politely—almost sweetly—blocked my questions. I decided to proceed on a new tack.
    “This village has sustained a bombardment by the look of it,” I said. “Have you been attacked?”
    She answered vaguely. “It was attacked, yes. By General Liu, I believe, before we arrived. But one gets used to ruins. This is better than some I have known.” Her eyes held a distant, moody look, as if she were remembering other times, other ruins. Then she shrugged and her expression changed. “The world you know is a stable world, Mr. Moorcock, is it not?”
    “Comparatively,” I said. “Though there are always threats, I suppose. I have sometimes wondered what social stability is. It is probably just a question of points of view and personal experience. My own outlook is a relatively cheerful one. If I were, say, a Jewish immigrant in London’s East End, it would probably not be anything like as optimistic!”
    She appreciated the remark and smiled. “Well, at least you accept that there are other views of society. Perhaps that is why Bastable talked to you; why he liked you.”
    “Liked me? It is not the impression I received. He disappeared, you know, after our meeting on Rowe Island—without any warning at all. I was concerned for him. He was under a great strain. That, I suppose, is the main reason why I am here. Have you seen him recently? Is he well?”
    “I have seen him. He was well enough. But he is trapped—he is probably trapped forever.” Her next phrase was addressed to herself, I thought. “Trapped forever in the shifting tides of Time.”
    I waited for her to elaborate, but she did not. “Bastable will tell you more of that,” she said.
    “Then he is here?”
    She shook her head and her hair swayed like the branches of a willow in the wind. She returned her attention to the meal and did not speak for a while as we ate.
    Now I had the strange impression that I was not quite real to her, that she spoke to me as she might speak to her horse or a household pet or a familiar picture on her wall, as if she did not expect me to understand and spoke only to clarify her own thoughts. I felt a little uncomfortable, just as someone might feel who was an unwilling eavesdropper on an intimate conversation. Yet I was determined to receive at least some clarification from her.
    “I gather that you intend to take me to Bastable—or that Bastable is due to return here?”
    “Really? No, no. I am sorry if I have misled you. I have many things on my mind at present. China’s problems alone... The historical implications... The possibility of so much going wrong... Whether we should be interfering at all... If we are