The Steel Tsar by Michael Moorcock Page A

me in.”
    “Good man.” He patted my shoulder.
    That night we assembled in twos and threes at Olmeijer’s shop. The Dutchman was not in evidence. He would have been too portly to have squeezed himself into the tunnel Nye and his rugger chums had been digging. It was usual to meet in the hut in the evening, to play table tennis or the variety of board games supplied by the Red Cross. We had only occasional trouble from the guards, who were inclined to look in on us at random. Because they did not check our numbers, we stood a fair chance of all getting down the tunnel before they suspected anything. A few of the airshipmen had elected to stay behind to cover us.
    Nye was to go first and I was to go last. One by one the men disappeared into the earth. And it was as I was about to follow them that I realized Fate was almost certainly singling me out for unusual punishment. Wilson walked though the door of the hut.
    I was halfway down. I think I remember smiling at him weakly.
    “My lord, old man! What are you up to?” He asked. Then he brightened. “An escape, eh? Good show. A secret, is it? Shan’t breathe a word. I take it anyone can join in.”
    “Um,” I said. “Actually Nye...”
    “My pal Nye, eh? His idea. Jolly good. That’s all right with me, old man. I trust Nye implicitly. And he’d want me along.”
    One of the airshipmen near the window hissed that a couple of guards were on their way.
    I ducked into the tunnel and began to wriggle along it. There was no time to argue with Wilson. I heard his voice behind me.
    “Make way for a little ’un.”
    I knew that he had joined me in the tunnel before the light vanished as the airshipmen above replaced the floor boards.
    I seemed to crawl for eternity, with Wilson muttering and apologizing, constantly bumping into my feet, criticizing what he called the “poor engineering job” of the tunnel. He wondered why they hadn’t thought of asking him for his expert help.
    We emerged into sweet-smelling darkness. Behind us was the wire and the lights of the camp. We were close to the earth road which wound down to the harbour. Nye and the merchant seamen were whispering and gesticulating in the darkness, just as if they were still choosing sides for a game.
    Wilson said in a voice which seemed unnaturally loud, even for him: “What’s the problem? Need a volunteer?”
    Nye came up to me urgently. “Good God, man. Why did you tell him?”
    “I didn’t. He found out just as the guards were on their way.”
    “I thought you could do with an extra chap,” said Wilson. “So I volunteered. Don’t forget I’m an expert engineer.”
    I heard someone curse and murmur: “Shoot the blighter.” Peewee, of course, was oblivious.
    Nye sighed. “We’d better start getting down to the harbour. If we’re separated—”
    He was interrupted by the unmistakable growl of airship engines high overhead. “Damn! That complicates things.”
    The sound of the engines grew louder and louder and it was evident that the ships were coming in lower. We began to duck and weave through the shrubs and trees at the side of the road, heading for the harbour.
    Then, suddenly, there was light behind us, and gunfire, the steady pounding of artillery. A dying scream as a bomb descended some distance from the camp. Up the road came several trucks full of soldiers, as well as a couple of armoured cars and some motor-bicycles. The firing continued until I realized that the ships were attacking. Something whizzed past me, just above my head. It felt like a one-man glider. These ingenious devices were far more manageable than parachutes in landing troops. It seemed there was a raid on and we had become caught in the middle of it.
    Nye and his lads decided not to vary from their plan. “We’ll use the confusion,” he said.
    Wilson called: “I say, steady on. Perhaps we should wait and see what—”
    “No time!” shouted Nye. “We don’t know what this is all about. Let’s get to that