Free The Steel Tsar by Michael Moorcock

with a crash, nodding goodnight to me, and heaving his huge bulk away to his own quarters.
    Now, save for the Ghoorkas on guard outside, I was the only one up. I felt exhausted but not particularly sleepy. I decided to go outside and see if I could detect any activity in the town.
    As I entered the lobby I heard voices by the main entrance. I peered out, but the oil lamp wasn’t bright enough to show me anything. I opened the door. One of the Ghoorka guards was shouting at a man I could dimly see in the moonlight. The Ghoorka gestured with his bayoneted rifle and the man turned away. For a moment I saw his face in the faint glow from the lamp in the lobby. I pushed past the soldier and hurried outside.
    “Dempsey? Is that you?”
    He looked back. His shoulders were bowed and his jacket had been ripped. His face was deathly pale, his eyelids almost closed. “Hello, Bastable.” The speech was slurred. “Thought this was my hotel.”
    “It is.” I went towards him and took a limp arm. “Come inside.”
    The Ghoorkas made no attempt to stop us as I led Dempsey into Olmeijer’s. The man was staggering and shivering. A dry retching noise came from his throat. He was gripping something tightly in his right hand. There was no point in questioning him and I did my best to get him up the stairs and along the passage to his room.
    The door was unlocked. I half-carried Dempsey in, let him sit on the bed while I lit the oil lamp.
    The light revealed a room which was surprisingly neat. The bed was made up and there was no litter. In fact, the room was completely impersonal. I got Dempsey onto the bed and he stretched out with a sigh. The shivering came in brief spasms now. He blinked and looked up at me as I took his pulse. “Thank you very much, Bastable,” he said. “I thought I might have a word with you.”
    “You’re in bad shape,” I said. “Better sleep if you can.” “They’re looting down there,” he said. “Killing each other. Perhaps it’s something in the air...” He coughed and then started to choke. I got him upright and tried to prise the packet he held from his fingers, but he reacted angrily, with surprising strength. He pulled his hand away. “I can look after myself now, old man.” There were tears in his eyes as he sank back onto the pillow. “I’m just tired. Sick and tired.”
    “Dempsey, you’re killing yourself. Let me—”
    “I hope you’re right, Bastable. It’s taking too bloody long, though. I wish I’d had the guts to do it properly.”
    I stood up, telling him that I would call back later to see how he was. He closed his eyes and seemed to fall asleep.
    I experienced that feeling of impotence common to many who have themselves experienced the relief of drug addiction. I knew only too well that there was little I could do for the poor, tormented wretch. He could only help himself. And Dempsey seemed genuinely haunted, perhaps by a special insight into things as they really were, perhaps by something in himself, some aspect of his own character which he could not reconcile with his moral outlook. For it was becoming increasingly clear that Dempsey, in spite of his denials, had a very moral outlook and that he didn’t think much of himself.
    I went to my own room along the passage and took off my jacket and trousers. I lay down on the bed in the darkness, listening to the insects hurling themselves against the woven wire of the window screens. Moonlight flooded the room. Soon I fell into a light sleep.
    * * *
    I woke up suddenly.
    My door was creaking as it slowly opened and I looked around for a weapon, thinking that the coolies had attacked the hotel while I slept.
    Then, with a sigh of relief, I saw that it was Dempsey. He was leaning almost nonchalantly on the door handle. His face was as pale as ever but he seemed to have recovered his strength.
    “Sorry to disturb you, Bastable.”
    “Do you need help?” I got up and pulled on my trousers.
    “Perhaps I do. There isn’t