Текст книги "The Return of the Discontinued Man"

Автор книги: Mark Hodder

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He received sounds of confirmation from Burton and Swinburne.

“The immense calculating power of the helmets,” Gooch went on, “is made possible by an inconceivably complex electromagnetic pattern existing within the diamond dust; a pattern that employed Edward Oxford’s mind as its template. When he was killed by El Yezdi in 1840, his terminal emanation—a powerful burst of energy from the brain—instantly overwrote it, but since this matched what was already there, there was no untoward effect.” He stood back. “The damaged suit didn’t fare so well. Its electrical composition was already badly impaired by prolonged exposure to the madness of the Oxford who’d become known as Spring Heeled Jack, and when he died, whatever vestiges of sanity that remained in it were erased by his last mental gasp.”

Passing back along the side of the bench, Gooch reached out and picked up the helmet. “This is a truly remarkable machine. It can enter a state called ‘self-repair mode,’ which allows its internal components to alter their function in order to carry out whatever maintenance is necessary. Had we, like the other histories, only the one ruined suit, we would have rerouted what power remained in its Nimtz generator to the headpiece, hoping that somehow, in its insanity, there was retained sufficient an instinct for self-preservation to instigate repairs. Perhaps it would have somehow reordered its synthetic intelligence.” He turned the helmet in his hands. “But we were lucky. We had this pristine version, which is why Mr. Babbage created that—” He jerked his chin toward the box-like affair. “A Field Amplifier.”

Burton swayed slightly, in the grip of a synaesthesia that suddenly made the sound of Gooch’s voice a floral scent, turned the scene before him into a symphony of visceral sensations, and transformed the oily odour of the workshop into a melodious purring. He glanced at the glowing tip of his cigar. It was a miniature sun.

“With it,” Gooch went on, “we intended to record the electrical pattern present in this helmet and copy it across to the defective one, replacing the insanity therein.”

“Marvellous!” Swinburne exclaimed. “What went wrong?”

“Charles has a curious sense of occasion. To him, every event is a mathematical formula and its every possible outcome an elaboration of the calculation. Applying this hypothesis to the suits, he proposes that they manipulate a single great equation—a stupendous envisioning of time’s structures and processes—and that by observing coincidences and sequences, he might one day comprehend it. This is why today’s anniversary was significant, and why he initiated the experiment at exactly nine o’clock.”

Charles Babbage suddenly came out of his self-absorption, stepped forward, and slapped a hand down onto the worktop. “The synthetic intelligence is responsive, not active. I could not have issued the command independently.”

A particularly violent bolt of lightning whipped through one of the overhanging globes. The crackling detonations echoed around the massive hall, and the white light momentarily illuminated the normally shadowed sockets of the scientist’s eyes, revealing a fanatical glint within.

Burton felt the inexplicable suspicion that, rather than being present in Battersea Power Station, he was somewhere entirely different.

From afar, he heard Swinburne cry out, “Command? What command? My hat! In all the many histories, is there a single Charles Babbage who can get to the confounded point?”

As the king’s agent splintered into innumerable renditions of himself, Gooch said, “At the exact moment the Field Amplifier accessed the ruined headpiece, a bubble of chronostatic energy formed around the damaged time suit. It sliced through Isambard’s wrist, popped, and the suit, along with our friend’s hand, vanished.”

“It travelled into time,” Babbage snarled. “Of its own accord.”

From amid the complex of jointed metal limbs that hung from the centre of the ceiling like angular jungle lianas, one emerged with a sword clutched in its mechanical digits. Gently, it tapped the blade first against Captain Richard Francis Burton’s right shoulder, then against his left.

The king’s agent stood, now a Knight of the Most Distinguished Order of Saint Michael and Saint George.

Due to the damage done to the monarch’s vocal apparatus during the attack on Buckingham Palace, a white-stockinged royal equerry had spoken the words of the ceremony. Burton felt relieved by this. King Ernest Augustus I was demented at the best of times, and the past three months had been far from the best. Had he been able to express himself, he’d no doubt have ranted endlessly about the violence done to him—for the palace was, in effect, his own body; his limbs were built into every part of it, all controlled from the Crown Room, where his brain floated in a tank of vital fluids. The destruction of the western wing had been the equivalent of having an arm blown off. His Majesty was nettled, to say the least.

Burton took three steps back, bowed, and returned to his seat.

“Did your leg fall asleep?” whispered Monckton Milnes, who was sitting to his left.

“No. Why do you ask?”

“You were limping.”

Burton made a sound of puzzlement. “Was I? By Allah’s beard, I do feel a little strange. My mind was wandering all over the place. I imagined myself to be at Battersea Power Station.”

“Maybe it wasn’t just the leg, then,” his friend suggested, sotto voce. “Perhaps all of you fell asleep. I wouldn’t be at all surprised, despite the occasion. Not after what you’ve been through.”

“I was daydreaming, that’s all. You know I have no patience for these official functions. When can we get out of this asylum?”

“Shhh! The walls have ears.”

Burton mentally kicked himself. “I mean no disrespect to the king, but I was probably thinking of Battersea Power Station because I have to be there by nine o’clock. Babbage is activating Oxford’s suit.”

An abstruse thought intruded. What? Again?

“These ceremonies don’t usually occur so late in the day,” Monckton Milnes observed, “but His Majesty spent all morning with his architects, and the meeting went past its allotted hours. It’s rumoured that he wants the palace rebuilt and made the tallest edifice in the city. I expect he’s eager to get back to his plans and sketches, which is why, believe it or not, formalities are proceeding at such a rapid pace.”

“This is rapid?”

“By comparison to the norm. Be patient, there are only three more to be knighted, then we’ll depart.”

One of the palace footmen gave them an uncompromising glare. They stopped their whispering.

Burton ran his forefinger around his collar. It was too tight. He’d forgotten how uncomfortable a freshly laundered army uniform could be.

Wearily, he endured the pomp and protocols.

Forty minutes later, in the reception hall, the foppishly attired Lord Palmerston approached him and drawled, “My dear Sir Richard, may I be the first to congratulate you.”

“On what, sir?”

“Your title, man! Your title!”

“Ah. Thank you, Prime Minister.”

“I’ve read your report. The Mystery of the Malevolent Mediums. Do you intend to give all your accounts such lurid titles?”

“I felt it appropriate. It was a dramatic affair.”

“I can’t disagree with that. Is it really over?”

“Nietzsche is dead, sir—in our time, in his own, and across all the other versions of history.”

Burton couldn’t shake a curious sensation of unfamiliarity. The environment felt unutterably askew. Even the words that came out of his mouth felt wrong.

“And the future war?” Palmerston asked.

“That rests with you. Now we know it’s coming, you have the opportunity to develop policies that will steer us along another course. There’s no need for the conflict to erupt in 1914. We have fifty-four years in which to prevent it.”

Palmerston rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm. Or fifty-four years in which to prepare. Perhaps it would be better to spend that time undermining Prussia and the Germanic states rather than indulging them.”

“That might send us into battle earlier.”

“Nietzsche told you the conflict is inevitable. If that’s the case, better we strike hard and when least expected than not at all.”

Burton shrugged and murmured, “As the premier, it’s your choice to make. I don’t envy you.”

Palmerston hemmed and hawed.

“I have to go,” Burton said. “There’s business to take care of at the Department of Guided Science.”

“The what?”

“The—the—I’m sorry, I meant to say, at the Federation of Mechanics.”

“A rather unusual slip of the tongue.”

“It’s this uniform. It’s too tight. I’m hot and uncomfortable. Can’t think straight.”

“Hmm. So what are the Empire’s boffins up to? Anything I should be aware of?”

“No, sir, I don’t think so.”

The prime minister nodded distractedly and waved him away.

Burton returned to Monckton Milnes, who was flirting—fruitlessly, as usual—with Nurse Florence Nightingale.

“I’ll see you at Bartolini’s at eleven.”

“The Cannibal Club convenes,” Monckton Milnes confirmed. “I’ll be there.”

Burton made for the exit but was intercepted by Detective Inspector Krishnamurthy, a handsome young Scotland Yard man of Indian extraction who was sporting a shiny new medal on his jacket.

“It’s done, sir.”

“All of them?” Burton asked.

“Yes. Countess Sabina and Isabella Mayson killed the last at two o’clock this morning. It was hunting Sergeant Honesty through the British Museum.”

“Bismillah! Is he all right?”

“Unharmed. The countess has confirmed that not a single berserker remains.”

“Good show. What of Trounce?”

“His eye can’t be saved, but he’ll pull through.”

“Thank you, Maneesh. I’m sorry about Shyamji. Your cousin was a good man.”

“Yes, sir, he was. A brave one, too.”

Burton left the chamber and stepped out of the palace into thick London fog. He stopped, frowned, and tried to identify whatever it was he appeared to have forgotten. Nothing occurred to him, but the sense that something vital had been misplaced didn’t go away. He snapped his fingers irritably and walked on, passing along the edge of the parade ground to the Royal Mews.

He came to the stables. His mechanical horse raised its head as he approached. It whirred, “You need to wind me up. My spring is slack.”

“Hello, Orpheus. Slack? Have you been gallivanting? I told you to stay still.”

“I know, but I felt restless. You’ve been in there for ages. I needed to stretch my legs.”

Pulling the key from its housing in the horse’s side, Burton inserted it into the hole beneath the steed’s decorative tail and began to rotate it. Speaking over the loud ratcheting, he said, “Your legs are metal. They can’t be stretched.”

“I was speaking metaphorically.”

“I shall have words with Babbage. I’m not sure a mechanical horse should know how to employ metaphors.”

“While you’re at it, you could ask Isambard Kingdom Brunel to completely redesign me.”

“You say that every single time I wind you up.”

“Because it’s humiliating.”

“You don’t possess emotions.”

“Having a key shoved up my arse on a regular basis appears to have instilled them in me.”

“And you become ever more bothersome each time your spring is tightened.”

“If you want a dumb steed, buy a fleshy one. You’ll find its maintenance a far less convenient affair. Hay must be shoved into one end, and it emerges rather messily from the other. I assure you, in our relationship, I’m the one that suffers.”

“You never stop reminding me.”

Having fully rewound the horse, Burton clicked the key back into its bracket and hoisted himself up onto the saddle. “Take me to Battersea Power Station.”

“Walk, trot, or gallop?”

“A brisk walk, please.”

Orpheus headed toward the palace gates. “I didn’t include a brisk walk among the options. In my book, it qualifies as a trot.”

“Just be quiet and try not to get lost.”

“I can’t get lost. The route is engraved into my memory. I could navigate it blindfolded.”

“How about gagged?”

“Well! Really!”

They left the palace and proceeded along Buckingham Palace Road in the direction of Chelsea Bridge. The fog was so thick that when Burton extended an arm his fingertips disappeared into it. Sounds were muffled and darkness hung over the city, penetrated here and there by nebulous balls of orange light that may have been street lamps, windows, or distant suns; it was impossible to tell.

There were very few people out and about. The weather wasn’t solely to blame; the recent invasion of berserkers had terrified the entire city. People weren’t yet convinced the danger had passed.

The stench of the Thames assaulted his nostrils. Bazalgette’s new sewer system promised to solve the problem, but the tunnels had only been in operation for a few days, and it would take many months before the river’s water ran clear. The fog always made the stink worse, too.

Five minutes later, Orpheus clip-clopped over the bridge, passed a patch of wasteland, turned onto a path that skirted the edge of the Royal Battle Fleet Airfield, and arrived at the gates of the power station. The many windows of the Mechanics’ headquarters lit up the vapour, making of the illumination a physical mass that swirled around Burton as he dismounted.

“Wait here,” he ordered.

“In the cold?” Orpheus complained. “It’s bloody freezing.”

“You can’t feel cold.”

“I’ll get bored again.”

“You’ll wind down before that happens.”

“Ugh. I hate entering the void. Even worse, I hate waking from it with that bloomin’ key stuck up my whatsit. You’re very mean to me.”

“I might swap you for a velocipede.”

Burton knocked on the door set into the massive station gates.

“Wheels!” Orpheus exclaimed. “Unstable. You’ll fall off and crack your head. Deservedly so.”

The door opened, and an oil-stained engineer ushered Burton in. “Hello, sir,” she said. “They’re waiting for you in the workshop. Follow me, please.”

The woman led the king’s agent across the courtyard to the tall inner gates, which, after manipulating a complex combination lock, she pushed open. They entered and crossed the vast floor space to the central area of workbenches.

Sir Charles Babbage looked up as the king’s agent arrived. “About time!”

“Good evening,” Burton responded. He acknowledged Daniel Gooch, at the scientist’s side. “I apologise if I’m a little late. I was being knighted at the palace. You know from personal experience how such things drag on.”

Babbage grunted disdainfully. “Well, if you must involve yourself with trivialities.”

“I wasn’t given any more choice in the matter than you were. Incidentally, the probability calculator you put in my mount—it’s one of the new models, yes?”

“A Mark Three. My best design yet. It has personality enhancements.”

“So I’ve noticed. Is there any way to diminish them? The confounded thing keeps answering back.”

“Tut-tut!” Babbage barked. “Tut-tut! Always complaints. You’re nothing but a Luddite, sir!”

From behind a nearby apparatus, a badly dented silver ball, twelve feet in diameter, appeared and rolled unsteadily to join them. It stopped and wobbled in front of Burton. A panel on its surface slid aside. A multi-jointed arm unfolded from inside, and the pincer-like hand at its end reached to a second panel, which opened with a click. Reaching in, the pincer extracted a long, thick cigar—already lit and glowing at one end—and inserted it into a small hole at the top of the globe. The tip of the cigar burned brightly, and smoke plumed from another orifice.

The king’s agent said, “Hello, Isambard.”

Isambard Kingdom Brunel clanged, “Sir Richard. Congratulations. Are you recovered?” His voice sounded like handbells being spilled onto a church organ.

“From the ceremony or from my injuries?”

“Heh! Your injuries, of course.”

“My bruises pain me, but for the most part, yes, I’m fine, thank you.”

He put his right hand to his left elbow and felt for a wound that wasn’t there.

Why did I do that? My arm received no injury.

He turned his attention back to Brunel and, as he always did, wondered how much of the famous engineer still existed inside his life-maintaining machine. Brunel had suffered a serious stroke last year and would have died had Gooch not quickly designed and constructed the globe in which he was now preserved.

“You summoned me, Isambard?”

“I did. Sir Charles is about to perform an experiment that, as the guardian of the time suit, you should witness.”

Burton looked at the workbench around which they were gathered. Edward Oxford’s burned and blistered outfit had been laid out on it.

A powerful sense of déjà vu blossomed from the pit of his stomach. Its heat filled him, made his senses reel, and caused him to lean unsteadily on his walking cane.

Why am I here again?

It was a thought that made no sense.

Burton suddenly had no control over himself. Everything appeared unfamiliar. The inside of the station was crammed with contraptions, but they weren’t the ones he knew. Babbage and Gooch were dressed in oddly tailored clothes. And Brunel—

A battered sphere? Shouldn’t he be a man of brass?

He struggled to piece together recent events and glanced at the next workbench along, wondering why it was there and puzzled by the expectation that there should be a dent in the floor instead.

Memories welled up. Red snow. Leicester Square. Spring Heeled Jack.

“What experiment?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

It went wrong. The suit vanished of its own accord. Yet here it is.

Babbage pointed at the dented and blistered helmet. “As you are aware, this contains a synthetic intelligence, though its thought processes have been crippled by Edward Oxford’s lunacy. During the course of the past three months, I have asked it questions, and it has replied to them with—”

“You’ve been wearing it?” Burton interrupted. “I thought Abdu El Yezdi left strict instructions that you should never—” He stopped.

Babbage and Gooch peered at him curiously.

Brunel chimed, “Who is Abdu El Yezdi?”

“No one. Nothing. My apologies. I’m—I’m tired. My mind is wandering.”

“Rein it in!” Babbage snapped. “Pay attention! This is important! As I was saying, the headpiece has never responded to my queries with anything other than garbled nonsense. I’ve had to sort through all manner of irrelevancies to locate the merest crumbs of pertinent information. It has not been sufficient. I’ve gained little understanding of how the machinery of the suit functions, and now the power held in the helmet is almost drained.” He leaned over the workbench and tapped a finger on the device attached to the suit’s chest. “However, all is not lost. This is called a Nimtz generator. It holds a reserve of energy. Considerably more, in fact, than was ever in the headpiece. I’ve learned how to connect them together. It is done. I’m ready to issue the command that will cause the helmet to be reenergised. I believe it will then be able to repair itself.” Babbage wriggled his fingers, said—“Hmm!”—and pulled a chronometer from his waistcoat pocket. “So, let us record that the procedure commences at nine o’clock on the evening of Wednesday the fifteenth of February, 1860. You understand the significance of the time?”

“I do,” Burton murmured.

Nine o’clock! How can it be nine o’clock again?

The scientist reached down and traced a shape on the side of the Nimtz generator. The disk began to glow. It crackled. Suddenly, a shower of sparks erupted from it. Babbage flinched and cried out in alarm.

“What happened?” Gooch asked.

“I’m not sure. Perhaps the power has been routed to the wrong—”

The scientist stopped as a transparent bubble materialised around the helmet, suit, and boots. It rapidly expanded. The men quickly backed away from it, but Brunel didn’t roll fast enough; the edge of the bubble touched him just before, with a deafening bang, it popped. The suit, the workbench, and a small section of the famous engineer vanished into thin air.

Gooch placed a hand on the sphere. “Are you all right, Isambard?”

The silver globe didn’t respond. It was silent and still.

“What’s wrong with him?” Burton asked. He looked down at the floor and saw a familiar smooth round indentation where the floor had been scooped out by the edge of the chronostatic energy field.

“It’s hard to say,” Gooch replied. “Maybe his probability calculator has been damaged.”

“Pah!” Babbage put in. “A trifling matter. The suit has gone. Gone!”

“Into time, Sir Charles?” Gooch asked.

“Obviously! Hell and damnation! What have we lost? The knowledge! The knowledge!” The scientist lowered his face into his hands and moaned. “Go away, all of you. I have to think. You’re distracting me. Leave me alone.”

Burton cocked an eyebrow at the eccentric old man, glanced at Gooch, then looked down and was surprised to see that his hands, apparently of their own volition, were buttoning his coat over Army reds. Puzzled by the uniform, he retrieved its cap from a table, took up his silver-handled swordstick, and heard himself say, “I’ll leave you to it. There are matters I need to attend to.”

“Is the Nietzsche affair not done with?” Gooch asked.

“It’s over,” Burton answered, not really knowing what the Nietzsche affair was. He bid Gooch farewell, eyed Babbage and Brunel for a moment, then turned and left the station. As he stepped into the courtyard, he expected to see snow falling. It wasn’t. There was just a solid wall of bitterly cold fog.

Crossing to the main gates, he exited through them and was greeted by a whirring voice. “That was quick.”

Startled, Burton took a pace backward. A large horse-shaped contraption of brass loomed in the murk, regarding him with big, round, glowing eyes.

“What—what are you?” the king’s agent stammered.

What is wrong with me? Have I amnesia?

“Orpheus, your trusty steed, of course. Have you come to test my knowledge of things you already know or are we going somewhere? I need to get moving. I haven’t much enjoyed standing here with this damp air seeping into my joints.”

“Orpheus,” Burton mumbled. It was the name of the airship—captained by Nathaniel Lawless—that had flown him into central Africa last year, enabling his discovery of the source of the River Nile.

The contraption said, “Are you going to climb aboard or stand there with your jaw dangling?”

Hesitantly, Burton moved to the horse’s side and mounted it.

“Where do you want to go?” it asked.

“Um. Home.”

“Walk, trot, or gallop?”

“Can you trot in this fog?”

“Of course. I can’t guarantee I won’t collide with anything, though.”

“That’s not very encouraging. Proceed at the safest pace.”

Orpheus set off, heading for Nine Elms Lane. The vehicle’s eyes projected twin beams of light into the darkness. It picked up speed and traversed the thoroughfare to Vauxhall Bridge. Burton paid the toll. They crossed the river then travelled on up to Victoria, past Green Park and Hyde Park, and along Baker Street. For the duration, Burton’s mind was practically frozen with bewilderment.

The city was quieter than he’d ever heard it. There were no steam horse–drawn cabs, no pantechnicons, no steam spheres, no velocipedes, and no rotorchairs—just a few riders on mechanical horses. Disconcertingly, the steeds greeted one another as they passed:

“Evening, Orpheus.”

“How’re you doing, Flash?”

“Hallo, Orpheus.”

“What ho, Blackie.”

“All right, Orpheus?”

“Fine, thank you, Heracles.”

“Will you please stop that,” Burton complained.

“Can’t,” his horse replied. “You know full well the exchanges are necessary.”

“Necessary for what?”

“For passing route and traffic information.”

“All I’m hearing are variations of hello.”

“That’s because those pathetic biological ears of yours have limited sensitivity. You’re not hearing the coded tones beneath the words.”

Burton ground his teeth. He was frustrated that the dense pall blocked his view of the city. His explorer’s instinct was stimulated by what was—as his mind cleared he was becoming convinced of it—a variant London. He had no idea how he’d got here and wasn’t entirely certain where he’d come from, but he desperately wanted to observe the metropolis. Unfortunate, then, that all he could see were vague smudges of light!

How was it possible that the weather was different? It had been snowing where he came from, he was sure. Wasn’t history a matter of human affairs, rather than natural? Then he noticed soot and ash suspended in the fog, and he realised that this capital must be even more industrialised than his own, and the snow was perhaps held in abeyance by the blanket of fumes. The work of man affecting the climate! What an extraordinary thought!

At the corner of Gloucester Place and Montagu Place, a familiar voice hailed him through the gloom.

“What ho, Cap’n!”

“Is that you, Mr. Grub?” Burton called, for the greeting had come from the corner where Grub the street vendor always had his brazier or barrow.

“Aye, an’ no one else,” came the answer. “Fair solid, ain’t it?”

“The fog? It is. I can’t see you. How did you know it was me?”

“Recognised yer nag’s footsteps.”

“They are distinctive,” Orpheus murmured.

“One o’ the back feet drags a little. Needs—what’s the word?”

“Recalibrating?” Burton offered automatically.

How did I know that?

“Rather an impertinent suggestion,” Orpheus complained.

“Aye! Recalcifyin’!”

“What on earth are you doing out in this weather?” Burton asked.

“Toastin’ corn on the cob fer ’em what wants it.”

“Well, you’re a braver man than I. I’d rather be toasting my toes by the fire.”

“Aye, there ain’t nuffink like the comforts of ’ome.”

“Do you actually have one, Mr. Grub? I don’t think I’ve ever passed this corner without seeing you on it.”

Not that you can see him now. And be careful. What is true of your world may not be true of this. Watch what you say.

“We all ’ave our place, don’t we, Cap’n? This ’ere is my patch.”

“I suppose we do. Good afternoon to you, sir.”

Though his words and thoughts had come without volition, Burton’s mind was clearing. “My world” was starting to mean something to him—and it was most certainly something different to “this world.”

A few minutes later, he stabled Orpheus in the mews behind his house—“I’ll wait here and wind down,” the horse said grumpily—and entered Number 14 by the back door. He strode to the foot of the stairs where he found his young valet, Bram Stoker, polishing shoes and boots.

“Hello, Bram. You’re up late. Off to bed with you.”

The boy looked up. It wasn’t Stoker at all, but Oscar Wilde, who’d been Captain Lawless’s cabin boy during the African adventure and who’d recently been accepted by the flight officer’s training school.

“Bram, guv’nor?” the youngster asked.

“Sorry, I was thinking out loud.”

“How were the toffs?”

“Toffs?”

“At the palace.”

Burton struggled with confused memories. Had he been to Buckingham Palace?

He gave a safe answer, “Tedious, as usual.”

The Irish boy grinned. “Ye should never speak disrespectfully of Society, sir. Only people who can’t get into it do that.”

“Then I feel at liberty. The high and the mighty don’t make me welcome at their clubs and dinner tables.”

“It’s ’cos ye have a brain in your head, so it is. What a danger for ’em! Ignorance is like a delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone.”

Burton chuckled. He placed his cap on the stand, hung up his coat, and put his cane into its elephant foot holder. He glanced around the hallway. It was as it should be, except the pictures on the wall were arranged a little differently, and the grandfather clock at the far end was a different model.

He said to Wilde, “When you’ve finished those boots, and before you go to bed, come up to my room and put this uniform away, would you?”

“Right you are, sir. Shan’t be long.”

Burton went up to his bedroom on the third floor. There, he divested himself of the scratchy and constricting regimentals, threw them onto the bed, and donned shirt and trousers.

He checked his pocket watch. It was a quarter to eleven.

His reflection watched him from the wall mirror. He gave a start, crossed to the glass, and discovered that his hair was a little shorter, a devilishly forked beard adorned his jaw, and the scar on his left cheek had become longer and was angled a little more toward the horizontal. There were marks on his skin—cuts and bruises—but they were healing, not the fresh and painful wounds he knew he’d suffered a couple of hours ago. Or was it three hours? Four? A day?

Squaring his shoulders, he addressed his opposite. “I trust you have a good supply of brandy and cigars, Captain Burton. This is a three-Manila problem.”

The king’s agent went down to his study. Upon entering it, he was insulted by a colourful parakeet.

“Stench pool! Lard belly! Dribblesome jelly head!”

He looked in surprise at the perched bird, shook his head in wonder, and began to slowly move around the room, examining every detail of it. At a glance, it looked unchanged, but on closer inspection he found his paperwork had been reorganised and items moved, including his collection of swords, which though still affixed to the chimneybreast were displayed in a different arrangement.

He investigated his principal work desk and found that he was apparently authoring a book entitled A Complete System of Bayonet Exercise. After reading the first few paragraphs, he muttered, “A truly excellent idea. I shall write it myself.”

He went to the bureau, poured a drink, and crossed to the old saddlebag armchair by the fireplace. When he sat, he found it as familiar and as comfortable as his own.

“It is your own,” he said and, reaching down to a box on the hearth, took a cheroot from it, poked its end into the fire, and started to smoke.

“Let me see now. I met Algy for a drink. Where? The Hog in the Pound? No. The Black Toad. After which we went to meet with the Cannibals at Bartolini’s. Ah! Spring Heeled Jack. That explains this wound to my arm.” He flexed his left elbow. “Except it’s not there. But anyway, one hell of a scrap, I’m certain of that. Then young Swinburne and I headed off to consult with Babbage. Am I still at Battersea?”

“Nose-picking, mould muggling arse pot!” the parakeet cackled.

“You may be right, my brightly feathered friend,” he agreed. “But that doesn’t explain how I’ve somehow slipped into the body of a different Burton. Have you any insight into that?”