Текст книги "The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi"

Автор книги: Mark Hodder

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

The engineer said to Burton, “You have, quite literally, made history.”

Burton muttered, “And Perdurabo—Crowley—wants to destroy it.”

“He doesn’t believe the war can be avoided, so intends to ignite it earlier, before Germany can prepare. Once the conflict is won, he’ll make himself ruler.”

“Of Germany?” Swinburne asked.

“No, Mr. Swinburne, of the world. He has to be stopped.”

Burton suddenly jumped to his feet. “Do you have a map of London, Mr. Brunel?”

The electric man nodded and looked at Gooch, who crossed to a cabinet and returned with a rolled map. He unfurled it on Brunel’s desk, weighting the corners with a book, inkpot, spanner, and magnifying glass.

Everyone gathered around it.

Burton looked at the grandfather clock. It was eleven. He tapped a finger on the map. “Green Park. In exactly twenty-four hours, it will host a gathering of dignitaries from Britain and the Germanic states. The Central German Confederation will be formalised and our Alliance with it signed. Undoubtedly, Perdurabo will strike at the ceremony.”

“He’ll never get past the security,” Brunel said.

“He might intend to overpower the police and King’s Guard by force of numbers.”

“Has he an army?” Krishnamurthy asked.

“He has the Cauldron. Aleister Crowley currently exists only as parasitical willpower—a nosferatu. His victims become un-dead and are proliferating throughout the East End. He has power over them, and is using them to whip up fear and anti-German sentiment in the local population.”

A gruff voice came from the doorway. “Willpower, you say?”

They turned. Nurse Nightingale was guiding Abdu El Yezdi’s bath chair in through the door.

“My associate, the French occultist Eliphas Levi, calls it volonté,” Burton said.

His older self grunted an acknowledgment. “If Crowley is here only in such a form, we can be certain that his plans involve more than just a strike against the fledgling German Empire.”

“You refer to his need for a body?”

“I do. He is obsessed with the idea that medical and scientific intervention might hasten a man toward a state of godhood. He will attempt to achieve that.”

“A Supreme Man,” Burton muttered.

“Or as Nietzsche will have it, an Übermensch.”

“Artificially constructed?”

“I imagine so. I understand Galton escaped from Bedlam. Whatever he may have been in the original history, I’ve already seen him demonstrate just how thin is the line between genius and insanity. I have no doubt he’s been recruited by Crowley to create a physical structure in which our enemy’s volonté can be permanently housed.”

Burton nodded. “He also has Darwin and a talented surgeon named Joseph Lister, though they’re almost certainly being held against their will. And—” He hesitated.

“And what?” his other snapped.

“And he took one of the Sisters of Noble Benevolence.”

El Yezdi closed his eyes and clutched the sides of his chair. “Not—not Sadhvi Raghavendra?”

“Yes.”

“Damnation! Are you incapable of protecting anyone?”

“You,” Burton snarled, “are better placed to answer that question. How many have you allowed to die, old man?”

El Yezdi sucked in a breath and placed a fist over his heart. His lips drew back over his teeth.

“Stop it!” Nightingale commanded.

Burton held up his hands placatingly and took a step backward. “The point,” he said, “is that the presence alone of one of the Sisters accelerates healing. That, and the thefts of laboratory equipment and chemical supplies from locations all over the city, suggests that you’re right.”

Krishnamurthy said, “So he’s set up a laboratory of some sort? Where? In the Cauldron? That seems unlikely. The whole district is a cesspit of crime and grime.”

Burton noticed that Swinburne was becoming increasingly agitated, his limbs twitching and jerking spasmodically. He asked, “Algy?”

“Are you all blind?” the poet suddenly screeched, jumping into the air and swiping an arm at them. “My giddy aunt! Can’t you see it?”

Abdu El Yezdi chuckled. “How I’ve missed you, Algy! What revelation have you for us?”

“You!” Swinburne yelled, jabbing a finger at El Yezdi, “And you!” He pointed at Burton. “We’ve deduced what Crowley is here for, but you both appear to have forgotten what he did first, the moment he arrived. He came after you. He killed Isabel to hurt you. My hat! He even told you outright that he wants you at his feet. Why? Obviously because he considers you his biggest threat.”

The two Burtons looked at each other. The younger of them said, “So?”

“He didn’t kill you,” Swinburne said. “Surely, therefore, he hasn’t discounted your possible interference. Wherever he is, it must be somewhere he thinks you’d never go.”

“Which is where?” El Yezdi asked.

“Underground, of course! You hate it! You’re claustrophobic. Surely Sir Richard Francis Burton will forever be associated with wide-open spaces. Never with caves or vaults or tunnels! We’ve already seen Perdurabo hiding beneath Old Wardour Castle, and his people using the river under Saint Martin’s Lane. Doesn’t that give us an indication of his methods? And what better opportunity to make use of such than now, when Bazalgette is burrowing beneath the city and opening up ages-old subterranean thoroughfares?”

Brunel clanged, “But surely, if Crowley and his allies are using the sewer tunnels, the workers would have encountered them?”

Swinburne let loose a piercing shriek and danced around the desk, gesticulating wildly. “They have! The Norwood builders! The Norwood builders! Ghosts! The River Effra!”

“Hmm,” Daniel Gooch said. “It’s true, our workers have downed tools and are refusing to construct the tunnel any farther than Herne Hill.” He put a finger on the map. “The mouth of the Effra is a little east of Battersea, here, beside Vauxhall Bridge. The river runs beneath Kennington, Stockwell, and Brixton. That length of it has been enclosed in a brick tunnel, but beyond, up past Norwood to its source, the river is so far untouched.”

“And it flows right past Norwood Cemetery,” Swinburne declared, “which is famous for its extensive vaults and catacombs.”

“You think Crowley has set up a laboratory in them?” Bhatti asked.

El Yezdi slapped the side of his chair. “By Allah’s beard! I learned a long time ago to listen to Algy!” He waved a hand at Burton. “Go! Investigate!”

Burton glanced at the map. His face whitened. “Through five miles of tunnel?”

“Bhatti and I will take the tunnel, Sir Richard,” Krishnamurthy said. “You and Mr. Swinburne fly rotorchairs to the graveyard and enter the catacombs from above.”

Burton couldn’t hide his relief. El Yezdi snorted disdainfully. The explorer glowered at him then turned to Brunel. “Will you send someone to fetch Detective Inspector Trounce and Eliphas Levi? If we’re to hunt the nosferatu, I’d like those two with us.”

“I’ll send a rotorship to Scotland Yard at once.”

Brunel departed. Krishnamurthy crossed to a cabinet, opened it, and started to remove weapons from it.

Swinburne looked at El Yezdi. “The Swinburne you knew—was he like me?”

“Yes. A couple of years older.”

“What became of him?”

The old man thought for a moment then replied, “I’ve learned to consider time an organic thing, Algy. We are all entwined in it, we are all subject to it, and the choices we all make define its ever-developing patterns and rhythms. The Swinburne I knew came to understand its intricacies perhaps better than any other living person. I will not tell you his eventual fate—I don’t want to influence your behaviour—but I know he grew to be happy and content with his lot.”

“I don’t suppose I can ask for anything more than that,” Swinburne said, and declaimed, “For in the days we know not of did Fate begin weaving the web of days that wove your doom.”

“In the days we know not of?” El Yezdi exclaimed. “No, no. Fate is weaving today, Algy! Today!” He suddenly became quiet, and his eyes appeared to focus inward. “So be careful,” he muttered. “Don’t get tangled in the skein, as I did.” He turned to Nightingale. “Take me to my room, nurse.”

She wheeled him out.

Burton visibly relaxed.

“Difficult?” Swinburne asked.

“Sharing a room with my dying counterpart? Yes, Algy. Difficult.”

Bhatti and Krishnamurthy had armed themselves with a brace of pistols apiece. They passed revolvers to Burton and Swinburne. “It will take us a minimum of two hours to traverse the tunnel,” Krishnamurthy said. “Let’s say three, to be safe, as the upper reaches won’t be easy. We’ll leave immediately. Give us a head start. We should try to time it so we arrive in the catacombs simultaneously.”

Burton shook both men by the hand. “No rash actions,” he advised. “I want to get the measure of Crowley’s forces, nothing more. Keep your heads down. We’ll observe, evaluate, and return. Once we know exactly what we’re facing, we’ll plan our next move.”

The two Indians secured their weapons in their waistbands and left the room.

Burton and Swinburne waited with Daniel Gooch for Trounce and Levi’s arrival. After an hour had passed, they divined that Brunel’s men were having difficulty in locating the duo. Undoubtedly, the detective and occultist were caught up in the commotion in and around the East End.

“We’ll proceed without them,” Burton decided. “Bhatti and Krishnamurthy must be near halfway through the tunnel by now. Let’s go.”

Gooch led them through the station and out into the quadrangle where two rotorchairs had been prepared. They mounted the machines, pulled goggles over their eyes, and started the engines. Gooch gave them a thumbs-up as they rose on columns of steam and soared into the rain-filled air.

The cloud cover was thick, dark, and low. Remaining below it, they flew across the Royal Navy Air Service Station, past a network of railway tracks and rail yards, and out over the streets, homes, tanneries, and workhouses of Wandsworth. Angling southward, they passed over Clapham and Streatham. To his left, Burton saw Herne Hill. He guessed Bhatti and Krishnamurthy had reached and passed beneath it, and were by now following the river along the ages-old course it had cut through the area’s dense clay. The thought of it made him clench his teeth.

The rain suddenly intensified and lightning flashed. The clouds had taken on a curious formation, appearing to be twisting and circling around themselves.

A mile or so farther south, a wooded hill hove into view. Burton steered toward it, flew over it, and saw gravestones and mausoleums huddled amid the trees. He kept going, before landing in the yard of an inn a little to the south of the burial ground.

Swinburne’s machine thumped down beside him.

“Phew!” the poet cried out as the rotors slowed and stopped. “I’m wet to the bones!”

Burton removed his goggles and disembarked.

A man with an umbrella stepped out of the inn and pointed at a large wooden shed on the other side of the yard. “Hallo, gentlemen! You can park ’em in there, if you like. There’s a fee, though, unless you want to put up in the inn, of course.”

Burton paid and, to Swinburne’s evident dismay, refused the offer of a hot toddy. “There’s no time for indulgences, as you well know,” he told his companion as they dragged their rotorchairs into the shelter.

“If my insides aren’t warmed soon, I shall come down with a cold,” the poet grumbled.

“If Aleister Crowley has his way, you’ll likely suffer far worse,” Burton said. “Do you think a world beneath his heel will be fit for a poet?”

Swinburne gave a cry of protest and punched at the air. “Certainly not! Let’s get the dog!”

Exiting the yard, they crossed a road, turned a corner, and followed a puddled lane along to the boundary of the graveyard. High pointed railings, designed to deter resurrectionists, enclosed the hill, but after following them around, the two men came to a secured back gate. Burton pulled a set of lock-picks from his pocket. “I’ve had these since India,” he said, applying them to the portal’s keyhole. “They were presented to me by Sir Charles Napier when he made me his agent. I’ve only used them once before.”

“Breaking into an enemy’s hideaway to reconnoitre?” Swinburne asked.

“No. Into a nunnery for a romantic assignation.”

The poet squealed his delight then gave a cry of alarm as thunder boomed overhead.

“Great Scott!” he cried out, pointing at the sky. “Look at that!”

Directly above them, the clouds were swirling around a central point from which lightning crackled and sizzled.

“The eye of the storm,” Burton said. “Ah! Got it!”

The locked clicked and he pushed the gate open.

They entered the cemetery and started along a path through the trees. The steeple of the Episcopal Church could be glimpsed through the branches and, as they rounded a bend, the building itself came into view. A man in a heavy overcoat was sheltering beneath the arch of its front door. He saw them, stepped out, and shouted, “I say! Can I help? Are you looking for a particular tomb? Not a good day for it! It’s tipping it down!”

“You work here, sir?” Burton asked as the man approached.

“Um. Um. Yes, I’m the sexton. May I ask who you’ve come to visit?”

“We’re here to see the catacombs, Mr.—?”

“Oh. Solomon. Yes. Well. Yes. They are rather splendid.”

“How do we enter them?”

“Ah. Er. I suppose—yes. I could show you. They’re dry, I’ll say that for ’em.”

“Thank you.”

“This way, then.”

Solomon walked back to the church door, opened it, and waved them through. He followed then guided them to the right, skirting around the base of the wall, along the outer aisle, and forward into the right-hand transept. He indicated an arch at the top of descending stone steps. “The entrance. Um. Shall we?”

“Lead the way,” Burton responded.

Solomon took a clockwork lantern from his pocket. Its light flared. He started down the stairs with Burton and Swinburne behind.

“No priests, Mr. Solomon?” Swinburne asked. “The church seems awfully empty.”

“Um. Um. Not much call for it on a rainy weekday, I suppose, sir. The vicar is out visiting the sick and elderly, I should think. Ah, here we are.”

They’d arrived at a wooden door, which Solomon pushed open. Its creak echoed hollowly. Burton’s mouth suddenly felt dry. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his own lantern, opening it, winding it, and holding it high.

“Oh, good,” Solomon mumbled. “That’ll help.”

The sexton led them into the catacomb; a tall, long, and narrow vaulted passage of elegant brickwork with three arched doorways on either side, each opening onto narrower but longer corridors. Coffins lay in wall niches, and decorative wrought-iron gates opened onto small bays and loculi in which individuals and families had been interred.

“Shall I light the wall lamps, sir?” Solomon asked.

“Please,” Burton replied. The chill air penetrated his damp clothes and caused him to tremble. Shadows shifted as if creeping furtively away from the visitors.

The duo moved forward, staying close to Solomon as he passed from one wall-mounted lamp to another, applying a flame to each. As the illumination swelled through the passage, Burton felt the presence of the dead crowding around him. He crossed to an arch and raised his lamp, revealing a long, straight corridor.

Silence reigned.

Solomon watched as the explorer and poet passed among the coffins, examining every nook and cranny of the vaults. “Who are you looking for?” he asked.

Burton stopped and regarded the sexton, then gave an exasperated sigh, crossed to him, and punched him in the face. Solomon fell back against a gate, regained his balance, and launched a fist at his assailant. Burton pulled his chin back, avoiding the blow. He slammed his knuckles into the man’s stomach. Solomon doubled over and vomited.

“Hold the lamp, Algy.”

Swinburne took the proffered lantern and asked, “Have you taken a dislike to him?”

Burton took Solomon by the hair and swung him up, around, and face-first into the wall. He grabbed the sexton’s left hand and brutally forced it between his shoulder blades. Solomon screamed with pain.

“Idiot!” Burton spat. “Walking around with that pin in your coat lapel.”

“Pin?” Swinburne enquired.

“He’s an Enochian. It’s their club insignia.”

“Oh, I see.” The poet ran forward and administered a hard kick to the side of Solomon’s knee. “Speak!” he screeched.

“Ow!” Solomon yelled.

“Where is Perdurabo?” Burton demanded.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Swinburne kicked him again.

“Ouch! Stop it!” Solomon cried out.

“There’s more to these catacombs than meets the eye,” Burton snarled. “Start taking.”

“Go to hell!”

A loud snap sounded. The sexton screamed.

“You have nine digits remaining,” Burton said. “I’ll continue to break them one by one.”

“Please.”

Burton took hold of the man’s forefinger.

“No,” Solomon whimpered. “All right. All right. There are more catacombs.”

“Where?”

“Under the Dissenters’ Church.”

“So take us to it.”

“God! Ease up! Don’t break my fingers. I—I play the piano.”

“I have very little interest in your pastimes, Solomon.”

“Just don’t hurt me. We don’t have to go to the church. A secret passage connects the two catacombs. Over there.” He nodded his head toward the far end of the main corridor.

Burton pulled him away from the wall and, without releasing the man’s hand, pushed him along to the indicated spot. Swinburne followed. With his right foot, Solomon nudged a brick at the base of the wall. It had an eye carved into it. “Push this.”

Swinburne bent and did so. There was a soft clunk.

“Give the wall a shove,” Solomon said.

The poet put his shoulder against the brickwork. A square section of it swung inward.

“Much obliged,” Burton said. He twisted the sexton around and delivered a left hook to his jaw. Solomon crumpled to the floor. The explorer rubbed his forearm and muttered, “The damned thing still hurts. What do you see, Algy?”

“A long, dusty corridor. It’s rather narrow, I’m afraid.”

Burton took the lantern from the poet and, holding it before him, squeezed into the passage.

“Quietly does it,” he said, and pushed ahead.

The path sloped downward.

Sooner than Burton expected, a blank wall barred his way. He couldn’t move forward. Swinburne, behind him, was blocking the route back. He stopped, felt trapped, and for a moment was unable even to think.

“There must be another hidden switch,” Swinburne whispered.

His voice broke Burton’s paralysis. The explorer lowered his lantern and immediately saw the eye design near the base of the wall. He crouched and, with his right hand, took the pistol from his waistband. With his left, he turned off the lamp, reached into the darkness, and placed his fingers against the brick.

“Not a sound, Algy,” he hissed.

He pressed—clunk!—then reached up and pushed against the barrier. It gave a little, clicked, and swung inward to reveal a dimly lit vault.

Burton leaned forward and peered out. There was no one in sight but light was streaming past a corner to his left and he could hear voices. He crawled from the secret tunnel and straightened. Swinburne emerged and stood beside him. They exchanged a glance, then—bending low and moving on tiptoe—crept past coffin-filled alcoves and gated bays toward the illumination.

A weird shadow convulsed and quivered across the wall opposite the end of the passage, as if cast by a tangle of struggling bodies. Burton and Swinburne froze and stared as a part of it extended and uncurled, and they recognised a hand. It possessed too many fingers and the limb it was attached to had three elbows.

A voice echoed, “Is something wrong, Mr. Hare? You appear to be agitated.”

A dreadful gurgling voice responded, “I sense something, Mr. Burke. A presence.”

“Check, but don’t be long. The storm is almost at its height. Your assistance may be required.”

The shadow lurched. Parts of it unfolded. Other parts coiled.

Seven clawed talons curled around the corner of the wall.

Burton tried to raise his pistol but was transfixed by a dreadful fascination. Swinburne, too, was rooted to the spot.

With terrifying swiftness, the source of the shadow floundered into view and rushed at them. There was a brief glimpse of thrashing multi-jointed limbs; of an incomprehensible knot of arms and legs and boneless appendages; of many black, glittering eyes and a hideous fanged maw; then it was upon them, and Burton felt himself gripped, crushed, and smothered.

He yelled, fired the pistol, and blacked out.

“In Magick, on the contrary, one passes through the veil of the exterior world (which, as in Yoga, but in another sense, becomes ‘unreal’ by comparison as one passes beyond), one creates a subtle body (instrument is a better term) called the Body of Light; this one develops and controls; it gains new powers as one progresses, usually by means of what is called ‘initiation’: finally, one carries on almost one’s whole life in this Body of Light, and achieves in its own way the mastery of the Universe.”

–ALEISTER CROWLEY, MAGICK WITHOUT TEARS

Burton opened his eyes and saw, inches in front of them, orange light wavering across white silk padding. Something was burning his hand. He moved it and recognised the shape of his clockwork lantern. He realised that he and it were inside a coffin.

Buried alive.

With a yell of terror, he slammed his hands into the lid. It came loose, slid aside, and fell away with a loud crash. He threw himself out of the box and tumbled to the floor, panting wildly, his fingers digging into the crevices between flagstones, clinging to physical existence.

Panic slowly loosed its claws and his senses stabilised. He glanced around. He was in one of the bays; its iron gate closed, chained, and padlocked. There were five coffins occupying the shelves; the one he’d been in, three that were dusty and cobwebbed, and another that appeared new. From inside the latter, he heard movement.

Burton pushed himself to his feet, took hold of the coffin’s lid, and eased it open. Swinburne was inside. The poet blinked and mumbled, “I’m famished. What’s for breakfast?”

“It’s not morning, Algy. We’re in the catacombs.”

Swinburne sat up, his eyes widening. “By my Aunt Tabitha’s terrible touring hat! I dreamt a horrible monster!”

A familiar chorus of voices said, “No dream, Mr. Swinburne. It was Gregory Hare.”

Burton turned. Perdurabo—still inhabiting the body of Thomas Honesty—was standing on the other side of the gate, his eyes black and his mouth twisted into a nasty smile. There were beads of sweat on his forehead. He said, “You caused him considerable damage, Burton; left him a bruised brain inside a burned and mangled carcass. You have my gratitude.”

“Gratitude?”

“Growing a new body from material harvested from corpses is a complex business even in 1918, where it’s a well-established science. My people have had to cobble equipment together from what they could find here in your primitive time. Our first creation was an utter mess, but Mr. Hare, who would otherwise have died, allowed us to transfer his consciousness into it, which kept it alive and thus allowed us to examine its faults and perfect the technique.” He held an arm out to the left, and from that direction a shuffling and dragging sounded. The abomination that had captured them flopped into view. Its many eyes glittered. Its profusion of knees and elbows angled chaotically. Its long, many-jointed fingers twitched and trembled. A large nodule at the side of its misshapen core split wetly open to reveal long, uneven fangs.

“Good afternoon, Sir Richard,” it bubbled. “Had I known it was you at Down House, I would have broken your neck rather than your arm.”

“Hello, Mr. Hare,” Burton replied. “You’re looking well.”

Swinburne gave a screech of amusement.

“Let me have him,” Hare said to Perdurabo. “I’m hungry.”

His master waved him away impatiently. “Later. I want him to witness my rebirth. Go and check the other catacomb, Mr. Hare. He may have brought more men with him.”

Reluctantly, the creature scrambled away, its talons clicking and scraping across the floor.

Perdurabo wiped his face with his sleeve and closed his eyes. He swayed slightly, appearing to lose himself momentarily.

“You’re pale,” Burton said. “Weak. The hour, I suppose.”

The black eyes met his. “Indeed so. It is difficult for me to move this body during the daylight hours. Tom Honesty is a good deal stronger than he looks. He’s a very uncomfortable vehicle, Burton. I shall be glad to be rid of him.”

Perdurabo turned his attention to Swinburne. “I’m honoured to make your acquaintance, Mr. Swinburne. In my history, you are regarded as England’s finest romantic poet. I have admired your work since I was a boy.” He stopped, frowned, and continued, “It is curious, though—during the final days of the war in Africa, I sensed a vague but omniscient presence which I could never identify. You exude the same charisma. Have you travelled to the future, sir?”

“Knowing I’d find you there?” the poet responded. “Most certainly not.”

Perdurabo threw his arms wide. “Ah. Such are the convolutions of time. What is true of this history is not necessarily the truth of another. Confessions and denials mean far less when every possibility gives birth to a new reality.” He closed his eyes again and put his head back. Dreamily, he continued, “I can feel them; all those futures. Division after division; an infinity of causes and consequences blurring together. Time itself is evolving, my friends, and mankind must review his relationship with it if he is to survive.”

“The 1918 you came from,” Burton interrupted, “it is not a part of this world’s future. Why did you cross into an alternate past? And of all of them, why this one in particular, Crowley? ”

At the use of his real name, Thomas Honesty’s eyebrows shot up. “You know more than I anticipated! How?”

“I have my resources.”

“And are hardly likely to give them away. Very well. I understand. You play a very good game, but in vain, I’m afraid, for there is but one of you—” the abundant tones of his voice suddenly intensified and separated from one another slightly, so, even more, it sounded as if a crowd was speaking all at once, “—while I am manifold.”

“And tedious,” Swinburne added.

Perdurabo glared at the little poet, then laughed. “Oh, Mr. Swinburne!” he cried out. “I shall enjoy killing you!”

He staggered slightly and hissed, “Damn this bloody groundsman! Will he not stop fighting me?”

“Answer the question,” Burton demanded.

“Wait.” Crowley put his fingertips to his temples, screwed up his eyes, and concentrated. Half a minute later, he sighed, dropped his arms to his sides, and smiled. “Why this history? For two reasons: it is the only one in which Bismarck has been sidelined and Germanic nationalism quelled to the point where a surprise attack can, in a single stroke, put paid to their ability to wage war; and it is the only one in whose future I don’t exist.”

“For the latter reason alone,” Swinburne interjected, “it is surely the best of them.”

“It’s a vacuum,” Crowley continued. “For whatever reason, it appears my parents do not meet in this version of reality. My absence means I can gather all my myriad variations here without stepping on my own toes, so to speak.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “We shall be unified in a single body.”

Burton looked past him and for the first time properly took in the chamber beyond.

The catacombs beneath the Dissenters’ Church were bigger than the neighbouring tunnels—wider, taller, and evidently more extensive. From the confines of his cell, which was at one end of the main gallery, Burton could see many more passages branching off from it. The general topography he took in automatically, but it was the scene in the central corridor that engaged his full attention. The floorspace was crowded with machinery, chemical apparatus, vats, surgical beds, and a network of pipes and wires. It was all as exotic and arcane as the paraphernalia he’d seen in Battersea Power Station but, unlike the equipment there, this had a central focus: a throne upon which a body—naked but for a loincloth—was strapped.

“The Supreme Man,” Crowley said. “Humanity evolved. Designed according to Mr. Darwin’s extrapolations, created by Mr. Galton’s methods, and maintained by Mr. Joseph Lister’s genius.”

The figure was, Burton estimated, about seven feet tall. Its skin was bluish-grey, stretched over lean muscles and a rangy skeletal structure; long-limbed, narrow-hipped, broad-shouldered, and deep-chested; a body that obviously possessed both strength and speed. The head, though, was disproportionately big, with a massive cranium that swelled up and back from a small, oddly delicate face. The cheekbones were fine and angular; the nose comprised of two vertical slits; the mouth small and lipless; and the jaw pointed. The eyes were closed, slanted, and very large.

The body was completely motionless, not even breathing.

“It holds such a brain, Burton; a central sorting house for all the many Aleister Crowleys. My perception will gain clarity across every strand of time. Where you must make a single choice whenever life offers you options, I’ll be able to take every course of action and see all the possible consequences at work.”

There were people moving around the throne. Burton saw Charles Darwin and a man he recognised from portraits as Francis Galton. There were four Enochians, though he felt certain others were present but out of sight.

The muffled rumble of thunder penetrated the ceiling. Crowley looked up at it and gave a nod of satisfaction. A woman emerged from one of the side passages and approached.

“Sadhvi!” Burton shouted. “Are you all right?”

Sister Sadhvi Raghavendra ignored him and said to Crowley, “We cannot delay any longer, Master. The storm is at its height. Mr. Burke has gone to the steeple to raise the mast.”

Burton noticed that her eyes were glazed. She was in a trance.

Crowley addressed his captives. “I must take my leave of you for a little while. I’m glad you both came. I want you to see this.” He turned away and followed Raghavendra toward the machinery.

Swinburne nudged Burton in the ribs and whispered, “Look at the far end of the corridor. They’ve dug a hole through the wall. Do you suppose that leads to the River Effra? Perhaps Bhatti and Krishnamurthy are in the shadows there.”