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The crab creaked and rattled past the end of the alley and, asit did so, its siren wailed a warning. A few seconds later, it letout a deafening hiss as it ejected hot cleansing steam from the twodownward-pointing fu
The automated cleaner vanished from sight as a tumultuous wallof white vapour boiled into the passage. Burton stopped and took afew steps backward, waiting for it to disperse. It billowed towardhim, extending hot coils that slowed and became still, hanging inthe air as they cooled.
Someone entered the street, their weirdly elongated shadowangling through the white cloud; a figure writ dark, skeletal, andhorrific by the distortion. Sudden flashes of light illuminated theroiling mist, as if it were a miniature storm. Burton waited forthe shadow to shrink, to be sucked into the person to whom itbelonged when he-for surely it must be a manemerged from thevapour.
It didn't shrink.
It wasn't a shadow.
Possibly, it wasn't even a man.
The steam parted and from it sprang a bizarre apparition: amassively long-legged shape-like a carnival stilt-walker-a long,dark cloak flapping from its hunched shoulders, bolts of lightningcrackling around its body and head.
Burton retreated hastily until his back brought up against thewall. He blinked rapidly and licked his lips.
Was it human, this thing? Its head was large, black, and shiny,with an aura of blue flame crawling around it. Red eyes peered athim maliciously. White teeth shone in a lipless grin.
The creature stalked forward, bent, its talonlike hands flexing,and Burton saw that his first impression was accurate: the thingwalked on twofoot-high stilts.
Its lanky body was clad in a skintight white scaly suit thatglittered in the dim light of the single guttering gas lamp.Something circular glowed on its chest and emitted bursts of sparksand ribbons of lightning that snaked over the thing's longlimbs.
"Burton!" the apparition croaked. "Richard Francis bloodyBurton!"
It suddenly pounced on him and a hand slashed sideways, slappinghard against his right ear, sending him reeling. His top hat wentspi
"I told you once to stay out of it!" snapped the thing. "Youdidn't listen!"
All of a sudden, Burton felt icily sober.
Fingers dug into his hair and yanked his head up. He felt anagonisingly powerful static charge coursing through his body. Hisarms and legs twitched spasmodically.
Red eyes glared into his.
"I'll not tell you again. Leave me alone!"
"W-what?" gasped Burton.
"Just stay out of it! The affair is none of your damnedbusiness!"
"What affair?"
"Don't play the i
"I have no idea what you're talking about!" protestedBurton.
His head was shaken violently, causing his teeth to clacktogether.
"I'm talking about you organising forces against me! It's notwhat you're meant to be doing! Your destiny lies elsewhere. Do youunderstand?"
The creature rammed its forearm into Burton's face.
"I said, do you understand?"
"No! "
"Then I'll spell it out for you," growled the stilt-man.Dragging Burton around, it slammed him against the wall, drew backits arm, and sent a fist crashing into the explorer's mouth.
"Do what-"
Again. Crack!
– you're supposed-"
Crack!
– to do!"
Burton sagged back against the bricks. He mumbled through splitlips, "How can I possibly know what I'm supposed to do?"
The fingers in his hair jerked him up until he was lookingdirectly into the thing's eyes, which stared down, inches from hisown. They burned redly, and Burton realised that his attacker wascompletely insane.
Blue flame leaped from the thing's head and licked at theexplorer's brow, scorching his skin.
"You are supposed to marry Isabel and be sent from one fuckingmiserable consulship to another. Your career is supposed to peak inthree years when you debate the Nile question with Speke and thesilly sod shoots himself dead. You are supposed to write books anddie."
Burton braced his legs against the wall.
"What the hell are you babbling about?" he demanded, in astronger voice. "The debate was cancelled. Speke shot himselfyesterday-but he's not dead!"
The creature's eyes widened.
"No!" it whispered. "No!" It gritted its teeth and snarled, "I'ma historian! I know what happened. It was 1864 not 1861. Iknow-"
A look of bemusement passed over its gaunt, horriblefeatures.
"God damn it! Why does it have to be so complicated?" itwhispered to itself. "Maybe if I kill you? But if the death of justone person has already done all this-?"
Burton, feeling the fingers loosening, took his chance. Hejerked his head free, shoved his shoulder into his attacker'sstomach, then threw himself sideways.
The apparition teetered back to the opposite wall. It clutchedat it for balance and glared at Burton as he regained his footing.They stood facing each other.
"Listen to me, you bastard!" snapped the creature. "For your owngood, next time you see me, don't come near!"
"I don't know you!" objected Burton. "And, believe me, if Inever see you again, I'll not regret it one iota!"
Lightning exploded from the apparition's chest and danced acrossthe ground. The stilt-man cried out in agony, almost falling.
Suddenly, its wild eyes dimmed and Burton saw a brief glimmer ofreason in them. It looked down at itself, then at him, and in lowtones said, "The irony is that I'm ru
"What situation? Explain!" snapped the explorer.
The unca
"Marry the bitch, Burton. Settle down. Become consul in FernandoPo, Brazil, Damascus, and wherever the fuck else they send you.Write your damned books. But, above all, leave me alone! Do youunderstand? Leave me the fuck alone!"
It crouched low, glared at him, and suddenly straightened itslegs, shooting vertically into the air.
Burton twisted his head to look up. His assailant soared highabove the top of the warehouses, and, in midair, vanished.
THE COMMISSION
Die, my dear doctor! That' s the last thing I shall do!
Great Scott, man!" exclaimed Lord Palmerston. "What have youbeen up to now?"
Burton lowered himself gingerly into the chair before the primeminister's desk. His body was bruised; his right eye blackened; hislips cut and puffy.
"Just an accident, sir. Nothing to worry about."
"You look perfectly hideous!"
You're a fine one to talk! thought Burton.
For the past two years, Palmerston had been receiving Eugenicistlifeextension treatments. Though seventy-seven years old, hecurrently had a life expectancy of about a hundred and thirty. Tomatch this, he'd received a cosmetic overhaul. The loose skin ofhis face had been tightened, the fatty deposits removed, and thediscolorations eliminated. Paralysing toxins had been regularlyinjected into the wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes andmouth, smoothing them out and giving his face the clean contours ofa young man-or, thought Burton, of a waxwork, because, in hisopinion, the prime minister appeared to have wandered out of MadamToussaud's. There was nothing natural about him; he was a shinymockery of himself, a freakish caricature, his face too white andmasklike, his lips too red, his sideburns too bushy, his curly hairtoo long and black, his midnight blue velvet suit too tight andfoppish, his eau de cologne too liberally applied, and hismovements too ma