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The rider was seated high on a leather saddle, situated slightlybehind the crown of the front wheel, with his feet resting instirrups to either side, his legs held away from the piston arm andcrank which pumped and spun to the left of the axle. The tiny,boxlike engine was attached to the frame behind and below thesaddle; the small boiler, with its furnace, was under this, and thecoal scuttle under that; the three elements arranged in a segmentedarc over the top-rear section of the main wheel. As well asproviding the motive power, they were also the machine's centre ofgravity and, together with the engine's internal gyroscope, madethe vehicle almost impossible to knock over, despite its ungainlyappearance.
By far the most remarkable feature of the pe
Burton watched the contraption disappear into the mist.
London had transformed while he'd been in Africa. It had filledwith new machines and new breeds of animal. The Engineers andEugenicists-the main branches of the Technologist caste-seemedunstoppable, despite protests from the Libertines, who felt thatart, beauty, and nobility of spirit were more essential thanmaterial progress.
The problem was that the Libertines, despite producing reams ofanti Technologist propaganda, were unclear in their message. On theone hand, there were the "True Libertines," such as thePre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, who were basically Luddites; while onthe other, there were the increasingly powerful "Rakes," whoseinterests ran to black magic, anarchy, sexual depravity, drugtaking, meddling, and general bad behaviour, which they justifiedas an attempt to "transcend the limitations of the humancondition." Most Libertines, Richard Monckton Milnes being a primeexample, fell somewhere between the two camps, being neither asdreamily idealistic as the one faction nor as scandalouslyself-indulgent as the other.
As for Sir Richard Francis Burton, he wasn't sure where hefitted. Although it was the country of his birth, England had neverfelt like home, probably because he'd spent most of his childhoodbeing dragged around Europe by his restless parents. He wastherefore rather surprised when he returned from the Nileexpedition and found that the country's current state of socialinstability somewhat suited him. The rapid changes, more intenselyfelt in the capital than elsewhere, might be confusing to themajority of the populace but he'd always regarded his own identityas rather a transient and changeable thing, so now he felt an oddsort of empathy with the fluctuating nature of British culture.
As he walked, he slowly became aware of a tapping noise fromsomewhere above and realised that he'd been hearing it on and offsince leaving the club. He peered up and around but sawnothing.
He continued his trek home, listening, and, yes, there it wasagain. Was he being followed? He looked back, but there was nosuggestion of anyone on his heels until a policeman started totrail along behind him, his attention attracted by the lone,obviously rather drunk man's brutal features. After five minutes orso, the constable drew closer, saw that Burton wore the clothes ofa gentleman, hesitated, then abandoned the chase.
The explorer crossed Charing Cross Road and entered a long,badly lit side street. His foot hit a discarded bottle that spuninto the gutter with a musical tinkle. Something large flappedoverhead and he looked up in time to see a huge Eugenicist-bredswan pass by, dragging a box kite behind it through the mist. Aman's white face-an indistinct blur-looked down from the kitebefore it vanished over the rooftops. A faint voice reachedBurton's ears but whatever it was the man had shouted was muffledby the water-laden air.
Last year, Speke and Grant had used the same form oftransportation to make their way to the Nyanza, following the oldroute. It had taken a fraction of the time required by Burton'sexpedition. They'd set up camp in Kazeh, a small town some hundredand fifty miles south of the great lake, and here John Speke hadmade one of his characteristic errors of judgement by failing toproperly guard his birds. They'd been eaten by lions. Without themhe couldn't circumnavigate the lake, couldn't ascertain whether itwas the source of the great river, and couldn't prove Burtonwrong.
A few yards farther down the road, a man shuffled from theshadows of a doorway. He was a coarse-featured individual clad incanvas trousers and shirt with a rust-coloured waistcoat and acloth cap. There were fire marks-red welts-on his face and thickforearms caused by hours spent stoking a forge.
"Can I 'elp you, mate?" he growled. "Maybe relieve you ofwha'ever loose change is weighin' down yet pockits?"
Burton looked at him.
The man backed away so suddenly that his heels struck thedoorstep and he sat down heavily.
"Sorry, fella!" he mumbled. "Mistook you fer somebody else, Idid!"
The explorer snorted scornfully and moved on. He entered anetwork of narrow alleys-dark, dangerous, and sordid-a dismaltentacle of poverty reaching far out of the East End into thecentre of the city. Mournful windows gaped from the sides ofsqualid houses. Inarticulate shouts came from some ofthem-occasionally the sound of blows, screams, and weeping-buthopeless silence came from most.
It occurred to him that the depths of London felt remarkablysimilar to the remotest regions of Africa.
He came to a junction, turned left, tripped, and stumbled; hisshin banging against a discarded crate and his trouser leg catchingon a protruding nail and tearing. He spat out an oath and kickedthe crate away. A rat scuttled along the side of the pavement.
Leaning against a lamppost, Burton rubbed his eyes. The taste ofbrandy burned uncomfortably at the back of his throat. He noticed aflier pasted to the post and read it:
Work disciplines your spirit
Work develops your character
Work strengthens your soul
Do not allow machines to do your work!
Pushing himself away, he walked along the alley and turned yetanother corner-he wasn't sure where he was but knew he wasproceeding in the right general direction-and found himself at theend of a long, straight lane, its worn cobbles shining beneath thehaggard light of a single lamp. It was bordered by high andfeatureless redbrick walls, the sides of warehouses. The far endopened onto what looked to be a main thoroughfare. He could vaguelysee the front of a shop, possibly a butcher's, but when he tried toread the sign over the window, a velocipede clattered past it,leaving a swirling wreath of smoke that further obscured thelettering.
Burton moved on, trying to avoid pools of stinking urine, hisshoes squelching in patches of mud and worse, kicking againstrefuse.
A litter-crab came clanking into view by the shop, its eightthick mechanical legs thudding against the road surface, thetwenty-four thin arms on its belly darting this way and that,skittering back and forth over the cobbles, snatching up rubbishand throwing it through the machine's maw into the furnacewithin.