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“Coming down at you!” the policeman screamed, pointingupward.
The king's agent yanked fiercely at his reins, sending his bird,with a honk of protest, swerving sharply to the left. Bhatti'srevolver barked twice as the ornithopter plunged past, narrowlymissing a collision with Burton's kite. The enemy vehicle twistedin the air and rose up beside the constable's swan. The driver,mounted on the ornithopter's saddle, turned to look at the giantbird. The frightened swan responded with its species’characteristic belligerence. It whipped its neck sideways, grippedthe brass head in its beak, and ripped it from the mechanicalshoulders.
Bhatti cheered, but his delight was short-lived. With nothing tosteer it, the ornithopter slid into his bird. Metal and fleshywings clashed and a stream of blood showered back over theconstable. The swan shrieked and started to fall, the ornithopterspi
“Good luck, Captain!” Bhatti shouted, yanking at his releasestrap. He disappeared behind and below Burton's kite.
Ahead, the Steam Man had gained some distance and was bearingslightly to the east.
A violent tremor ran through Burton's body. He gritted histeeth.
“All right, Brunel,” he ground out harshly. “Now it's just youand me.”
He cracked the reins.
The chase continued over the clouds and across rain-sweptLondon. Burton struggled to keep his mind from drifting. Hewondered where his onetime travelling companion John Ha
“Not long now, Dick,” Speke said. “We'll reach Ujiji beforesundown. We can lay up there awhile and get ourselves shipshapebefore we explore the lake more thoroughly. It's easy going for therest of the afternoon, old thing. Flat sava
Shooting. Always shooting! God, how Speke loved to kill!
The water continued to sprinkle onto his face.
Enough!
Speke didn't stop. The droplets fell with greater force,drenching him. He snapped awake. Bismillah! Where ' s Brunel?
Looking this way and that, furious with himself, he found thathe'd dropped back into the clouds. He tugged angrily at the reins,guiding his bird back upward.
Emerging into the clear air, he spotted the ornithopter aheadand to the left. It was descending. He followed and the vapourswallowed him again. Moments later he was being tossed around bythe wind and rain. Looking down at the streets below, he recognisednothing until he saw the familiar landmarks of Muswell Hill andAlexandra Park. He watched as Brunel steered his ornithopter in awide arc and settled in Priory Park, a lesser patch of greenery tothe southeast.
After flying a slow circuit around it, the king's agent swoopedin low above the bordering trees and, as they fell away behind him,tugged his release strap. The world somersaulted wildly as hetumbled away from the swan, then the ground swelled up and aterrific impact knocked his senses from him.
Burton opened his eyes.
Why was he lying in the rain? Why was he tangled in material?Why-? Memory returned.
He stirred, rolled over, pushed canvas and broken spars away,got to his knees, and vomited. His whole body was shaking.
He groped around until he found the kite's pocket, pulled hissilver-topped, panther-headed cane free, and, leaning heavily uponit, hauled himself to his feet.
POX JR5 fluttered onto his shoulder.
Burton fished a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped hismouth. As he pulled it away, he saw rain-diluted blood on thesquare of cotton. He felt his face and discovered a deep gash onthe bridge of his nose. Holding the cloth to it, he stumbled acrossthe boggy grass into a nearby thicket.
He leaned against the bole of a tree. His head achedabominably.
“Pox. Message for Detective Inspector Trounce,” he croaked.“Message begins. Brunel landed in Priory Park, Crouch End. He isinside the priory. Get here fast. Bring men. Message ends. Go.”
The parakeet blew a raspberry and departed.
Burton, concealed in the shadows beneath the huddle of trees,looked out over the lawn at the forbidding old building. The bigornithopter stood in front of its large double doors. The raindrummed loudly on the contraption's metal fuselage, and tendrils ofsteam coiled from the fu
Drawing on the remarkable reservoir of strength that had seenhim through so many adventures, the king's agent took off acrossthe lawn and skidded into cover behind the machine. He moved alongits side, ducked under a folded wing, and leaned out to look pastit at the front of the priory.
The front doors had opened and light shone from within. TheSteam Man clanked into view. Bells chimed: Brunel's odd and almostincomprehensible mechanical voice. Burton, with his extraordinaryear for languages, was able to discern the words: “Come in out ofthe rain, Captain.”
“So much for concealment,” he grunted.
Straightening, he trudged across to the entrance. With a puff ofexhaust fumes, Brunel stood aside.
“Do not be concerned for your safety,” the engineer rang asBurton stepped in. “Come and warm yourself by the fire. There issomeone I want you to meet.”
The interior of the building had been completely refurbished toaccommodate Brunel's size. Originally, it had been a three-flooredproperty. Now only the upper level survived. The bottom two hadbeen knocked into one enormous space, punctuated by tall ironbraces that replaced the supporting walls. A narrow staircase,lacking a banister, ran up the wall to Burton's left.
Off to his right, behind wooden screens of Indian design, hecould see items of ornate furniture standing on patterned rugs, anda big inglenook fireplace in which flames flickered invitingly. Itwas to this area that one of the Steam Man's multijointed armsgestured.
“Where are the diamonds, Brunel?” Burton demanded.
There came a whir of gears and another arm lifted. The clamp atits end held a number of flat jewel cases.
“Here. An explanation awaits you by the fire. I insist that yougo and dry yourself, Sir Richard. If you refuse, you'll catch yourdeath.”
The threat was unmistakable.
Burton turned and walked unsteadily to the furnished area,passing benches strewn with small items of machinery, tools,drills, brass fittings, gears, and springs. He stepped around thescreens and looked down at an elderly man seated in a leatherarmchair. Bald, shrunken, hollow-eyed, and with pale liver-spottedskin, he was unmistakably Sir Charles Babbage.
“By the Lord Harry!” the old inventor exclaimed in a cracked andraspy voice. “Are you ill? You look all in! And you're sopping wet,man! For heaven's sake, sit down! Pull the chair closer to thefire. Brunel! Brunel! Come here!”
Burton placed his cane to the side of the hearth and collapsedinto an armchair.
The Steam Man thudded over and lifted a couple of the screensaway. He loomed above the two men.
“Where are your ma
Brunel moved to a cabinet and, with astonishing delicacyconsidering his great bulk, withdrew from it two glasses and acrystal decanter. He poured generous measures, returned, and heldthem out-one to each man. Burton and Babbage accepted them, andBrunel took a few paces back. With a hiss of escaping steam, helowered into a squat and became entirely motionless but for therhythmic wheezing of his bellows.
“Creak creak! Creak creak!” Babbage observed. “Abysmal racket!On and on it goes. And all evening, the rain on the windows!Pitter-patter! Pitter-patter! How is a man supposed to think? Isay, drink up, Burton! What on earth's the matter with you?”