Slaughter wiped a line of milk from his moustache. “A family mission, is it? In for a penny, in for a pound, that’s what I say.”

Penniforth gave a thumbs-up.

Edward Burton said, “Brother, please tell me you’re joking. By heavens, the whole endeavour is doomed from the start.”

“If you have a better idea, let’s hear it.”

The minister picked at his fingernails for a moment before, in a quiet tone, saying, “How can it possibly work? Won’t you simply create yet another alternate history?”

Burton turned to Babbage. “Charles?”

“You intend to make a change to the future, not to the past,” the old man said. “Our reality is—from the present moment onward—thus suspended between two possibilities: you will come back from the future or you won’t. For you, as you travel forward through time to 2202, the history you pass through will not be in any way defined by the answer, for you won’t yet have provided it.”

“What? What? What?” Swinburne screeched.

Ignoring him, Burton asked, “But if we ask someone from the future what became of us?”

“They simply won’t know,” Babbage replied. “Every consequence of your return—or consequence of your none return—will remain in an indefinite state until you actually do one or the other.”

“And if we do return, will we be able to act on the knowledge gained from the future?”

“Yes.”

“So we’d be creating yet another branch of history.”

“From the perspective of the future you’ve returned from, yes, but subjectively, no.”

“Aargh!” Swinburne shrieked. “How can time be subjective?”

“My dear boy!” Babbage exclaimed. “How can it not be?”

“I’m hearing words,” Trounce grumbled, “but if you threw them into a bag, gave it a good shake, and poured them out, the results would make just as much sense to me.”

The minister held up a hand to halt the discussion. “All right. All right. Let us suppose I finance the project. Who would you take with you, Dick?”

“A small company,” the king’s agent answered. “Volunteers only.”

“Me,” Swinburne said.

“And me,” Sadhvi Raghavendra put in. “You’ll need my medical expertise, especially if you’re dosing yourselves with that horrible tincture.”

“It’s utterly preposterous,” Detective Inspector Trounce declared. “Whatever it is. Nevertheless, you can count on me. Perhaps I’ll eventually understand what I’m becoming involved with.”

“The Orpheus is my ship,” Lawless stated. “I’ll not give her over to anyone else, so I’m in, too. But crew?”

“How much can be automated?” Burton asked Babbage.

“A lot. The Mark Three will fly her. I’ll give the Orpheus a brain.”

Lawless whistled. “That’ll be interesting.” He pursed his lips then said to Burton, “I suppose I can train you and your fellows for whatever duties remain.”

“I’ll come,” Maneesh Krishnamurthy announced. He gripped his cousin, Bhatti, by the arm before he could also volunteer. “No, Shyamji. You’ve been romancing that charming young dressmaker. I have high hopes for you. Put a ring on her finger. Start a family. Throw your lot in with the Cannibal Club.”

“But—”

“No argument.”

Shyamji Bhatti frowned before offering a shrugged concession.

Gooch said, “You’ll require an engineer to keep the airship in good order. Mr. Brunel is out of action and shows no sign of recovery. Take me.”

Burton said, “Thank you, Daniel.” He glanced at each of the volunteers in turn. “Seven of us, then. Let me remind all of you that even if we inadvertently cause further bifurcations in history, we can travel back along them. This world will still be here. We can return to it.” He faced his brother. “Minister?”

Edward held his sibling’s eyes for a second. “Very well. If only to save us from a plethora of stilted lunatics, I’ll sanction this tomfoolery. I’ll also see to it that the Cannibal Club receives whatever funding it requires, with one proviso; I shall lead it. The group’s mission will need to be meticulously planned, its existence ingeniously concealed, its continuity assured for many generations. There is no man alive more suited to such a job than I.”

“Agreed,” Burton said with a slight smile.

Over the course of the next hour, the minister secured one of the hotel’s private sitting rooms, and the core members of the Cannibal Club were summoned.

By seven o’clock, they were all present with the exception of Henry Murray, who’d left the city to visit friends in Somerset. Sir Richard Francis Burton, Edward Burton, Richard Monckton Milnes, Thomas Bendyshe, Doctor James Hunt, Sir Edward Brabrooke and Charles Bradlaugh settled in the chamber, accepted drinks, and each lit a cigar or pipe.

“‘Attend immediately by order of the king,’” Brabrooke quoted. “I’ve never before received such a peremptory invitation.”

“Nor have you ever been requested to do what I am about to ask of you,” the king’s agent said. “We find ourselves in extraordinary circumstances, gentlemen. So strange, in fact, that you’ll be required to swear an oath of absolute secrecy and loyalty to the crown before we continue.”

The club members glanced at one another, eyebrows raised, but none objected, and, after the vows were made, full disclosure followed, causing the brows to rise even higher.

Once the briefing was over and the commission served, they sat in stunned silence, which was eventually broken by Bendyshe, who suddenly bellowed with laughter and cried out, “By all that’s holy, you’ve assigned to us a mission to mate!”

Doctor James Hunt grinned. “I shall devote myself to it assiduously.”

Sir Edward Brabrooke raised his glass. “Ladies of London beware.”

“Tally ho!” Charles Bradlaugh cheered.

Monckton Milnes looked at Burton and winked.

Burton left his brother with the group to plan the future of the club. He returned to suite five. His colleagues there had divided into smaller groups, each discussing some specific aspect of the planned venture.

“I wish Brunel were with us,” Gooch quietly said to him. “I don’t doubt I can build Babbage’s version of a Nimtz generator, but I’m certain Isambard would make a better job of it.”

“You can’t revive him?”

“I fear not. When the damaged time suit vanished, the burst of energy it transmitted appears to have erased his mind from the diamonds in his babbage calculator.”

“But—” Burton’s brow creased, “if that’s the case, why did it not also erase the undamaged helmet?”

“I asked Babbage the very same question. He posits that it’s because the helmet contained a healthy version of the same mind. What hit Brunel as something alien and overwhelming struck the helmet as a moment of disordered thought that it was able to quash with its own rationality. For poor Brunel, it was too unfamiliar. He had no way to resist. We’ve lost our friend and the world’s most brilliant engineer. He’s dead.”

“I mourn with you, Daniel. He was a great man and a good friend. But I also have every faith that, even without him, you can fulfil what we require of you.”

Gooch flexed his mechanical arms and folded his real ones across his chest. “I’ll direct all the Department of Guided Science’s resources to the design and construction of the Nimtz generator and to the refit of the Orpheus. Despite the complexity of the project, with so many people working on it, it won’t take more than a few weeks. But what of the future, Sir Richard? Surely they’ll have flying machines. Won’t our nineteenth-century rotorship stick out like a sore thumb? How will we avoid detection?”

“We’ll depend on the Cannibals,” Burton answered. “Or, rather, on their descendants. Their remit will include the securing of up-to-date airships into which we can transfer the Orpheus’s machinery. We must replace her as we travel.”

“Expensive.”

“My brother intends to make careful investments to assure us adequate funds.”