A Spring Heeled Jack had materialised in the dining room and landed on a table. It was flailing about amid broken glasses and crockery, yelling, “Where is Burton? My neck! Don’t break my neck! Prime Minister? Where are you?”

Burton raised his gun.

“Everybody stand clear!”

Patrons scattered. He aimed at the figure and, as it clambered to its feet, pulled the trigger, once, twice, three times, hitting it in the chest. The stilt man collapsed to its knees, a bubble peeled outward from its skin, and it vanished.

Tom Bendyshe, temporarily neglecting his atheism, cried out, “Mary mother of God! Won’t they ever stop?”

Thirty minutes later, Burton’s membership was rescinded and he was banished from the Athenaeum.

“Soon, I shan’t be allowed anywhere,” he complained, as he bid his friend farewell.

“Tomorrow, you won’t be anywhere,” Bendyshe observed. “At least, nowhere in this age.”

The following day, the minister of chronological affairs said, “Whatever else you do during your visit to the future, will you please prevent the Spring Heeled Jacks from making further visits to us? I’m thoroughly irritated by the infernal pests.”

Miraculously, Edward Burton had left the Royal Venetia Hotel and was sitting in a growler at the foot of the Orpheus’s boarding ramp. Battersea Power Station towered in the background.

It was raining.

Sir Richard Francis Burton, standing beside the carriage and holding an umbrella against which the water drummed, replied, “Must I remind you, Edward, that while you’ve been hiding away in your hotel suite, it is I who’ve borne the brunt of the intrusions?”

“A reminder isn’t necessary,” his brother said. “I’m exhausted by the constant worry.”

“About the disruption?”

“About you, you dolt.”

Burton was silent for nearly a minute. Then he said, “It appears that eugenics, or a similar science, will make a resurgence in the future.”

“You base that assertion on what?”

“Joseph Lister has finally identified the flesh inside the Spring Heeled Jack mechanisms.”

“And?”

“It appears to be a variation of pork.”

“Pork? You’re telling me they’re pigs?”

“A pig machine hybrid.”

“God in heaven! What nightmarish world does Oxford inhabit?”

“I’ll soon find out.” Burton hesitated, then added, “If I don’t come back—”

“Do,” Edward snapped.

The king’s agent looked around at the rain-swept airfield and up at the station’s four copper towers. “Just how much will it all change, I wonder?”

The minister grunted. “Babbage and Brunel have been the driving force behind the immense progress we’ve witnessed in our lifetime, but Babbage is old and increasingly eccentric, and as for Brunel, he’s little more than a statue now.” Raising his fat fingers to his face, Edward Burton stroked his stubbled jowls. “Your initial jump will be a mere fifty-four years; a tiny step by comparison with your ultimate destination. Surely the world will be recognisable?”

“If we went backward the same number of years, we’d be in 1806. Imagine what an inhabitant of that time would make of this.”

His brother nodded. “You’re right. Well, needless to say, I’ll do all I can to ensure that members of the Cannibal Club meet you at your scheduled stops. I regret that I’m unlikely to be among them. Mortality—I find it such a terrible disappointment.”

“Don’t treat this as a good-bye, Edward. You know I can’t bear such sentiment.”

The minister looked away, cleared his throat, lifted his cane, and banged it on the growler’s ceiling. “The Venetia, Mr. Penniforth.”

Montagu Penniforth looked down from the driver’s box and touched two fingers to the peak of his cap. “Good luck to yer, Sir Richard. Me little ’un’s name is Clive. Three years of age now. He’ll be there to meet yer, I ’ope. A mite older, though.”

“Thank you, Monty.”

A tremor shook the carriage. It coughed a plume of steam, rattled, and moved off. Burton watched it go, took a final look around, then spun on his heel and strode up into the Orpheus.

Daniel Gooch and Charles Babbage met him as he entered. He furled his umbrella and handed it to the elderly scientist.

“We’re ready,” Gooch said. The engineer had abandoned his auxiliary arms and appeared a little ill at ease with just his own natural pair.

Babbage cast his eyes over the dripping umbrella in his hand as if uncertain what it was, then glowered disapprovingly at Burton. “Can I trust you with my devices, sir? They are my masterpieces.”

“I shan’t go near them,” Burton replied. “They are in Daniel’s charge.”

“Excellent.” Babbage tapped the engineer’s shoulder with the brolly’s handle. “I want them returned to me undamaged, young man.”

Gooch nodded. “Of course. I’ll look after them. I give you my word.”

Babbage made a sound that suggested he didn’t believe the guarantee. He turned his attention back to Burton. “Remember, the equipment will move the ship through time but not instantaneously. She can’t match Edward Oxford’s suit for efficiency. For him, the transference from one date to another was like the blink of an eye. For you, there will be intervals between. They may be disorientating. You might even lose consciousness. Don’t worry. The Mark Three calculator will function independently and will see you to your destination.”

“Thank you.”

The old man said to Gooch, “I’m relying on you to analyse the machinery of the future and bring me detailed reports.”

“I’ll do so.”

Babbage gave a nod of satisfaction, peered again at Burton’s brolly, then opened it, held it over his head, muttered, “Ah ha!” and descended the ramp to the ground.

Gooch said to the king’s agent, “Will you help me to close her up?”

They pulled in the ramp, slid the double doors shut, and twisted the bolts into place.

“I have to go to the engine room, Sir Richard. Mr. Trounce is assisting me. Mr. Krishnamurthy and Miss Raghavendra are in what used to be the smoking lounge, overlooking the Nimtz generator. I’ve trained them both in its operation, which isn’t nearly as complicated as Mr. Babbage would have you believe. You’ll join Mr. Swinburne and Captain Lawless on the bridge?”

“I will. For heaven’s sake, Daniel, drop all the ‘misters’ and ‘misses’ and just call me Richard. We’ve known each other long enough to dispense with formalities. First name basis, if you please. Has everyone taken their dose of Saltzmann’s?”

“Yes.”

“Good show.”

Burton and Gooch set off in opposite directions.

As he traversed the passageway and ascended the stairs to the command deck, Burton marvelled at the brilliance and craftsmanship of the scientists and engineers. As predicted, Babbage had been unable to reproduce the microscopic workings of Oxford’s suit, but that he’d created their functional equivalents, albeit on a much larger scale, in such little time, was astonishing. Of course, he’d been studying the suits for many years, so was well versed in the operations of its many components, but he’d lacked the mathematical principle at the heart of them. When Burton supplied it, Babbage for the first time saw with absolute clarity how Oxford’s invention defied the strictures of time, and he was able with breathtaking rapidity to design a device that employed contemporaneous machinery to do the same. Where Oxford’s genius had fitted it all into a helmet and small flat disk, Babbage required a double-sized Mark III probability calculator and a twenty-four-foot-long, twelve-foot-wide, and ten-foot-high contraption of cogs, levers, pistons, looms, barrels, sliding links, moveable arms, teeth, pegs, holes, warp beams, cranks, ratchets, gears, wheels, pipes, valves, cross heads, cylinders, regulators, inlets, outlets, flywheels, boilers, pumps, condensers, ducts, transmitter disks, field amplifiers, chronostatic coils and a loudly rumbling furnace.