“Babbage warned us of such a phenomenon.”

“His theories are in our records. Knowing the ‘why’ of it doesn’t make it any the less odd.” Brabrooke reached out and took a broad-shouldered man by the elbow, pulling him to his side. “Anyway, let’s look forward, not back. This is my son, Edward John.”

“I’ve heard so much about the three of you,” the younger Brabrooke said. “It’s an honour to meet you.”

“I also have a grandson,” Edward Brabrooke said. “Eddie. When he’s older, he’ll join our ranks. Perhaps he’ll get to meet you, too.”

James Honesty put in, “Suffice to say, Sir Richard, that all your friends dedicated themselves to the continuation of our little organisation, and many are here represented.” He gestured to another, stockily built youngster. “This, for example, is Lieutenant Henry Bendyshe.”

With an oddly familiar voice, the lieutenant bellowed, “By crikey! I’m very happy to be here, sirs. My grandfather always told tall tales of you, Sir Richard, and of you, Mr. Swinburne. He considered you the finest of friends.”

“Gosh!” Swinburne muttered. “Tom found a wife. The poor girl.”

“And this,” Honesty continued, nodding toward a strikingly beautiful blonde-haired woman, “is Miss Eliza Murray, granddaughter of Admiral Henry Murray.”

“Admiral!” Burton and Swinburne exclaimed.

Brabrooke cackled. “Who’d have thought such an utter rapscallion would rise so high, hey?”

Swinburne smiled at Miss Murray and exclaimed, “My hat! But you’re the spitting image of him, except female, of course, and considerably better looking. In fact, you completely outshine him. There’s barely any resemblance at all.”

She laughed. “My mother says I have his face.”

“Well,” Swinburne said, “he was tremendously handsome, then. Apparently.”

Burton turned his attention to a dark-complexioned middle-aged woman. “And you, madam, bear a distinct likeness to Shyamji Bhatti.”

She bobbed. “His daughter. I am Patmanjari Richardson, née Bhatti.”

“Your father’s cousin, Maneesh Krishnamurthy, is up in the Orpheus. Perhaps you’d like to meet him?”

Honesty turned to her. “Go say hello, by all means.”

“I should like that very much.” She smiled and left the room.

Another woman, in her midfifties, was introduced as Catherine Jones, daughter of Detective Inspector Sidney Slaughter.

“We also have with us Clive Penniforth,” James Honesty said, jerking a thumb toward a muscular fellow, “whose father was a cab driver of your acquaintance.”

“Gents,” Penniforth said. His voice was so deep it sounded like an avalanche. He touched his fingers to his temple. “Pops is still with us, but he don’t get around much no more. Has a spot o’ bother with his hips. He sends his best.”

“Good old Monty!” Swinburne exclaimed.

“And finally, from the old crowd, we have Robert Crewe-Milnes, the first Marquess of Crewe.”

The marquess, a handsome man with a wide moustache and a military bearing, said, “My father was Richard Monckton Milnes.”

Unexpectedly, Burton felt overcome by emotion. The muscles to either side of his jaw worked spasmodically. He blinked at Crewe-Milnes, who gave a sad smile of understanding and said nothing more.

Swinburne sniffed, pulled out a handkerchief, and blew his nose.

After a moment’s silence, Honesty said, “So that is nine of us, all descended from the original Cannibals, with the exception of Mr. Brabrooke, who is an original. However, as you can see, we are twelve in total. We have three new recruits, who we felt could contribute much to our cause, they being inclined toward considerations of the future, as well as possessing admirable insight into the present. The first is Mademoiselle Amélie Blanchet.”

A rather coarse-featured, overweight and ostentatiously dressed woman of about fifty years murmured, “Welcome aboard, gentlemen. Bonjour. Bonjour.”

“She wields considerable influence in high society. Few people better comprehend how an undercurrent of idle gossip influences cultural and political movements, and no one hears more of it than she.”

The woman gave a somewhat sardonic smile.

Honesty went on, “Then we have Erik von Lessing, who has many connections in the German government.”

Burton acknowledged the white-haired and smartly dressed man, who returned his nod with a sharp bow.

“And last but by no means least, our resident visionary.” Honesty indicated a tubby little chap who was no taller than Swinburne. “Mr. Herbert Wells.”

“I feel honoured to meet you, Sir Richard,” Wells said. His voice was high-pitched and childlike. “And you, too, Mr. Swinburne.”

Burton frowned. “Herbert Wells? Herbert George Wells?”

“Yes,” Wells responded. “You’re no doubt remembering the fellow Abdu El Yezdi wrote of in his account entitled ‘Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon.’ We are pretty certain that he was me, albeit a different me in a different version of history.” He shuddered and added, “And thank goodness for that. My poor counterpart suffered the dreadful world war we ourselves have avoided.”

“Perhaps, then, I should say it’s nice to meet you again, Mr. Wells,” Burton said, with a wry curl of his lips.

Wells chuckled.

“Shall we get to business?” Honesty asked. “Practicalities first?”

Burton nodded. “Let’s. The Orpheus?”

“Penniforth and von Lessing are our resident experts in engineering. Gents?”

“Aye,” Penniforth rumbled. “Airships ain’t changed all that much since your time. The Orpheus can just about pass muster if no one looks too close, like. But we’re goin’ to fit her with a telemobiloscope afore you set off again.”

“A telly-mo-billy-whatsit?” Swinburne enquired.

“Invented by a German,” von Lessing put in. “Christian Hülsmeyer. It can detect other ships in your location through means of reflected radio waves.”

The poet threw out his hands in a helpless shrug. “Radio?”

“Wireless telegraph signals.”

“Good Lord!” Burton exclaimed. “Useful!”

“We even transmit entertainment shows through ’em,” Penniforth added. “Music and suchlike. We ’ave a radio unit ready to add to the Orpheus. It will make it easier for the future Cannibals to contact you.”

“Excellent. And what else?”

“There ain’t much else.”

“Really? Am I to take it that progress has slowed?”

Edward Brabrooke interjected, “Yes, it most certainly has. These youngsters refer to our time as the Steam Revolution, Richard, and rightfully recognise Isambard Kingdom Brunel and old Charles Babbage as the geniuses at its heart. You’ll doubtlessly recall that Isambard ceased to function in 1860?”

“For us, it was just a couple of months ago,” Burton noted. “He never recovered?”

“No.”

“What became of him?”

“He was declared dead. There was a magnificent ceremony at St. Paul’s Cathedral to mark his passing, and a stone was laid bearing his name, though there was no corpse to bury beneath it. His mechanical form is exhibited in the British Museum. As for Charles Babbage, he went into hiding for half a decade and—I’m sorry, but this is necessary information—lost his mind. They say he died a raving lunatic, though no one is sure exactly when.”

“Why the uncertainty?”

Brabrooke shrugged and made a gesture that incorporated the room. “Perhaps his close association with this endeavour has cast the same veil over him that confounds our post-1860 memories of you.”

“Odd.”

“It is. The sixties are regarded as a mysterious period. Significant events were left unrecorded, were hushed up, and have been inexplicably forgotten. Whatever occurred, it marked the end of the Steam Revolution, and those few who knew him generally agree that Babbage was somehow at the heart of it. All I can tell you for certain is that, on the twenty-eighth of September, 1861, he destroyed all his prototypes, all the devices he had in his possession, and incinerated his every plan, blueprint, and diary. He left no trace of his work at all, other than the Mark Two probability calculators that occupied the heads of existing clockwork men, and as you know, those calculators were notoriously booby-trapped, so any unauthorised infiltration caused them to self-destruct. Very few of them still exist. Put simply, we lost Babbage and his knowledge. It was the death-knell of the Department of Guided Science. By the 1880s, it had been incorporated into the Department of Industry and all the great names associated with it were gone.”