“Your pain will subside.”

“If it does, it will make no difference. I was a young man in India. I was ravaged by fevers and subject to innumerable tropical infections. It has left me incapable of—of fathering a child.”

She nodded slowly. “Ah. I see. My native country is an unforgiving one.”

Sliding from the bunk, she squatted down in front of him so that her eyes were at a lower level than his, looked up at him, put her hands on his knees, and said, “You know the Hindu faith well.”

“I do. What of it?”

“You are aware, then, that we believe a cycle of creation, preservation and dissolution is at the heart of all things, at every level of existence.”

“It has been much on my mind. Have you been reading my thoughts?”

She smiled. “I wouldn’t dare to, even if I could.”

“Hmm. Cycles? What of them?”

“Just that, at a personal level, when one is in the midst of dissolution, when everything appears lost, there is still the promise of rebirth, of a new cycle to come, of fresh creation.”

“If one survives,” Burton rasped.

“The concept of survival exists only because we place fences around ourselves. It is easy to think that when the physical body dies, there is nothing beyond it. But that’s because we depend on our senses to tell us what’s real. Those senses are a part of the body. When it dies, so do they. They aren’t the truth, Richard. That lies outside of us. Whatever suffering you’re enduring, if you push it into a wider context, perhaps it will appear a little less overwhelming.”

“What context?”

“Think of what we’re doing. We’ve travelled many generations into the future. We should all be long dead and gone. Yet, here we are, on a voyage to help the entire human race fulfil its destiny.”

He gazed into her eyes, saw in them compassion and faith and unshakable friendship. He clicked his teeth together then gave a sharp exhalation and said, “You’re right. Of course, you’re right. What is Richard Burton in the greater scheme of things? I am but a pawn in a game far too complex for me to understand.”

“No,” she said. “You’re more than a pawn. Your life may not be what you hoped, but it is still yours. You have willpower. And you know better, perhaps, than any other man, how the actions of one person can alter the entire world.”

Burton put his hand to his scalp, felt the scars. “That’s for certain.”

He came to a decision, stood, and gave a hand to Raghavendra as she rose.

“Let’s go and discover what it is we must do.”

They left the cabin and walked to the bridge, where they found Wells waiting.

“How long to Battersea, Captain?” Burton asked.

“Twelve minutes,” Lawless responded. “We’re just passing Whitstable. Descending through the cloud cover now.”

“By heavens!” Wells exclaimed. He pointed out of the window. “Red snow!”

It was true. Bright scarlet flakes swirled thickly outside and speckled the window’s glass.

Bismillah! Did I somehow summon the jungle?

Burton stepped closer to the glass.

Algy?

He said, “Nine o’clock, same day, same month, separated by three hundred and forty-two years. Red snow on both occasions. Had I any doubts about this mission, this would have swept them away.”

The Orpheus lurched as the Mark III steered it sharply to the left. Burton and the others staggered. “Oops! Sorry about that!” the babbage said. “The conditions are interfering with my radar, and I didn’t anticipate there being towers in the clouds.”

“Towers?” Lawless asked. “At this altitude? This far out from the city? What do you—?” He fell silent as the rotorship emerged from the dense canopy into a forest of brightly illuminated obelisks.

“My word!” Wells cried out. “London must cover the whole of the southeast!”

They gazed out at what had once been Whitstable, a small and sleepy coastal town, now apparently a borough of the capital, having been engulfed by the ever-spreading metropolis.

“I’m reducing speed,” Orpheus said. “Some of those towers are touching three and a half thousand feet. I have to steer us between them.”

“Do it!” Lawless snapped.

“I am,” the Mark III replied testily. “Didn’t I just say so?”

“It’s incredible,” Raghavendra exclaimed. “I could never have imagined such a city. The size of it! The height!”

The engines hummed as the rotorship weaved back and forth between the vertical edifices, moving through the mammoth metropolis, travelling in a westerly direction.

“I can barely take it all in,” Lawless said. “Is it possible that people built such a marvel? It’s the eighth wonder of the world!”

They saw the mouth of the Thames, but of the river itself there was no sign.

“Gone!” Wells cried out.

“Maybe not gone,” Burton said. “Perhaps just built over. Even in the nineteenth century many of the city’s waterways had been forced beneath the streets. The Tyburn, Fleet and Effra, for example, were all incorporated into Bazalgette’s sewer system.” He shivered, recalling bad experiences in those subterranean burrows.

They marvelled at the columns, which loomed out of the falling curtain of snow, all spanned by walkways, making London resemble a great hive through which many more flying machines floated, glimmering like fireflies.

“There’s something ablaze,” Lawless noted. He pointed. “Down there.”

As the Orpheus altered course, swinging southward, Sadhvi drew their attention to three large lesser-lit areas, like linked hollows in the dazzling display.

“Hyde Park, Green Park and Saint James Park,” Burton observed. “Still there and still the same shape after all these years.” He grunted. “Which, if I’m judging it correctly, means that fire is in, or close to, Grosvenor Square.”

Recurrences. Patterns.

“Descending,” the Mark III announced. “Battersea Airfield ahead. I should warn you that I’m having problems with my altitude sensors. There’s a peculiar echo.”

“Clarify, please,” Lawless demanded.

“A double reading. I’m not certain which of them is accurate.”

“Everyone stay by the window,” Lawless ordered. “We’ll give visual assistance.”

They saw other rotorships gliding past. In design, they differed little to their own vessel. If anything, they were slightly more primitive. However, as in 2130, there were also other flying craft—disks and needles and cones—that were obviously far more advanced.

“Apparently the divide continues,” Wells said. “Progress for some, retrogression for others.”

Burton felt a lightness as the Orpheus dropped, increased weight as it slowed and stopped.

“Is the ground fifty feet below us or a thousand?” the Mark III asked.

Lawless peered down and said, “Fifty.”

The ship dropped, and they were all jogged slightly as it landed.

“Elegantly done as usual, despite the confusion,” the babbage declared. “You may congratulate me.”

“Consider your back patted,” Lawless replied.

“Cannibal Club representatives are waiting outside.”

“Thank you, Orpheus. Sir Richard, Herbert, Sadhvi, I wish you every success in your mission. Daniel, Maneesh and I will keep the ship ticking over, ready to respond in an instant should you require our assistance.”

Burton said, “Thank you, Captain.”

They clasped hands.

Burton, Wells and Raghavendra left the bridge and were met by Gooch and Krishnamurthy at the hatch.

“Ready?” Gooch asked.

Burton jerked his head in affirmation.

“A new Thomas Bendyshe,” Wells mused. “I wonder how identical he’ll be to the other?”

Gooch took hold of one hatch lever while Krishnamurthy gripped the other. They pulled, the portal opened, and the ramp slid down. A flurry of scarlet snow billowed in. They stood back.

Burton watched as two figures ascended toward him, an adult—male, to judge by the gait—and a child, both wrapped in ankle-length cloaks with wide cowls that kept their faces shielded from the downpour.