Smoke and steam, illuminated by a streetlamp, were seething against the glass.

“Hasn't it cleared up yet?” the poet muttered. “What this city needs is a good blast of wind. I say! What's that?”

The fumes were thickening, forming a shape.

“A wraith? Here? What on earth is it up to?”

He pulled up the sash and leaned out of the window.

“What's the meaning of this? Bugger off, will you! I'm thoroughly fed up with phantoms! Go and haunt somebody else! I'm trying to sleep! Wait! Wait! What? My hat! Is that-is that you, Richard?”

The ghostly features forming just inches from his own were, undoubtedly, those of Sir Richard Francis Burton.

“No!” the poet cried. “You can't be dead, surely!”

His friend's faintly visible lips moved. There was no sound, but it seemed to Swinburne that the defensive walls Burton had implanted in his mind suddenly crumbled, and the noise of their destruction was like a whispered voice: Help me, Algy!

“Help you? Help you? What? I- My God!”

He stumbled backward away from the window and fell onto the bed.

The ghostly form of Burton had melted away.

He sat for a moment with his mouth hanging open, then sprang up, grabbed his clothes, and raced from the room. He thundered down the stairs and into the study.

“Herbert! Herbert! Wake up, man!”

“Eh?”

“Richard's in trouble! We have to find him!”

“Trouble? What trouble? How do you know?”

“I had a vision!”

The vagrant philosopher eyed the younger man. “Now then, lad, that brandy-”

“No, I'm suddenly sober as a judge, I swear! Get dressed! Move, man! We have to get going! I'll meet you in the backyard!

Spencer threw up his hands. “All right, all right!”

Swinburne somehow combined putting on his clothes with descending the stairs. In the main hallway, he snatched a leash from the hatstand, and continued on to the basement and out of the back door.

The poet crossed the yard and squatted down in front of Fidget's kennel.

“Wake up, old thing,” he urged, in a low voice. “I know you and I have our differences but there's work to be done. Your master needs us!”

There came the sound of a wheezy yawn followed by a rustling movement. The basset hound's head emerged. The dog stared mournfully at the poet.

“Your nose is required, Fidget. Here, let me get the lead onto you, there's a good dog.”

Swinburne clipped the leather strap onto the hound's collar then stood and said, “Come on, exercise time!”

Fidget dived at his ankle and nipped it.

“Ow! You rotter! Stop it! We don't have time for games!”

Spencer stepped out of the house, wearing his baggy coat and cap.

“Take this little monster!” Swinburne screeched.

“So where are we off to, lad?” the philosopher asked, grabbing Fidget's lead.

“Gallows Tree Lane.”

“It's past midnight the night of a riot! How do you expect us to get to bloomin’ Clerkenwell? Weren't it difficult enough gettin’ here from Fleet Street?”

“Follow me-and keep that mongrel away from my ankles!”

Swinburne walked to the back of the yard, opened the door to the garage, and passed through. “We'll take these,” he said, as Herbert stepped in behind him.

“Rotorchairs? I can't drive a blinkin’ rotorchair!”

“Yes you can. It's easy! Don't worry, I'll show you how. It's just a matter of coordination, which means if I can do it, anyone can.”

“An’ what about the dog?”

“Fidget will sit on your lap.”

“Oh, heck!”

Swinburne opened the main doors and they dragged the machines out into the mews. Despite his protestations, Spencer absorbed the poet's instructions without difficulty and was soon familiar with the principles of flying. It was only experience he lacked.

“Swans I'm happy with,” he grumbled. “They was born to it. But takin’ to the air in a lump o’ metal and wood? That's plain preposterous. How the blazes do these things fly?”

Swinburne nodded and grinned. “I felt the same the first time. It's the Formby coal, you see. It produces so much energy that even these ungainly contraptions can take to the air. I should warn you, though, Herbert, that there's a chance our enemy will cause them to cease working. We could plummet from the sky. All set, then?”

Spencer stared at his companion. “Was that a joke?”

“There's no time for larking about, man! Richard may be in dire peril!”

“Um. Yus, well, er-the basset hound won't jump off, will he?”

“No. Fidget has flown with Richard before. He positively delights in the experience.”

Swinburne went to the back of Spencer's machine and started the engine, then crossed to his own and did the same. He clambered into the leather armchair and buckled himself in. After fitting a pair of goggles over his eyes, he gripped the steering rods and pushed forward on the footplate.

Above his head, six wings unfolded as the flight shaft began to revolve. They snapped out horizontally, turned slowly, picked up speed, and vanished into a blurry circle. The engine coughed and roared and steam surged out from the exhaust funnel, flattening against the ground as the rotors blew it down and away.

The machine's runners scraped forward a couple of feet then lifted. Swinburne yanked back the middle lever and shot vertically into the air.

He rose until he was high above the smoke-swathed city. Above him, the stars twinkled. Below him, fires flickered.

The riot seemed to have confined itself to the centre of London, and had been concentrated, in particular, around Soho and the West End.

Far off to the east, the Cauldron-the terrible East End-showed no signs of disturbances.

“But, then, why should it?” Swinburne said to himself. “You'll not find a single representative of High Society for them to rail against in that part of town. By crikey, though, imagine if that sleeping dragon awoke!”

Spencer shot up past him, slowed his vehicle, and sank back down until he was hovering level with the poet.

Swinburne gave him a thumbs-up, and guided his craft toward the Clerkenwell district.

Their flight was short and uneventful, though they saw many police fliers skimming low over the rooftops.

When they reached Coram's Fields, they reduced altitude and steered their machines through the drifting tatters of smoke from street to street until, below, they spotted a constable on his beat.

Swinburne landed near the policeman and stopped his rotorchair's engine.

“I say! Constable!”

“I shouldn't park here, sir, if I-Hallo! Here comes another one!”

Spencer's vehicle angled down onto the road, hit it with a thump, and skidded to a halt with sparks showering from its runners.

Fidget barked.

“Gents,” the policeman said as the engine noise died down, “this is no time and no night to be out and about in expensive vehicles!”

“We're on the king's business!” Swinburne proclaimed. “I'd like you to guard these chairs and have them returned to 14 Montagu Place at the first opportunity.”

The constable removed his helmet and scratched his head. “Forgive me for saying so, sir, but I don't know that you're in any position to give me orders, ‘specially ones that'll take me from my duties.”

“My good man, I am Sir Richard Francis Burton's personal assistant,” Swinburne countered haughtily. He pulled a card from his pocket and waved it in the man's face. “And Sir Richard Francis Burton is the king's agent. And the king, God bless him, is the ruler of the land. It also happens that I claim Detective Inspector Trounce and Detective Inspector Honesty of Scotland Yard as close personal friends. Then there's Commander Krishnamurthy, Constable Bhatti-”

“Stop! I surrender!” the policeman said, taking the card. He read it, handed it back, put on his helmet, saluted, and said: “Right you are, sir. My apologies. I'll see that your machines are returned in good time. How about if I have them shifted to the Yard for the night? For safekeeping?”