Trounce glanced toward his colleague. “I'd say he's the most determined of us all, Captain. He's a man who likes everything to be just so. The idea that an individual can hop back through time and turn it all on its head doesn't sit well with him.”

Burton gave a small nod of understanding. “The steward is taking us on a tour of the ship. Join us?”

“I will, thank you.”

Leaving Honesty, Krishnamurthy, Bhatti, and Mrs. Angell-all of whom had been around the vessel earlier that morning-Burton, Swinburne, and Trounce followed Doctor Quaint back into the corridor. As they passed by the captain's rooms, a small, slightly pudgy boy emerged.

“All shipshape, Master Wilde?” the doctor asked.

“That it is, sir. Good morning to you, Captain Burton, Mr. Swinburne, Detective Inspector Trounce. Welcome aboard!” The boy grinned, habitually raising his hand to his nose in order to conceal his rather crooked and yellowing teeth.

“Hallo, Quips!” said Burton.

Quaint addressed the explorer: “I understand Master Wilde is with us at your recommendation, sir?”

“He is indeed.”

“And I'm much obliged, so I am, Captain,” Wilde said.

“By Jove, little 'un!” Trounce exclaimed. “If someone had told you a year ago that you'd be flying to Africa as a crewmember aboard the biggest rotorship ever built, would you have believed them?”

“I can believe anything provided it is incredible, Mr. Trounce.”

“Ha! Quite so! Quite so! And I daresay it's a great deal better than going to school, hey?”

“I wouldn't know, never having suffered such an indignity. While education may be an admirable thing, it is well to remember that nothing worth knowing can be taught. Now then, I must get myself up to the captain to have these acquisition orders signed. There's much to be done, so there is, if we're to depart the country without leaving unpaid debts behind us. I'll see you later, gentlemen!”

“Good Lord!” Quaint said as Wilde disappeared up the stairs to the conning tower. “Where does he get those nimble wits from?”

“I have no idea,” Burton answered. “Perhaps his diet of butterscotch and gobstoppers has affected his brain.”

They moved on down the corridor, passing the crew's quarters, and entered the lounge, a large space stretching from one side of the ship to the other. There were tables and chairs, a small dance floor and stage, and, to Swinburne's evident satisfaction, a bar in one corner.

“How many passengers can the Orpheusaccommodate, Doctor?” Burton asked.

“Two hundred, sir. The smoking room is ahead of us, and beyond that the dining room, then a small parlour, and the first-class cabins all the way to the stern, where the reading room is situated. From there we'll take the stairs down to the rear observation room, pass through the cargo hold to the galley and pantries, then the engine room, and on to the standard-class cabins in the prow end of the ship. As you can see, those rooms have access to this lounge via staircases on the port and starboard sides. Of course, the ship has a number of other rooms, but those are the main ones.”

“Phew!” Trounce gasped. “Mr. Brunel certainly likes to work on a grand scale!”

They continued their tour, marvelling at the opulence that surrounded them-for every fixture and fitting, and every item of decor, had been handcrafted from the finest materials-and eventually came to the galley, where they found Isabella Mayson unpacking foodstuffs and stocking the larders.

“By heavens, Miss Mason!” Quaint cried out. “You're making fast progress! The last time I looked in, this room was chock-a-block with unopened boxes!”

“A place for everything and everything in its place, Doctor Quaint,” the young woman responded. “We took a great many supplies on board in Yorkshire and we'll be adding more when we get to London. If I don't have the kitchen in order by then, it'll mean more work and delayed meals. We wouldn't want that, would we?”

“Certainly not!” Quaint agreed.

Miss Mayson smiled at the steward and said, “I shall be serving an early lunch at half-past twelve, Doctor.”

“Good!” Swinburne interjected. “I'm famished!”

Quaint led them out of the galley, past cabins given over to various shipboard functions, and into the first of the huge engine-room compartments. After Daniel Gooch had shown them around the massive twin turbines, they moved on to the standard-class cabins, where they encountered Sister Raghavendra, who was organising a small surgery. As Quaint explained, it was essential to have medical facilities aboard the ship, not only to cater for any passenger who might be taken ill, but also because some of the engineering duties were exceedingly hazardous. It was the job of the riggers, for example, to maintain the flight pylons, which sometimes meant crawling out onto them while the Orpheuswas in mid-flight. They wore harnesses, of course, but a fall could still be damaging. Riggers had been known drop then swing into the side of their ship, suffering a crushing impact.

“Now that you have your bearings, gentlemen, I shall take my leave of you,” the doctor said as they reached a staircase at the prow of the vessel. “There is much to be done before our principal voyage begins, as I'm sure you appreciate.” He looked down at Swinburne. “I have to pass back through the lounge, sir. If you'd care to accompany me, I'll organise that breakfast tipple for you.”

“Bravo!” Swinburne cheered. “That'll be just the ticket!”

“And you, sir?” Quaint asked Burton.

“Too early for me. I'll retire to my quarters to go over the expedition inventory.”

“Then I shall see you at lunch, sir.”

The top ends of four colossal copper rods poked out of the dense fog that blanketed London. Guided by Francis Wenham, HMA Orpheusslid into position between them and gently descended into the central courtyard of Battersea Power Station.

It was two o'clock in the afternoon.

“How times have changed,” Swinburne commented as he and Sir Richard Francis Burton disembarked, wrapped tightly in their overcoats, top hats pressed onto their heads. “Who'd have thought, a couple of years ago, that we'd end up working with Isambard Kingdom Brunel?”

“How times havechanged,” Burton echoed. “That's the problem.”

Herbert Spencer, the clockwork philosopher, emerged from the pall to greet them.

He was a figure of polished brass, a machine, standing about five-feet-five-inches tall. His head was canister-shaped, with a bizarre-looking domed attachment on top of it that was somewhat reminiscent of a tiny church organ. The “face” beneath it was nothing more than three raised circular areas set vertically. The topmost resembled a tiny ship's porthole, through which a great many minuscule cogwheels could be glimpsed. The middle circle held a mesh grille, and the bottom one was simply a hole out of which three very fine five-inch-long wires projected.

Spencer's neck consisted of thin shafts and cables, swivel joints and hinges. His trunk was a slim cylinder with panels cut from it, revealing gears and springs, delicate crankshafts, gyroscopes, flywheels, and a pendulum. The thin but robust arms ended in three-fingered hands. The legs were sturdy and tubular; the feet oval-shaped.

He was an astonishing sight; and few who saw him now would believe that not so many weeks ago he'd been a very human, grubby, and tangle-bearded vagrant.

“Hallo, Boss! Hallo, Mr. Swinburne!” he hooted.

His strange voice came from the helmet-shaped apparatus, recently created and added to the brass man by Brunel. Spencer spoke through it clearly but with a piping effect that sounded similar to the woodwind section of a band.

Burton returned the greeting: “Hallo. How are you, Herbert?”

“I reckons I've a touch of the old arthritis in me left knee,” the philosopher said. “But can't complain.”