I shall try to describe what happened in its proper sequence, though, in truth, these are but facets of an instant.
Dick, this thing that Darwin and his cronies attached to my head, this babbage device, contains antennae of such extreme sensitivity that they detect the electrical operations of a human brain. At the moment the brass man fired his pistol, those sensors were hit by a transmission of subtle electrical force. It was the—I'm sorry, but I know of no other way to describe it—the final mental exhalation of Mr. Trounce. This same burst of energy seemed to activate the downward-pointing pyramid above the altar. It suddenly blazed with light and lost its opacity. I was able, as if seeing through solid matter, to discern that its structure was comprised of alternating layers of material, one denser than the other.
Simultaneously, a pale-blue lightning flashed from the diamond at the tip of the pyramid and jumped to the brass man's head, then from his to yours. In the slightest fraction of a second, your appearance altered—your hair became white, your clothes changed, and a rifle appeared beside you—and the energy then reversed direction, jumping from you back to the brass man, then to the diamond.
As I say, this all occurred in a single moment, and I don't know what to make of it, except—this may be nonsense, but it seemed to me that the clockwork man somehow channelled and directed the force.
I wish I could be of more help to you, but my time has run out.
I cannot forget that we were once as brothers. I hope, when you remember me, you will think of that time, and not of the wicked things I have done.
Your old friend,
John Hanning Speke
Burton continued to recite Camoens, but his eyes flicked up and signalled gratitude to the other man. Surreptitiously, he slipped the letter into his pocket.
The half-hour ended and the door opened. Damien Burke leaned in and said: “Captain?”
Burton closed the book, put it down, stood, and shook Speke's hand.
“Goodbye, old fellow,” he said.
Speke's mouth moved but he could find no words, and with his eye glistening, he turned away.
It was past three o'clock by the time the king's agent left the tower. He whistled for a hansom cab and ordered the driver to take him to Battersea.
“Bless me, sir! That's a relief!” the man said, climbing down from his seat. He took a couple of lumps of Formby coal from the scuttle at the back of the vehicle's steam-horse and put them into the furnace.
“Why so?” Burton asked.
“South of the river, ain't it! A lot less traffic south of the river! Can't move for love nor money on the main roads north o' the Thames, but south—we'll have you on your merry way, no trouble at all, sir. In you go. There's a blanket under the seat if you feel the chill.”
The driver climbed back up to his seat, waited for Burton to settle, then—with an unnecessary “Gee up!”—squeezed the velocity lever and got the hansom moving.
As the cab rattled along Lower Thames Street and turned left onto London Bridge, the king's agent sat back, tied Gregory Hare's perfumed handkerchief around the lower half of his face, and focused on his breathing. Keeping it slow and steady, he imagined each breath entering first his left lung, then his right. He matched his respiration to the rhythm of a Sufi chant:
Allāhu Allāhu Allāhu Haqq.
Allāhu Allāhu Allāhu Haqq.
Allāhu Allāhu Allāhu Haqq.
He started to complicate the exercise, altering the tempo, establishing a cycle of four breaths, visualising oxygen saturating different parts of his body.
At the same time, he listened only to the chugging of the hansom's steam-horse, allowing it to block out all other noises.
By the time the vehicle reached the junction of Bankside and Blackfriars Road, Burton had slipped into a Sufi trance.
His mind drifted.
He saw formless light and colour; heard water and snatches of conversation:
“—According to the evidence John Speke presented to the Society, the Nile runs uphill for ninety miles—”
“—The lake he discovered was, indeed, the source of the Nile—”
The lights coalesced into a single bright ribbon, broad, snaking away through darkness, disappearing into the distance. He flew over it, following its course upstream.
“—Captain Burton! Did you pull the trigger?—”
“—Is there shooting to be done?—”
“—I rather suppose there is!—”
“—The source!—”
“—Don't step back! They'll think that we're retiring!—”
From far off to either side, he saw more ribbons of light. The farther upstream he flew, the closer they came.
“—Don't step back!—”
“—Step back!—”
“—Pull the trigger!—”
“—Step back!—”
“—The source!—”
Shining intensely, as if reflecting the sun, the ribbons began to converge around him.
“—Step back!—”
“—The source!—”
“—Needs pruning, hard against the stem—”
“—How can I reverse the damage?—”
“—You'll find a way—”
“—Is there shooting to be done?—”
“—I rather suppose there is!—”
“—Pull the trigger!—”
“—The source!—”
The bands of light joined into one blazing expanse. It shot upward in front of him. Burton gazed at it and became aware that it was falling water. He looked up and saw a rainbow.
The hansom cab jerked over a pothole, shaking his senses back into him.
He cried out: “Step back! The source needs pruning, hard against the stem! Pull the trigger!”
And, all of a sudden, he knew exactly what had to be done.
The hatch in the roof of the cab opened and the driver looked in.
“Did you say somethin', sir?”
“Yes. Make a detour to the nearest post office, would you?”
“Certainly, sir. We're just comin' up on Broad Street. There's one there.”
A few minutes later, Burton paid for two parakeet messages. He sent the first bird to Commander Krishnamurthy: “Maneesh, hurry to my place and pick up the rifle next to the fireplace in my study. Bring it to Battersea Power Station. Utmost emergency. Great haste, please.”
The second parakeet was sent to Mrs. Angell to alert her to the commander's mission. It went on: “Mrs. Angell, I have an unusual job for you. You must do it at once, without hesitation or protest. Please remove from my study all my casebooks, journals, reports, and personal papers. Take them from the desks, from the drawers, and from the shelves nearest the window. Carry them into the backyard and make a bonfire of them. Do not leave a single one unburned. This is of crucial importance. Destroy them all, and do it at once.”
The king's agent returned to the cab and, thirty minutes later, it delivered him to his destination.
The glaring lights of the Technologist headquarters were turning the thick fog around it into a swirling soup of glowing particles, here a sickening yellow, there a putrid orange, in many places a deep hellish red. Burton picked his way through the murk to the front entrance, hailed a guard, and was escorted to the main hall.
Isambard Kingdom Brunel appeared from amid buzzing machinery and clanked over to greet him.