Burton paced across to the second crab, into which Bolling and Bloodmann had just carried the Beetle's section of pipe. The stoker, Thomas Beadle, joined them.
Willy Cornish and Oscar Wilde lingered a moment to say goodbye.
“Quips, I'm sorry I dragged you into this,” Burton said. “I thought I was doing you a favour.”
Wilde smiled. “Don't you be worrying yourself, Captain. Experience is one thing you can't get for nothing, and if this is the price, I'm happy to pay it, for I'm having the experience of a lifetime, so I am!”
The boys entered the crab.
Burton turned to Isabella Mayson.
“Are you sure you want to remain behind and join our expedition, Miss Mayson? I warn you that we have many months of severe hardship ahead of us.”
“There is barely room for another aboard the vehicles, Sir Richard,” she replied. “And your group will need to be fed-a responsibility I'm happy to make my own. Besides, it will be better for Sadhvi to have another woman present. We must, at very least, tip our heads at propriety, do you not think?”
Burton pushed up the hatch and clicked it shut, then stood back as the two crabs shuddered into life with coughs and growls. Steam plumed from their funnels, and Wilde and Cornish and Doctor Barnaby Quaint waved from the windows as the two outlandish machines stalked away.
The sun sank.
Beside the Orpheus, eight people remained, standing in the gathering twilight watching their friends recede into the distance.
Pox the parakeet sang, “Crapulous knobble-thwacker!” and Burton muttered: “I couldn't have put it better myself.”
One foot in front of the other.
Step. Step. Step. Step.
Eyes on the ground.
Ignore the cold.
“How far?” Krishnamurthy mumbled.
“Soon. By sunrise,” Burton replied.
They were dragging a travois over the sand. It was loaded with food and water, cooking pots and lanterns, rifles and ammunition, tents, clothing, instruments, and other equipment. Krishnamurthy was certain it was getting heavier.
The Milky Way was splattered overhead, dazzling, deep, and endless. The full moon had risen and was riding low in the sky. The dunes swelled in the silvery light.
Step. Step. Step. Step.
A second travois was pulled by Trounce and Honesty.
The two women trudged along beside it.
Herbert Spencer, in his protective suit, limped a little way behind.
“Tired,” Honesty said. “Four hours walking.”
Trounce gave a guttural response.
Ahead, Algernon Swinburne reached the peak of the next dune and stood with his rifle resting over his shoulder. He looked back at his companions, waited for them to catch up a little, then disappeared over the sandy peak. Before the others had reached the base of the upward slope, the eastern sky suddenly brightened.
To Burton, the quickness of dawn in this part of the world came as no surprise; to the others, it was breathtaking. One minute they were enveloped by the frigid luminescence of the night, and the next the sky paled, the stars faded, and brilliant rays of sunshine transformed the landscape. The desert metamorphosed from cold naked bone to hot dry flesh.
They slogged across it.
Step. Step. Step. Step.
“Cover your eyes,” Burton called.
On his recommendation, they were each wearing a keffiyeh-a square headscarf of brightly striped material, secured on the crown with a circlet, or agal-which they now pulled down across their faces. The light glared through the material but didn't blind them, and, as they came to the top of the dune, they could clearly see through the weave that the redheaded poet had reached its base and was starting up the next one.
“I can feel heat!” Krishnamurthy exclaimed. “Already!”
“It will become unbearable within the next two hours,” Burton predicted. “But by that time we'll be encamped at Al Atif.”
A few yards away, Honesty glanced toward the huge molten globe of the sun and whispered, “Gladiolus gandavensis.”
“What?” Trounce asked.
“A plant. Not a hardy one. Dislikes winter. Roots best kept in sand until mid-March. Then potted individually. You have to nurture them, William. Start them off in a greenhouse.”
It was the first time, in all the years they'd worked together, that Thomas Honesty had used Detective Inspector Trounce's first name.
“I say, Honesty-are you all right, old fellow?”
The small, dapper man smiled. “Thinking about my garden. What I'll do when we get back. Do you like gardening?”
“My wife takes care of it. We only have a small patch, and it's given over to cabbages and potatoes.”
“Ah. Practical.”
Step. Step. Step. Step.
“William.”
“Yes?”
“I was wrong.”
“Wrong?”
“About Spring Heeled Jack. Didn't believe you.”
“Nor did anybody else.”
“But you were right. He was at Victoria's assassination.”
“Yes, he was.”
“Will you forgive me? Misjudged you.”
“Already done, old fellow. Some considerable time ago.”
“When we get back, there's something I'd like.”
“What?”
“You and Mrs. Trounce. Come over. Have tea with Vera and me. In the garden.”
“We'd be honoured.”
“Maybe the gladioli will be out.”
“That'll be nice.”
“Ahoy there!” Swinburne shouted. “I see palms!”
“The oasis,” Burton said.
“Praise be!” Krishnamurthy gasped.
“Arse!” Pox squawked.
They climbed up to the poet and stopped beside him. He pointed at a distant strip of blinding light. They squinted and saw through their lashes and keffiyehsthat it was dotted with wavering palm trees.
“Please, Captain Burton, don't tell us that's a mirage!” Sister Raghavendra said.
“No,” Burton responded. “That's real enough. It's just where it ought to be. Let's push on.”
They each took a gulp of water from their flasks, then returned to the hard work of placing one foot in front of the other, on and on and on, not daring to look up in case the oasis was farther away than they hoped.
Step. Step. Step. Step.
Another hour passed and the temperature soared, sucking away what little strength remained in them.
Then, suddenly, they were in shade, green vegetation closed around them, and when they finally raised their eyes, they saw a long, narrow lake just a few yards ahead.
“Thank goodness!” Isabella Mayson exclaimed, sinking to the ground. “Let me catch my breath, then I'll prepare some food while you gentlemen put up an awning.”
Forty minutes later, they were tucking into a meal of preserved sausages and bread and pickles, which they washed down with fresh water and a glass each of red wine-an indulgence Swinburne had insisted on bringing, despite Burton's directive that they keep their loads as light as possible.
They sighed and lay down.
“My feet have never ached so much,” Trounce observed. “Not even when I was a bobby on the beat.”
Herbert Spencer, sitting with his back against the bole of a palm tree, watched Pox flutter up into its leaves. The colourful bird hunkered down and went to sleep. The clockwork philosopher made a tooting sound that might have been a sigh. “For all your complaints, Mr. Trounce,” he said, “at least you can enjoy the satisfaction of a good meal. All I ever get these days is a touch of oil applied to me cogs 'n' springs, an' that always gives me indigestion.”
Trounce replied with a long, drawn-out snore, then rolled onto his side and fell silent.
Peace settled over the camp, and into it, Swinburne said softly: