“No, my dear,” said Burton, kissing her hand. “You have not gone mad. It was I who was mad with worry as to what had become of you. Now I know it was just Herbert mucking about through Time.”
“Yes, it appears I was the cause of her disappearance all along,” said Herbert. “I’m sorry about that, but if I hadn’t abducted her, or returned to an earlier point to tell you she was safe and sound, I would have created yet another awful paradox. I had to fix the damage we caused during our first jaunt, without causing any more.”
“I understand, Herbert,” said Burton. “And I thank you. You have brought my Isabel home safe to me. That is all that matters.” The explorer and the Time Traveler shook hands.
“All right,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Enough chatter. The Time Machine is property of the government. I want it under lock and key.”
Mycroft’s men moved to surround the Time Machine.
“Now wait just a minute,” said Herbert, but Burton pulled him back.
“No,” said the explorer. “He is right, my friend. This is too much power for one individual to command. It should be used for the good of the Empire. We should give Mr. Holmes the control rods for safekeeping. Here.”
Burton leaned over the Time Machine, gripping the crystalline control levers. Instead of unscrewing them, however, he pulled both of them forward and backed quickly out of the way as the Time Machine’s dish spun into furious motion and the device became intangible as it hurled itself into futurity.
“Burton!” said Mycroft Holmes. “Do you have any blasted idea what you have done?”
“Yes, I do,” said Burton with a leering smile. “As I stated, the Time Machine is too much power for one individual.”
“I shall arrest you for theft of government property,” said Mycroft Holmes.
“You’ll do nothing of the kind, for I have stolen nothing. Merely placed it out of your reach. Now if you’ll excuse me, the Lady Arundel and I have some catching up to do.”
He took Isabel’s hand and turned to leave the park.
“Oh, and there will be no arrests of any of my colleagues,” said Burton. “Unless you want the whole of London to know exactly what transpired here tonight.”
Mycroft’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Have it your way, Burton. For now.”
Challenger laughed, clapping Burton hard on the back as he passed, arm in arm with Isabel.
“You’re a force to be reckoned with, Burton,” said the burly zoologist. “I shall drink to you tonight.”
Burton didn’t care about being the subject of any toasts. He only wanted to hold Isabel’s hand and walk with her in the early light of dawn. He didn’t know how he was going to explain her disappearance and sudden reappearance to Isabel’s parents. The truth of that, like what almost happened to the city, was best kept secret. But that was a problem for tomorrow. The past no longer existed. The future wasn’t here yet. All that mattered was the glorious golden Now. And Richard Francis Burton intended to hold onto that as long as he could.
PART III
THE DREAM KEY
“At the door of life, by the gate of breath, There are worse things waiting for men than death.”
“No death, no doom, no anguish can arouse the surpassing despair which flows from a loss of identity. Merging with nothingness is peaceful oblivion; but to be aware of existence and yet to know that one is no longer a definite being distinguished from other beings—that one no longer has a self—that is the nameless summit of agony and dread.”
1. Swinburne
Captain Sir Richard Francis Burton awoke from a comforting dream of desert sands and exotic spices, goaded by his landlady and housekeeper, Miss Angell. In his dream, he rode horseback, a solid Arabian, the folds of his white, loose-fitting garments flowing in the warm breeze that shifted the ever-changing dunes which surrounded him. By his side on a similar horse was his wife, Isabel, wearing similar garb, their faces tanned by the Persian sun. Burton had never felt happier—until Miss Angell shook him awake.
“Captain Burton,” said the old woman.
“Lemme lone,” mumbled the explorer. “Araby.”
“I’m sorry to disturb your rest, Captain, but someone is here to see you.”
Burton’s sleeping mind shifted from the sand-shrouded landscape and back into the present day. He felt the cool sheets covering him, his body remembering his comfortable bed in his rooms at Gloucester Place. His first coherent waking thought was that it was Abberline. The policeman had some nerve coming around in the dead of night.
“Tell them to go away,” he said, and would have fallen back asleep almost immediately but for his housekeeper’s persistent shaking of the bed.
Burton’s eyes popped open, his old military training once again coming to the fore. As a soldier he had to get rest when he could, snapping to attention at a moment’s notice. He sat up.
Miss Angell knelt by him. A candle sputtered on the bedside table. “What is it?”
“Your friends Mr. Milnes and Mr. Bradlaugh. They have Mr. Swinburne with them…and he’s in a bad way. They asked me to wake you. I’m sorry.”
Burton knuckled sleep from his eyes. “It’s all right. What time is it?”
“Half past three.”
Burton stared at her bleary-eyed, a lump forming in his stomach. If his friends were calling on him at this hour, their straits were dire indeed. “All right. Tell them I’m coming.”
Miss Angell left the candle and felt her way out of the room while Burton got up and threw on a robe and donned his slippers. He was down the stairs in a flash and found Richard Monckton Milnes, Charles Bradlaugh, and an unconscious Algernon Charles Swinburne, lying prone on the sofa.
“What’s the matter with him?” said Burton. “He must really be in his cups for you to bring him here.”
“I wish this were the drink,” said Bradlaugh, a worried look on his face. “This is something else, Richard.”
Burton stared at his unconscious friend and sighed. To Miss Angell he said, “Will you put on some coffee?”
His housekeeper nodded and left the room. Burton took a seat in a chair opposite the sofa on which the poet lay. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
“He sold a collection of his poetry, so we took him out to celebrate, explained Bradlaugh. “Long about midnight he had his usual hankerings for the lash, so Charles and I accompanied him.”
“Research for a book I’m writing,” added Milnes. “Well, in the middle of his, ahem, session he collapsed. Fainted dead away. Only we couldn’t revive him. Not even smelling salts would arouse him.”
“Bismillah!” Burton swore.
“So we got him dressed and brought him here, since you were closer,” added Bradlaugh. “We didn’t know what else to do. Imagine the scandal if word got out that any of us were at a brothel.”
“It’s all right, Charles,” said Burton. “You did the right thing. How long has he been like this?”