“Incidentally, Algy, in the event of my demise, perhaps you'd show a little more restraint with the god and demigod references,” Burton grumbled.
“Ha! What a contrary fellow you are! On the one hand you seem obsessed by religions; on the other, repelled by them!”
“Humph! These days, I'm more interested in the underlying motivation-in the reasons why a man is willing to be guided by a god whose existence is, at best, impossible to prove and, at worst, an obvious fabrication. It seems to me that in these times of rapid scientific and industrial advancement, the procurement of knowledge has become too intimidating a prospect for the average man, so he's shunning it entirely in favour of faith. Faith requires nothing but blind adherence, whereas knowledge demands the continual apprehension of an ever-expanding body of information. With faith, one can at least claim knowledge without having to do the hard work of acquiring it!”
“I say!” Swinburne cried. “Well said, old chap! Well said! You hardly slurred a single word! You're eminently reprehensible!”
“You mean comprehensible.”
“I know what I mean. But Richard, surely Darwin's natural evolution has rendered God undeniably defunct?”
“Indubitably. Which begs the question: to what falsehood will the uneducated masses willingly devote themselves next?”
They paced along, swinging their canes, their hats set at a jaunty angle. Despite the revitalising nip in the air, Burton was developing a headache. He decided to take a brandy with his coffee; perhaps it would numb the faint throbbing.
When they reached Trafalgar Square, the famous explorer plunged into the crowd and shouldered his way through it with Swinburne trailing in his wake. A constable stepped into their path, his hand raised.
“Stay back, please, gents.”
Burton pulled out his wallet and withdrew from it a printed card. He showed it to the policeman who instantly saluted and stepped back.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir.”
“Over here, Captain!” a deep, slightly husky voice called. Burton saw his friend Detective Inspector William Trounce of Scotland Yard standing at the base of Nelson's Column. Two people were with him: a young dark-skinned constable and, curiously, someone who was standing absolutely still, concealed from head to toe by a blanket.
Trounce met them with a hearty handshake. He was a bulky but amiable-looking individual, short but broad, with thick limbs and a barrel chest, bright twinkling blue eyes, and a large upward-curling brown mustache. His heavy square chin accurately hinted at a streak of stubbornness. He was wearing a dark worsted suit and a bowler hat.
“Hallo, chaps!” he said cheerfully. “Been drinking, have you?”
“Is it that obvious?” Burton mumbled.
“You didn't exactly cross the square as the crow flies.”
“We're on our way to the Venetia for coffee.”
“Very wise. Strong, black, with plenty of sugar. This is Constable Bhatti.”
The policeman standing at Trounce's side saluted smartly. He was slender, youthful, and rather handsome.
“I've heard a lot about you, sir,” he effused, with a slight Indian accent. “My cousin, Commander Krishnamurthy, was with you during the Old Ford affair.”
He was referring to the recent battle that Burton, Swinburne, and a great many Scotland Yard men had fought against the Technologists and Rakes. Those two normally opposed groups-the one dedicated to scientific advancement, the other to anarchistic revolution-had banded together to try to capture a man from the future who'd become known as Spring Heeled Jack. Burton had defeated them and killed their quarry.
“Krishnamurthy's a thoroughly good egg,” Swinburne noted. “But commander? Has he been promoted?”
“Yes, sir. It's a new rank in the force.”
Trounce added: “They've made him head of the newly formed Flying Squad, and deservedly so. I don't know anyone who can handle a rotorchair the way Krishnamurthy does.”
Burton nodded his approval and looked curiously at the silent, motionless blanket.
“So what's happening here, Trounce?”
The detective inspector turned to his subordinate. “Would you explain, please, Constable?”
“Certainly, sir.” The young policeman looked at Burton and Swinburne and his dark eyes shone with excitement. “It's marvellous! An absolute wonder! Practically a work of art! I've never seen anything so intricate or-”
“Just the facts, please, lad,” Trounce interjected.
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. This is my beat, you see, Captain Burton, and I pass through the square every fifty minutes or so. Tonight has been a quiet one. I've been making the rounds as usual, with nothing much to report aside from the customary prostitutes and drunkards-er-that is to say-”
He stopped, cleared his throat, cleared it again, and cast a pleading glance at his superior.
William Trounce laughed. “Don't worry, son, Captain Burton and Mr. Swinburne have been celebrating, that's all. Isn't that right, gents?”
“Quite so,” Burton confirmed, self-consciously.
“And I wouldn't mind celebrating some more!” Swinburne announced.
Burton rolled his eyes.
Trounce addressed Bhatti: “So it was business as usual?”
The constable nodded. “Yes. I came on duty this evening at seven o'clock and passed this way three times without incident. On the fourth occasion, I noticed a crowd gathering here, where we're standing. I came over to investigate and found this-” He gestured at the concealed figure.
Trounce reached out and pulled the blanket away.
Burton and Swinburne gasped.
“Beautiful, isn't it!” Bhatti exclaimed.
A mechanical man stood before them. It was constructed from polished brass, slender, and about five feet five inches tall. The head was canister-shaped, flat at the top and bottom, and featureless but for three raised circular areas set vertically in the front. The top one was like a tiny ship's porthole, through which a great many motionless gears could be glimpsed, as small, complex, and finely crafted as the workings of a pocket watch. 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. They were straight and vibrated slightly in the breeze.
The neck consisted of thin shafts and cables, swivel joints and hinges. A slim cylinder formed the mechanical man's trunk. Panels were cut out of it, revealing cogwheels and springs, delicate little crankshafts, gyroscopes, flywheels, and a pendulum. The thin but sturdy arms ended in three-fingered hands. The legs were sturdy and tubular; the feet oval-shaped and slightly domed.
“It's a beauty, isn't it?” Constable Bhatti breathed. “Look here, in the small of the back. You see this hole? That's where the key goes.”
“The key?” Burton asked.
“Yes! To wind it up! It's clockwork!”
“Bhatti, here,” Detective Inspector Trounce put in, “is the Yard's amateur Technologist. Of all the policemen in London, he's certainly the right chap to have found this contraption.”
“A happy coincidence for the constable,” Swinburne observed glibly.
“It's my hobby,” the young policeman enthused. “I attend a social club where we tinker with devices-trying to make them go faster or adapting them in various ways. Great heavens, the fellows would be beside themselves if I turned up with this specimen!”
Burton, who'd started to examine the brass figure with a magnifying glass, absently asked the policeman what he'd done after discovering it.
“The crowd was swelling-you know how Londoners flock around anything or anyone unusual-so I whistled for help. After a few constables had arrived, I gave the mechanism a thorough examination. I must admit, I got a little absorbed, so I probably didn't alert the Yard as quickly as I should have.” He looked at Trounce. “Sorry about that, sir.”
“And what is our metal friend's story, do you think?” asked Burton.
“Like I said, Captain, it's clockwork. My guess is that it's wound down. Why it was out walking the streets, I couldn't venture to guess.”