“The Sagittarius,” Swinburne said.
“So that’s the fist Elgin will use against China,” Burton exclaimed. “Bismillah! The size of it!”
“It’s the biggest warship ever built. Rossetti thinks Elgin will employ it to destroy the Summer Palaces.”
“If he does, it’ll go down in history as one of the worst acts of vandalism ever committed,” Burton said. “And having looked into Elgin’s eyes, I feel quite certain he’s capable of it.”
Swinburne pointed at the power station. “It’s all lit up but the gates are shut. Shall we knock?”
“I’d rather reconnoitre before we present ourselves. Let’s see if we can find an alternative means of entry.”
They leaned their vehicles against the building and examined the huge gates. A normal-sized door was fitted into the right-hand portal but it was firmly bolted. Starting off around the perimeter, they looked up at the lowest windows, which were far too high to reach, even had Swinburne stood on Burton’s shoulders.
“Impregnable,” Swinburne muttered. “This is what Old Wardour Castle must have been like before it was ruined.”
The comment prompted Burton to peer at the upper reaches of the structure. As far as he could tell, there were no ravens squatting atop it. That was a good sign.
After completing a circuit of the station and seeing no possible way in, they stood again outside the gates. Burton looked at his companion, shrugged, moved to the small door, and hammered upon it with the head of his cane. The portal swung inward immediately. A pistol was poked into his face.
“Give me that swordstick and put your hands over your head,” Krishnamurthy said, “and step in. You, too, Mr. Swinburne.”
“Not a constable, then?” Burton growled. “I should have known.”
The two men did as instructed, passing through into a large quadrangle. Montague Penniforth loomed out of the shadows. “Sorry, guv’nor,” he said, and frisked Burton. He removed the pistol from the explorer’s waistband. Swinburne was subjected to the same treatment.
A third man, Bhatti, also brandishing a pistol, closed the door behind them. “If you’ll pardon the language, Sir Richard,” he said, “about bloody time. What kept you?”
“Perdurabo,” the explorer answered. Then, “Ravindra Johar and Mahakram Singh, I presume?”
“Yes, sir, though we go by Shyamji Bhatti and Maneesh Krishnamurthy these days. How is your brother?”
“Fat and obnoxious but alive—thanks to you.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Perhaps we can be reunited at a later date. I’d very much like to see him again. For now, though, we can’t afford to lose another moment. Will you start toward the big doors, please?”
Burton looked across the open space and saw the station’s inner entrance. He set off, with Swinburne on his left and Bhatti on his right. Krishnamurthy and Penniforth trailed behind.
“You can lower your guns,” he said.
“All in due course,” Bhatti replied.
Swinburne shrilled, “Are we on the same side or not?”
“We are, Mr. Swinburne, but this meeting has been a long time coming and we need to feel confident that neither of you will do anything silly. We’re cutting it very fine indeed—there’s no room for any monkey business.”
“Would’ve been a lot better if’n you’d turned up a few weeks ago,” Penniforth rumbled. “If I ’ad me own way, I’d ’ave thrown you into me cab an’ driven you here the moment you stepped off the bloomin’ Orpheus.”
Krishnamurthy said, “Now, now, Monty. You know perfectly well that time has its shapes and patterns, and Sir Richard had to come here of his own accord.”
“Yus, but—lord love a duck!—he’s almost too late, ain’t he!”
“Perhaps that is what’s necessary,” Bhatti said as they stopped outside the doors.
“My hat! What the blazes are you blathering about?” Swinburne cried out.
“Patience, my friend,” Krishnamurthy said. He reached up and twisted an odd-looking combination lock back and forth until a click sounded. He pushed the doors open. Burton squinted as an incandescent light assaulted his eyes. As his vision adjusted to it, he saw a cathedral-sized chamber, from the roof of which hung big glass globes. The light radiated out from them, as if they each held captive lightning.
“This way,” Bhatti said, and led them in and across a vast floor crowded with baffling machinery. There was no steam here; it was all electricity, fizzling, crackling, and popping; sending writhing bolts from one megalithic device to another, filling the place with the tang of ozone.
From among the coils, towers, dials, and showering sparks, a man emerged and approached. Short, plump, and blond-haired, he was dressed conservatively but for an extraordinary contraption slung around his shoulders and buckled over his chest and waist; an extra pair of arms, mechanical and intricate, multi-jointed, and with a number of different tools arranged at their ends. Two thin cables ran from the harness up to either side of his neck. They appeared to be plugged directly into his skull, just behind his ears. The artificial arms moved as naturally as his fleshy ones.
“Daniel Gooch!” Swinburne exclaimed.
“Yes,” the man said. “And you must be Algernon Swinburne. I’m very pleased to meet you. And you, too, of course, Sir Richard.” He addressed the others. “Lower your guns, chaps. Our guests are doubtlessly far too curious to cause us trouble.” He looked at Burton for confirmation and received it in the form of a brisk nod. To Bhatti, he said, “Shyamji, would you tell him? I expect he’ll want to prepare.”
“Rightio.” Bhatti hurried away.
“This way,” Gooch said, gesturing to the right with a metal limb. “Let’s get out of this noise.”
They followed him past a bank of flashing lights, around a dome-shaped contraption of glass and silver rods, and through a central area of workbenches.
“Are you a captive, Mr. Gooch?” Burton asked.
“No. I’m free to leave whenever I want to.”
“You disappeared from an undersea suit.”
“Yes. One of those.” Gooch pointed to the right where bizarre outfits were hanging from a rail; padded rubbery affairs each criss-crossed by harnesses and draped beneath globular metal helmets that had porthole-like openings in their fronts. “It was planned. The suit they raised was not the same one I was wearing. I was collected from the seabed by a prototype submarine boat and brought here. Through this door, please.”
He ushered them into a room furnished with bookshelves, leather armchairs and couches, expensive rugs, a grandfather clock, and tasteful pictures and ornaments. It could have been the sitting room of a manor house, were it not for the tall metal box mounted on wheels in one corner.
A figure, sitting at a desk, rose as they entered. Constructed of polished brass, it resembled one of Charles Babbage’s clockwork men, but was considerably bulkier, possessed six arms, and was more extensively engraved with decorative designs. The front of its head was beautifully fashioned to resemble a human face, though, being immobile, it more resembled a death mask.
Burton recognised the features.
“Brunel!” he blurted.
“Sir Richard,” the mechanism clanged. Its voice sounded like a blending of handbells and a church organ. “Thank goodness you’ve come at last! I wanted to fetch you but he wouldn’t allow it.”
With much whirring and ticking, the metal man stepped forward and extended a gauntlet-like hand. Bemusedly, Burton shook it and said, “‘He’ being Abdu El Yezdi?”
“Correct. He has a baffling obsession with the timing of events. Ah! Algernon Swinburne. It is good to see you. I am Isambard Kingdom Brunel.”