“It would seem so.”
An uneasy silence fell over the meeting. It ended with two words from Edward Seymour: “And Prussia?”
“Yes,” Burton said. “The countess saw.”
Another pause.
“Tell us,” said Palmerston, quietly.
“The World War was originally set to begin some fifty years from now. Oxford's actions have brought it forward by at least a decade.”
“Christ!”
“The countess described the sequence of events. This is what we can expect-”
For the next hour, Sir Richard Francis Burton described future history. He told the king, the politicians, and his companions how the Eugenicist exodus to Prussia would give that kingdom the means to gain dominance over the German Confederation, incorporating it into a greater union of the Germanic people. How Bismarck, to consolidate the southern borders of his new country, would declare war on France and defeat Napoleon III using biological weaponry developed from the plant life currently infesting Ireland.
He outlined the arms race between the Technologists of the British Empire and the Eugenicists of the Germans; the emergence of Friedrich Nietzsche as a visionary politician who would eventually overthrow Bismarck; and Germany's aggressive expansionist policies that would, inevitably, lead to conflict on a massive scale.
When he finished, the room sank into a deep silence and stayed there.
The politicians could not keep the horror from their faces. Even Palmerston's inexpressive facade had somehow become dominated by the shock in his eyes.
A minute ticked by, and then a voice came from the ceiling, amplified through a speaking trumpet in the mechanism above the table.
It said: “Make me a different future.”
The men looked at each other.
“I shall put my people to work at once,” Brunel clanged. “We can strengthen our navy; build an air force; design new weapons.”
“Good idea,” said Cornewall Lewis.
“Excellent,” said Edward Seymour.
“Absolutely not!” shouted Gladstone, who'd been assiduously avoiding Burton and Swinburne's eyes for the entire meeting. “How in blue blazes are we supposed to finance it?”
“Impractical and impossible,” Lord John Russell agreed. “We've only just avoided a revolution by the skin of our teeth. If we raise taxes we won't need Russian lunatics to start another one!”
“Besides which,” Palmerston added, “the whole damned world will say I'm warmongering. Starting an arms race now might precipitate the conflict even earlier!”
Herbert wrote something and held it up: Diplomacy.
Cornewall Lewis snorted: “With Germans?”
“I have an idea,” Swinburne said.
Palmerston jumped to his feet and kicked his chair backward. He clenched his hands together behind his back and paced up and down.
“What about allies, Burton?” he barked. “Did your sorceress suggest whom we might trust?”
“No, she didn't. I think we're on our own. Prime Minister, Algy can be quite insightful. I strongly suggest-”
“No! No! No! This is unacceptable! I will not go down in history as the man who lost the Empire!”
“Assuming you're still prime minister when it happens,” Sir Richard Mayne hissed quietly.
“-that you listen to what he has to say,” Burton finished.
His words were lost, for Palmerston had flown into one of his infamous rages. He kicked his chair across the floor, slapped a glass from the table, and yelled incoherently. His eyes were wild, yet through it all, his masklike face remained weirdly impassive.
The men waited for his tantrum to pass. It took three minutes before the prime minister seemed to suddenly deflate. He stood panting, glancing from man to man, his normally white features flushed.
“Madam Blavatsky used the diamonds to enhance her mediumistic talent,” Swinburne murmured. “And Richard used them to strengthen Countess Sabina's abilities.”
Palmerston gazed blankly at the diminutive poet. “What?”
“I'm merely suggesting that, if we ensure we possess all three Eyes of Naga, then perhaps we can gain the upper hand. We could recruit talented mediums and use the stones to accentuate their powers. We could divine the enemy's strategy. We could interfere with our opponents’ minds. We could wage a war of infiltration and enchantment. We could start now, and our enemies wouldn't even know that war was being waged upon them.”
Palmerston's mouth dropped open.
Burton said: “I told you he's worth listening to.”
The prime minister blinked rapidly, forced a breath out between his teeth, and pulled his snuffbox from his pocket. He went through his usual ritual, which ended, as always, with a prodigious sneeze, and peered at the poet with one straight eye, while the other slid upward disconcertingly.
“Mr. Swinburne,” he said. “You are a god-damned bloody genius.” He addressed Burton: “The African stone?”
“You might have problems securing it,” the explorer warned. “Quite apart from the difficulties Africa itself presents, we know that nothing can fly over the region where the diamond is undoubtedly located. That suggests to me that some force of mind is at work, interfering with machinery in much the same way that Rasputin was able to jam guns.”
“So someone is guarding the Eye?”
“Someone or something, yes. And there's another problem.”
“What?”
“I think it highly probable that Lieutenant John Speke is preparing a Prussian expedition to the region.”
With his top hat set at a jaunty angle and his cane swinging, Sir Richard Francis Burton strode along Gloucester Place.
A Folks’ Wagon beetle scuttled past, belching vapour. A little boy, sitting on its rear bench, looked at Burton as the vehicle went past and poked out his tongue. The king's agent glared at him, snarled, then crossed his eyes, puffed out his cheeks, and blew a raspberry. The youngster laughed delightedly and waved.
A horse shied away from the steam-powered insect and overturned a vegetable stall. Onions and potatoes spilled onto the road and bounced across the cobbles. Shouts and curses followed the giant beetle as it rounded a corner and scurried out of sight.
“Wotcha, ‘andsome,” crooned a streetwalker from a doorway. “Fancy a bit of ‘ow's yer father?”
Burton winked at her, flipped her a tuppenny bit, but kept walking.
Up ahead, a steam-horse emitted a clangourous racket, veered to the right, and crashed into the side of a tavern. An elderly man emerged from the cab behind the engine and shouted: “Great heavens, man! You knocked the stuffing out of me!”
“It's the bleedin’ back axle, guv'nor!” the driver explained. “Third time it's broken this week!”
Burton turned into Montagu Place.
“Hey up, Cap'n! How's it diddlin’?” came a hail.
“It's diddling very well, thank you, Mr. Grub. How's business?”
“Awful!”
“The chestnut season is almost upon us. I'm sure that'll improve matters.”
“P'raps, Cap'n. P'raps. You been to see his nibs again?”
“The prime minister? Yes, I was summoned.”
“Well, I ‘ope you told ‘im that the lot o’ the common man ain't no bed o’ roses.”
“I always mention it, Mr. Grub.”
“An’ he does bugger all about it! Bloody politicians!”
“A breed apart,” Burton noted.
“That's it in a nutshell, Cap'n!”
They paused while a rotorship roared noisily overhead. Mr. Grub shaded his eyes and looked up at the enormous vessel. “What's that what's wrote on the bottom of it?” he shouted.
Burton, who knew the street vendor was illiterate, said: “It is rather hard to make out, isn't it? I think it says: Make a new life in India. Space, spice, sunshine, and all the tea you can drink!”
The mighty ship slid away over the rooftops.
“You've been to India, ain'tcha, Cap'n? Would you recommend it?”