"Yes," replied Burton. "Merely unconscious. I wrapped her in this material to protect her from the worst of it."
A pause, then arms stretched down into the room, slid beneath the prone nurse, and lifted her out.
"I thank you, Sir Richard. I am in your debt," rang the huge machine.
It retreated from view and they heard it stamping over the wreckage, onto the earth, and away into the distance.
Burton began to clear the fallen beams away from Swinburne.
Some time later he heard a rotorship rising into the air and departing.
"That must be the medical laboratory," he said to the trapped poet. "Speke is aboard. I wonder where he and Brunel will go?"
Ten minutes or so passed before he heard the approaching paradiddle of rotorchairs. He climbed out onto the roof of the wrecked ship and waved down Detective Inspector Trounce.
Exhaustion hit him.
"By God!" he muttered. "Africa was child's play compared to this!"
CONCLUSION
It is incredible!" exclaimed Mrs. Iris Angell for the umpteenth time. "Poor Mr. Speke. I don't say he was ever a bad man, but perhaps a little lacking in rectitude. He certainly didn't deserve to fall into the hands of that immoral crowd. What will become of him, I wonder?"
"I don't know, but I feel I haven't seen the last of him. Have you finished?"
Mrs. Angell was sitting at one of Sir Richard Francis Burton's desks, where she'd been writing out two copies of his report.
Two days had passed since the Battle of Old Ford.
"Yes. I must say, Sir Richard, your handwriting leaves a lot to be desired. I suggest you have a poke around in the attic. If I remember rightly, one of my late husband's fancies was some sort of mechanical writing device. An autoscribe,' I think he called it. You play it like a piano and it prints onto paper, like a press."
"Thank you, Mother Angell; that sounds like it might be useful."
The old dame stood and rubbed a crick from her back. She passed the two copies to Burton then crossed to the study door.
"I must get back to the kitchen. Your guests will be here in half an hour or so. I expect they'll appreciate some cold cuts and so forth?"
"That would be excellent. Thank you."
She departed.
Burton rolled one of the copies and placed it into a canister. This he put into the messenger pipe. With a blast of steam, it went on its way to Buckingham Palace. A few moments later, he sent the second copy to 10 Downing Street.
He prepared the study for his guests-stoking the fire, arranging armchairs around it, refilling the brandy decanter.
He sat and read for half an hour.
Algernon Swinburne was the first to arrive. Like Burton, he was covered in yellowing bruises and healing injuries. He was limping slightly.
"Your little paperboy, Oscar, just accosted me on the street," he announced. "He asked me to pass on his congratulations and he hopes you're recovering from your injuries."
"How the dickens did he get wind of it?" exclaimed Burton. "There's been nothing said to the press!"
"You know what these newsboys are like," replied Swinburne, easing himself carefully into a chair. "They know a great deal about far too much. He also asked me to advise you that `one can survive everything, nowadays, except death, and live down everything except a good reputation."'
Burton laughed. "Quips is being exceptionally optimistic. I hardly think our little victory is enough to mend my reputation. Richard Burton might be battered and bruised but `Ruffian Dick' is alive and well, I'm sure!"
"That might be true in certain quarters, but, for certain, your stock has risen with King Albert and Lord Palmerston, and that's what matters. I'll have a brandy, please-but purely for medicinal reasons."
"How are you, Algy? Recovering?"
"Yes, though the hole in my arse cheek hurts like blazes. I fear I shall have to skip my birchings for a few weeks."
"Bad news for London's houses of ill repute," noted Burton, pouring his friend's drink. "They'll have to tighten their belts, if you'll pardon the pun."
"Thank you," said Swinburne, accepting the glass. "By the sound of those thundering footsteps, old Trounce is coming up the stairs."
The door opened and the thickset Yard man stomped in.
"Greetings, both!" he announced, slapping his bowler onto a desk. "The confounded fog is closing in again. Every pea-souper is a bonanza for the criminal classes! I tell you, I'm going to have my work cut out for me over the next few days. I say, Burton, what the heck did Spring Heeled Jack mean?"
"When?" asked the king's agent.
Trounce threw himself into an armchair and stretched out his legs to warm his feet by the fire. He took a proffered cigar from his host.
"You said he told you to-what was it?-`enjoy your boots'?"
"No. He said `enjoy your reboot.' A curious turn of phrase. Language is a malleable thing, old chap; it follows a process much like Darwin's evolution-parts of it become defunct and fade from usage, while new forms develop to fit particular needs. I have little doubt that `reboot' has a very specific significance in the future. His future, at least."
"The meaning seems clear enough," mused Swinburne. "Replacing your old boots with new ones is like preparing yourself for a new and potentially long journey. Your old boots may not last for the duration, so you reboot, as it were, before you set off. Like reshoeing a horse."
"It seems as good an explanation as any," agreed Burton. "And it fits the context."
He handed Trounce a brandy and, with his own, sat down and lit a cigar.
"Detective Inspector Honesty should be along soon. Have you two made your peace?"
"I'll say!" enthused the police detective. "The man saved me from a werewolf! He may look like a whippet but he fights like a tiger. I saw him taking on men twice his size with his bare hands-and he downed the blighters! Besides, when the dust had settled he came over, shook my hand, and apologised for ever doubting me. I'm not one to hold a grudge, especially against a man like that!"
"Ow!" yelled Swinburne. "Bloody dog!"
"Come here, Fidget!" ordered Burton. "Sorry, Algy. I forgot he was in the room!"
The basset hound hung his head and ambled over to its master, settling at his feet, from where it gazed fixedly at Swinburne's ankles.
"Blessed pest!" grumbled the poet.
"You owe this blessed pest your life," observed Burton. "Excuse me a moment."
He'd heard a rattle from the messenger tube. A canister thunked into it as he reached the desk. It was a message from Palmerston: Burke and Hare dismantled wreckage. Remains of Darwin, Galton, Beresford, and Oxford identified. Time suit recovered and destroyed. Good work.
"Palmerston says the time suit has been destroyed," he told his guests.
"Do you believe him?" asked Trounce.
"Not at all. It will at least have been put out of harm's way, though."
"We can but hope," muttered Swinburne.
Mrs. Angell entered with a tray of cold meats, pickles, sliced bread, and a pot of coffee. Detective Inspector Honesty stepped in behind her.
"Sorry, late!" he said. "Came on velocipede. Broke down. Accursed things."
"Have a seat, Honesty! Thank you, Mrs. Angell," said Burton.
His housekeeper glanced dolefully at Honesty's well-greased hair, obviously considering the well-being of her embroidered antimacassars. She left the study.
The newly arrived policeman sat, refused a brandy, and lit a pipe.