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who’d flown swans before, assisted her by buckling the ends of lengthy leather straps to its legs and clipping the other ends to one of the box kites which Burton and Trounce had unfolded.
    While they worked, the king’s agent instructed his companions: “Look out for litter-crabs.”
    “Why litter-crabs?” Trounce asked in a puzzled tone.
    “I noticed that the end of Saint Martin’s hadn’t been cleaned,” Burton responded. “Now I know why. The litter-crabs were tempted away from it by the mega-dray. You know how the contraptions tend to follow behind the horses, cleaning up the manure. I dare say they’re still on its trail!”
    “Good thinking, Captain!” the policeman exclaimed.
    Miss Mayson helped Constable Bhatti into a kite. He sat on the canvas seat, slipped his boots through the stirrups, and took the reins. The woman showed him how to control the bird.
    A few minutes later, all five men were in position.
    Miss Mayson stepped back. “Half a mo!” she cried. “Wait there—I have an idea!”
    She ran back along the yard and into the training centre.
    “What’s she up to?” Burton grumbled truculently, but even as he spoke she reappeared and hurried over to them.
    She held a small blue and yellow parakeet in her hand.
    “All messenger parakeets are identified by a postcode,” she said. “This is POX JR5. She’s one of the new breed. As long as she knows you, she’ll be able to find you. She doesn’t even need your address. You can use her to communicate between the kites. She’ll keep up with the swans—she’s the swiftest of all my birds. Tell her your names!” She held the parakeet out to each of the men in turn.
    “Captain Richard Burton.”
    “Odorous thug!” the bird whistled.
    “Detective Inspector William Trounce.”
    “Ponderous buffoon!” it cheeped.
    “Algernon Charles Swinburne.”
    “Illiterate bum-pincher!” it cackled.
    “Constable Shyamji Bhatti.”
    “Nurdle-thwacker!” it squawked.
    “Herbert Spencer.”
    “Angel-faced beauty,” it crooned.
    “My goodness!” Miss Mayson exclaimed. “Was that a compliment?”
    Burton blew out a breath. “Please,” he said, “there’s no time for this!”
    She gave a small nod and placed the parakeet on Burton’s shoulder. It hunkered down and he felt its little claws sinking into the soggy cloth of his overcoat.
    “Good luck!” the young woman said, stepping back. “Constable, call in tomorrow and tell me all about it!”
    Bhatti smiled and nodded. “Get yourself inside and dry off,” he advised. “Your slippers are wet through!”
    Sir Richard Francis Burton snapped his reins the way she’d shown him. His swan stretched out its wings, ran five steps forward, and, with a mighty flapping, soared into the air. The leather straps of the harness uncoiled, snaked up after it, jerked taut, and his kite shot upward.
    Thrown violently back into his canvas seat, the king’s agent found himself rising at phenomenal speed into the sodden atmosphere. The rain pelted against his face. His swan spiralled higher and, when he glanced back, he saw that his colleagues were following behind.
    The chase was on!

Chapter 2
A Design For Utopia
Errors using inadequate data are much less than those using no data at all.
    —Sir Charles Babbage

The water-laden air jabbed cold needles into Burton’s face, but despite being hatless—for, like the others, he’d placed his headgear into a spacious pocket at the back of the kite—he actually felt unpleasantly warm; a sign that his malarial fever was developing rapidly. He tried to stay focused but a peculiar sense of disassociation was creeping over him.
    “Bloody git-face,” POX JR5 mumbled.
    The five giant swans began to circle over the western end of Orange Street. Visibility was poor in the rain so the men flew them close to the rooftops, except for Swinburne, who, despite being the most experienced flier, was having problems controlling his unruly bird. He was currently