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somewhere overhead, inside the low blanket of cloud.
    Tracking the mega-dray proved easier than Burton had anticipated.
    It was Bhatti who spotted the trail. He steered his swan in beside Burton’s, but the kites, at the end of their long tethers, were flying extremely erratically due to the wind and beating rain, making it impossible to shout across to one another.
    Burton spoke to the parakeet: “Pox! Message for Constable Shyamji Bhatti. Message begins. What is it? Message ends. Go.”
    The brightly coloured bird launched itself from his shoulder. A few moments later, when the constable’s kite tumbled upward past his own, Burton saw that the messenger was already squawking into the young policeman’s ear.
    The explorer shifted his hips, trying to stabilise his vehicle. It was foul weather for flying!
    The parakeet returned. “Message from dribbling sponge-head Constable Shyamji Bhatti!” it whistled. “Message begins. Look off to the right, snot-picker—the bloody litter-crabs are all along Haymarket. Message ends.”
    Burton told Pox to take the message to Trounce, Swinburne, and Spencer. He then sent his swan wheeling to the right and along Haymarket. He passed over four of the large eight-legged, steam-driven street cleaners and spotted a fifth at the end of Piccadilly. Yanking at the reins, he veered to the left and followed the thoroughfare. He soared past a sixth crab, a seventh, an eighth, and Green Park hove into view. The ninth litter-crab was clearing up a mountain of steaming manure outside the exclusive Parthenon Hotel; after that, all the way to Hyde Park Corner, he didn’t see a single one.
    Pox returned to his shoulder.
    He circled counterclockwise around the edge of Green Park, peering into the gloom.
    There!
    The massive pantechnicon was in the park, close to the Queen Victoria Memorial, with the mega-dray towering in front of it.
    Looking back, he saw his colleagues following. Swinburne’s bird suddenly plummeted from the clouds, honked loudly, and swooped downward to land in the park. Behind it, the box kite was dragged through treetops, splintering and ripping until nothing of it was left. Burton saw the tiny poet bounce from branch to branch and tumble from the trees to the ground.
    With a heartfelt curse, he slowed his swan, pulled it around in a tight turn, and flew low over his friend.
    “Are you hurt?” he bellowed as he flapped past.
    He wheeled again; flew back.
    “Yes!” came a small voice from below. “It was thrilling!”
    Burton marvelled at his swan’s manoeuvrability as he pivoted it through the air to fly over Swinburne once more.
    “Round up some policemen!” he shouted. “Capture that pantechnicon!”
    He increased altitude, wiping the rain from his eyes, and rejoined the others, who were circling above the massive vehicle. The bulky figure of Isambard Kingdom Brunel could be seen at the back of it. He was unloading four machines, aided by his three clockwork men.
    As always, Burton felt awed by the sight of the Steam Man.
    The most famous and successful engineer in the world stood on three multijointed mechanical legs. These were attached to a horizontal disk-shaped chassis affixed to the bottom of Brunel’s body. The body was like a barrel lying on its side, with domed protrusions at either end. Each of these bore nine triple-jointed arms, and each arm ended in a different tool, ranging from delicate fingers to slashing blades, drills, hammers, spanners, and welders.
    A further dome rose from the top of Brunel’s body. From this, too, arms extended—six in all—though these were more like tentacles, long and flexible. Each ended in a clamplike hand.
    At various places around the barrel-body, revolving cogwheels poked through slots, and on one shoulder a piston slowly rose and fell. On the other, something resembling a bellows pumped up and down and Burton knew from previous experience that it made a hideous wheezing noise.
    This massive mechanism kept Brunel